"Then he ought to be!" retorted Aunt Eleanor. "A decent fear of God is what keeps most people straight."
"I don't think religious terrorism would appeal to Van as either decent or sensible," Gwyneth said coolly, "but I imagine his general principles would satisfy you, Aunt Eleanor. He has a certain sense of humour but is stern about what you would call The Things That Matter."
A faint, harsh flush crept into Aunt Eleanor's cheeks.
"I think, as your only aunt, Gwyneth, I am entitled to tell you that you have not at all improved with the years," she said sharply. "Hard flippancy and callous disregard of serious matters are revolting in a girl of your age. Very fashionable, perhaps—but revolting."
"I'm sorry. Aunt Eleanor." Gv^neth was conscious of regret that she had shocked her aunt quite so far, but it was difficult to remember the degree of docility and meekness which she had been able to produce in the old days. "Perhaps I don't mean quite all I say," she offered placa-torily.
"Then why say it?" snapped Aunt Eleanor unanswerably.
"That in itself indicates an irresponsible, unbalanced attitude of mind."
Gwyneth didn't offer to explain further. For one thing, she felt faintly ashamed of herself, and for another, they were nearing the house now and she didn't want to prolong the argument.
Canon VUner had already returned home when they arrived, and as the car drove up, he opened the door him-self and came down the steps to greet his sister.
Although nearly sixty, he was still tall and straight and an exceedingly handsome man—his completely white hair only adding to that distinguished bearing which still made elderly, susceptible ladies refer to 'his fine head*.
"My dear Eleanor"—he kissed his sister rather impressively on both cheeks—"I am very glad indeed to see you. I hope you will forgive me for urging you to come so far, but I should not have liked my little girl to have this important day of her hfe without her aunt being present to see her happiness."
His little girl stood by, smiling slightly. So it was her father who had urged Aunt Eleanor to change her first politic decision not to come. Well, of course, that was understandable, since he was completely in the dark about the real state of affairs.
"Well, my dear, this is a very pleasant surprise for you. We hardly dared to hope your Aunt Eleanor would come all the way from the north of Scotland, did we?"
"No. It's very kind of her indeed," Gwyneth agreed, with what she hoped was an adequate appearance of having shared her father's ardent hopes that Aunt Eleanor would come.
Then they went into the house, to be greeted by Mrs. Vilner, and the little comedy was repeated, only much more convincingly this time because Mother was rather better at these things than Gwyneth.
Fortunately, Gwyneth was considered to have *a great many things still to do,' and so she was able to make her escape soon after this, leaving Canon Vilner to enjoy the society of his sister quite sincerely, and his wife to conceal her dislike under a pleasantly smiling mask.
In her bedroom once more, Gwyneth wrote one or two last-minute letters and then began to dress leisurely for
dinner. She put on the cream wool with the great cornflower-blue flowers splashed over it. It was not a new dress, but Van hked it. He said the blue was the colour of her eyes, and the cream the colour of her throat. Van didn't often make such remarks, and she treasured this one all the more for that.
In her ears she put small pearl drop earrings. She had not worn earrings in the days when Aunt Eleanor had known her before, and she hoped, with half-humorous regret, that they would not evoke any disapproval. In any case, they were in keeping with her older, more sophisticated style now, and gave her a touch of authority and dignity which one might reasonably expect to find in Evander Onslie's wife.
With little of the misgiving which would have assailed her once, Gwyneth hoped that she was going to fit well into that rather responsible position. To be the wife of one of the biggest industrialists in the country was a responsibility, she supposed. But if Van, at thirty-five, was not overwhelmed by his position as head of the great Onslie Steel Works, she, at twenty-three, must not fear her position as his wife.
Van's wife! The very phrase gave her an exquisite sense of happiness, and slowly the last shadows of the past seemed to give way before the sunshine of the future. Van's wife —she was marrying him in two days' time—and there hung her wedding dress as tangible proof of the fact.
It was hard to believe that six months ago she had not even met him. When she had seen him at the Courtenays' New Year party that first week-end, he had seemed familiar to her, probably from some half-remembered newspaper photograph. But until he was introduced, she had not been able to identify him. Then, when she had heard his name, she had thought.:
"Evander Onslie! One of those big businessmen. Not my sort at all. Much too grim and serious."
But if Van were serious and—^yes, even quite often grim, he certainly had his own way of unbending at times.
He unbent for her. There was no question about it, No one else in the room seemed to interest him after he had bowed over her hand.
Sceptical and a little cynical now where masculine admiration was concerned, Gwyneth had not been encouraging. She had resolutely kept things on a light and careless basis.
He was puzzled, she saw, and not a little angry, but quite undismayed. He invited himself down to the Court-enays' place the next week-end—and again, the next. Then he proposed to her—and she refused him.
She had supposed he would accept that, but she was much mistaken. He took a week-end cottage of his own in the neighbourhood, and proposed again.
"I've told you 'no'," Gwyneth pointed out with her cool smile. "Perhaps you've never met the word before?"
"At any rate, I don't know its meaning in connection with you." He brushed her protest aside without even a smile. "Any man who takes 'no' from the woman he loves doesn't deserve to win her. In any case, I never take 'no' when I'm determined."
"Really? Well, I'm not a steel contract, you know." Gwyneth had told him. "I don't know that business methods are going to assist here."
He had taken her in his arms then, whether she liked it or not, and said:
"No, you're not a steel contract. You're a golden dream. But I don't take 'no' all the same. I've moved too quickly —I see that now. But I'U wait. There is such a thing as siege as well as attack."
That hadn't been the end, of course, but it had been the beginning of the end, and a month later she had been wearing Van's diamond on her engagement finger.
Only then had she wondered how much of the past she ought to tell him. And, after a night of tormenting uncertainty and self-questioning, she had decided definitely— nothing, nothing, nothing.
Perhaps it was difficult to say now how much or how little she had been to blame in that horrible episode of her youth. But one thing was quite certain— nothing^ could make it sound anything but sordid and dreadful, once one put it into words. One could not expect Van, with his uncompromising outlook, to regard it as anything else.
Her past was her past. She had no need to lie—only to keep silent. And the two people in the world who knew
her story would keep silent, too. Of that she was certain. Nowadays she was strong enough to keep her own counsel, strong enough even to forget—almost. And perhaps, in the new and happy life with Van, she would learn to forget altogether.
She was glad he was coming to dinner tonight. She realized, with some amusement for her own ingenuousness, that she was so proud of him that she wanted to show him off even to Aunt Eleanor.
Gwyneth glanced at the silver clock on her table.
Twenty past seven. He would be here any moment now. She had better go down.
And then she remembered—he was going to have a talk with her father. Then, perhaps, she had better do her duty as a niece and go and make herself pleasant to Aunt Eleanor. She could show her the presents in the library and let her see for herself how handsome her own offering looked
.
But when Gwyneth knocked on the door of her aunt*s room, she found she had already gone downstairs, presumably to the library.
The door of the house stood open and there was a beautiful glimpse of the garden, gracious and sleepy in the warm evening light. From her father's study came the sound of voices. That would be Van and he talking.
Gwyneth felt very happy and curiously tranquil. Afterwards, she used to think of it as the quiet before the storm, but at that moment she only thought that perhaps the searching of past memories had really laid some ghosts and given her peace of mind.
More slowly she went through to the back of the house where the library was. Here, too, there was a murmur of voices. Evidently Mother was before her and she was dutifully showing the presents to Aunt Eleanor.
Gwyneth was tempted to leave her mother to it, and snatch a quiet ten minutes alone in the garden. But that would be rather a shame. She paused just outside the slightly open door, and as she did so, her aunt's voice drifted to her.
"Sandra," (that was Mother's absurdly melodramatic name, but it suited her), "either you are utterly insensitive or you have no appreciation of danger."
"Oh," thought Gwyneth amusedly, "so Mother is going through it now. Had I better go in or ?"
"I am not aware of any danger," Mother's beautiful voice stated coolly and positively.
"But don't you understand that it's the very same orphanage? The very same. Evander Onslie is one of the head trustees of Greystones."
For some reason she couldn't define, Gwyneth suddenly found her heart beating high up in her throat. She was frightened at the noise it seemed to be making—frightened, in case she should not hear mother's next words. But they came quite clearly to her.
"Very well. Van is a trustee of Greystones. What about it? For what earthly reason should Gwyneth suppose that Greystones has any significance for her?"
With a hand that shook slightly, Gwyneth pushed open the door and went into the library. Aunt Eleanor was standing by one of the long tables where the presents had been laid out, her expression angry and agitated. Mrs. Vilner was leaning back in an armchair regarding her with an air of tolerant amusement.
At the sound of Gwyneth's entrance, they both turned their eyes on her, and while her mother's face became quite blank. Aunt Eleanor's paled slightly.
Gwyneth shut the door and leant against it—partly because she felt she needed some support.
"Aunt Eleanor," she said very quickly, "will you tell me why Greystones Orphanage should have any significance for me?"
CHAPTER TWO
Aunt Eleanor opened her mouth, gasped slightly, and closed it again.
"My dear," Gwyneth's mother said smoothly, "what are you talking about? The place has no significance for you at all, apart from the fact that Eleanor was just telling me she understands Van is a trustee of it."
"And that fact agitated Aunt Eleanor very much. Why? And you were reassuring her with the statement that I was ignorant of any significance it had for me. Why?"
"You are imagining things," Mrs. Vilner said coldly.
"And you are lying," Gwyneth retorted brutally, "Aunt Eleanor, will you speak to me? I am asking you. You're more afraid of lying than Mother is. You must tell me the truth."
"Gwyneth—^reaUy, my dear—it's quite absurd—and you're being extremely rude to your mother."
"Rude!" Gwyneth laughed rather harshly. "Rude! What does that matter at a moment like this?" She came slowly forward into the room, her eyes never leaving her aunt's agitated face. "Never mind about the orphanage, then. I want you. to answer another question instead. It's simpler and it's much more vital. Did my baby really—die, or was that just another of Mother's lies?"
"Really, Gwyneth, I never heard such—Sandra "
Aunt Eleanor^s eyes sought those of her sister-in-law almost imploringly.
"No, don't ask Mother's " assistance. Just answer my question. Yes or no?" Gwyneth knew that her aunt could keep a secret so long as she was not questioned, but she genuinely quailed before a flat lie.
Behind her, she could almost feel her mother's cold anger, but she refused to be intimidated. She simply stared at her aujnt and repeated quite gently:
"Did my baby die—or is he still alive?—at Greystones, perhaps?"
"Gwyneth—it's most terribly unfortunate—so much better that you should never know—all over years ago
really. You must just think of him as dead, child "
Aunt Eleanor's voice stammered into silence.
Gwyneth took no more notice of her. She swung round to face her mother, who still leant back in her chair, regarding the scene with a slight smile which concealed her lury.
"You hateful, wicked woman," Gwyneth said slowly. "So you settled all that, and then covered your tracks by lying to me when I was too ill to do anything but beUeve you."
Her mother remained unmoved, though Aunt Eleanor's gasp showed the measure of her horrors at such words being addressed to a parent.
"Don't be absurd, my dear." Mrs. Vilner kept her voice quite low, just as Gwyneth herself did. "Why behave like
someone in East Lynn? And still more, why blame me? I did what was much the best thing for us all, at a time when you were certainly not in a fit state to make your own decisions."
"You lied to me." Again Gwyneth's voice sounded almost harsh.
"And why not? Would you have been any happier during the last five years if you had known the truth?"
"I had a right to know the truth and judge for myself."
"You had judged, Gwyneth. You had consented to what I did, in the months before the child was born. Do you suppose I was going to have all our careful arrangements shattered for the sake of an hysterical outburst of sentiment? You were too ill to reason clearly. You simply didn't know at that time what was best, or what was absolutely impossible."
"The—the baby's coming changed that."
"Oh no. I'm no beUever in these last-minute miracles of mother-love," Mrs. Vilner retorted with a slight curl of her lip. "The baby's coming changed nothing. Exposure would still have ruined your future, put your father in an unbearable position, meant endless unpleasantness for me, and done very little—if anything—for the child. None of that was changed at all. The only thing which had changed was your attitude. Sentiment got the better of common sense. So, for your own sake, if nothing else, I had to make this decision for you. And I maintain you have been happier for it. You have been able to build your life again because of it."
"How plausible you make it all sound," Gwyneth exclaimed bitterly. "But it doesn't really alter anything."
She looked at her mother with an expression of baffled dislike that was naked in its frankness. Most women would have quailed before such a glance from a daughter, but Mrs. Vilner never flinched.
"Well, my dear, the justification of my choice is that the day after tomorrow, with your—past, shall we say?— satisfactorily buried, you are going to marry Van Onslie. How do you suppose the presence of an illegitimate child would have affected that?
Gwyneth started.
She had forgotten Van for the moment. Indeed, she had
forgotten everything but this overwhelming disclosure. As though shutting out something she had not the courage to face, she pressed her hands over her eyes.
There was silence in the room, while Mrs. Vilner and Aunt Eleanor exchanged a glance. Then Aunt Eleanor spoke.
"You must see it has all been for the best, G^neth.'*
A convulsive little movement from her niece was the only protest against this, but at least there were not the fierce reproaches there had been at first.
Gwyneth's thoughts were working in quick, panic-stricken flashes. What was she going to do? Drag everything into the open? Announce, two days before her wedding, that she had an illegitimate child? Wreck Van's happiness—her father's position—her. own happiness? Set about finding her child? While the wedding guests were put off and sordid explanations made to the Bishop—presumably by
her unfortunate father—she was to go to this orphanage and make inquiries about a child who had always been brought up as an orphan anyway? It was incredible.
These were arguments that Mother would have used, of course—cold, clear-cut, ruthless. But they had the terrible ring of common sense.
Then the moment of dramatic silence was broken by the sound of the dinner gong.
"What are you going to do, Gwyneth?" Mrs. Vilner asked very quietly.
Gwyneth passed the tip of her tongue over her dry lips.
"I don't know," she said rather heavily. "I simply don't know."
"Well, please do nothing rash or hurried." The sharpness of her mother's voice showed suddenly that her nerves, too, were over-strained. "Remember that a word can ruin everything—and nothing can build the future a second time."
"I'll remember," Gwyneth said. And on that they went in to dinner.
It was a terrible meal.
Van was almost unaware of an3rthing wrong—^the Canon completely so, but neither Gwyneth nor Aunt Eleanor played her role particularly well. Mother was much better
at it, and engaged Van most of the time in light conversation which did not, however, entirely distract his attention from his silent fiancee.
Once or twice Gwyneth knew that Van's dark eyes rested on her with a rather thoughtful expression, but she was powerless to look at him in return and give him the reassuring smile he expected.
She was not surprised that, immediately after dinner, when they moved into the big drawing-room overlooking the garden, he came over to her and said abruptly:
"Let's go into the garden for a while, Gwyneth. It's much too lovely to spend the whole evening indoors."
She went—aware that both her aunt and her mother hid their deep anxiety with difficulty. Mother no doubt was thinking: "This will be too much for the little fool. She'll make some sort of confession now." While Aunt Eleanor was probably already almost resigned to the exposure of the whole miserable business, and was wondering—as she wondered about everything—how it would affect her brother.
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