by Sara Seale
The tears came then, and, weeping, she ran from the room.
Flung across the big tester bed, she wept as she had seldom wept before. That her father should have so betrayed her, that Nicholas should think such ill of her were blows which crushed her so completely that reason was swamped. Dies irae, dies ilia, they had sung in the convent during Holy Week ... day of wrath, O day of mourning ... She remembered the melancholy chant, the black-veiled nuns, the chapel statues shrouded and hidden, and herself, a solitary child, left behind for the Easter holidays.
How did one know the pitfalls? She thought bitterly. No one had warned her that her father was dishonest, no one had told her how to treat a husband who was virtually a stranger; no man had ever taught her that loving could be so easy until Colin had kissed her and her heart had turned to Nicholas ...
At last, spent, and drained of emotion, she got off the bed and began to undress, folding her clothes neatly and putting them away with the automatic tidiness she had learnt as a child.
Then she sat on a low stool by the fire, brushing her hair. It was very late when she heard Nicholas come up, and she put another log on the fire, watching the sparks fly upwards, catching the fine layer of soot in the chimney with a myriad little points of light. There must be a frost after the rain, she thought, listening to the owls calling to one another in the plantation, and looked up, suddenly taut, as Nicholas came into the room without knocking.
"You should be in bed," he observed. "It's late."
She could not tell now if he was still consumed with that icy anger which frightened her so much. He came to the fire and stood, warming his back, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing-gown, but his face was in shadow. Because it gave her something to do, she began to brush her hair again.
"I'm sorry," he said, without looking at her, "that I told you the truth about your father. I had never meant you to know. If I hadn't thought you were lying to me I would never have told you. But I'm sorry, all the same."
"Do you still think I was lying?" she asked.
He looked at her then. She had brushed the fringe off her forehead, and it gave her a young, defenceless look.
"I don't know, Shelley," he said, wearily. "I don't know. I can scarcely blame you, I suppose. I left you too much alone, and - was too forbearing in other matters. I should have known you would be easy money for the first good-looking man who came along."
She dropped the brush into her lap, and sat, staring into the fire, her hands clasped about her knees.
"That's not how it was," she said.
He pressed his fingers against his eyelids for a moment.
"Well, however it was, makes very little odds, now," he said. "We have to work things out from here."
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"First," he said, "I must make you understand that my good name, and my regard for anyone who bears it is extremely important to me."
Anger began to mount in her.
"You don't have to tell me that," she said. "Your name,
your glass, your china, they're all important in a way no human being could be."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You've so often told me that human relationships meant nothing to you, I'm not likely to forget it." For a moment his face softened.
"You're very young," he said. "Perhaps I'm apt to forget it."
"On the contrary," she flashed back, "you treat me like a child, or - or part of your precious collection. You've never talked to me like an adult person; you've never wanted me to share your life. You've only cared about giving me a suitable setting and - and owning me - like a piece of porcelain."
"Do you really think that?" he asked, then added a little sadly: "I've never owned you, Shelley. That's been my punishment."
Her anger died.
"Punishment? For what?"
"For marrying you, perhaps. Or, having married you, for being so - undemanding."
"You've never wanted anything of me," she said.
Something of the strain of months snapped in Nicholas.
"Never wanted anything of you!" he exclaimed. "For heaven's sake, child! What do you think I'm made of? What do you suppose any man wants of the woman he marries? I'm no celibate, even though my face may not be pretty to look at."
She blinked up at him, startled by the storm she had raised.
"I never knew," she stammered. "You - you never gave me any idea..."
"Because," he said roughly, "like a fool, I hoped you'd come to me naturally. Because, that first night, you couldn't quite hide your aversion. I kept away, I gave you the time I thought you needed to grow up - to get used to me - and all I was doing was making a rod for my own back."
She stood up, and the folds of her long, blue dressing-gown fell softly against her slender limbs.
"I wouldn't have denied you, Nicholas," she said. "At first - you should have understood. I didn't love you. But I
wouldn't have denied you -I wouldn't deny you, now." His eyes were bitterly hurt again.
"No?" he said. "But then you've a little more experience, now."
She drew back as if he had struck her. "Is it so difficult for you to believe I've never had a lover?" she asked. His smile was cynical as he replied:
"I'd like to believe you, Shelley, but I've found there's not much honesty in women."
The bitterness had gone very deep. These past weeks of fresh hope had been a fool's paradise. That new, soft awareness, the little flashes of happy radiance had not been for him, but for another.
Shelley saw the bitterness and was defeated. She wanted to weep but she had no tears left. She wanted to put her arms round him, to hide the scarred face on her breast, to bring him the comfort which the years had denied him, but she could not reach him. He was a stranger, a dark Pluto, carrying off Persephone into Hades.
"If you want me, Nicholas, you can have me," she said steadily.
He looked down at her, and for almost the first time he saw the weariness in her face, the marks of the tears she had shed, the effort she was making to steady her lips.
"What do you take me for?" he said in a voice harsh with defeat. "Go to bed, Shelley. In the morning, perhaps things will look different."
He turned, and without saying good night, went back to his own room and shut the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Half the night she lay awake, watching the firelight die, and listening to the owls, too exhausted to weep any more. In this great bed where Penryns had died and been born, she lay and knew she had never belonged to Garazion. She lay there, an alien stranger, and the house rejected her. Of Lucius' shameful betrayal, she would not think, or of Nicholas who could believe such ill of her; she thought only of the morrow and the need for flight, the need for escape. She and Lucius, living on Penryn bounty and giving nothing in return; that must end. In the morning, she would go.
Just before she fell into a troubled, uneasy sleep, she remembered Colin saying: "If things don't work out - if you should need a friend ... remember me ..." She would go to Colin, she thought, on a long, defeated sigh; there was no one else left in the world...
She woke late to find a breakfast tray had been sent up to her, and on it a brief note from Nicholas.
"I'm going away for a few days," he wrote, without any preliminary. "When I return we will both have a clearer view of things. - N."
Well, thought Shelley wearily, that made things easier. By the time he came back, he would be free of her, and Lucius -he must make his own terms with Lucius.
She remained in her room all the morning, making her plans, and packing a small suitcase with bare necessities. She would take as little as possible of the things which Nicholas had bought for her. She opened cupboards and drawers, arranging everything she was to leave behind neatly and without regret. They were no longer part of her, the silks and chiffons, the exquisite stuffs of his choosing; they were simply a setting, a compliment to his good taste and care for his treasures. Only the litt
le sable muff she stroked with loving fingers, and before she put it gently away, remembered his saying: "One day I'll have you painted like that, with a muff held against your face." No painting of her would ever hang at Garazion, just as there was none of Lydia.
No one disturbed her, and she sat idly in the window and watched the rain. The garden looked sad and deserted, and she remembered Martin playing tag with her among Nicholas' rose-trees, and the charming tippets of snow the trees had worn at Christmas.
The gates were open and the car stood at the front door. Presently she saw Nicholas come out of the house and fling a suitcase on to the back seat. He did not look up at her windows, and she watched his tall figure with a feeling of pain which suddenly twisted her heart and made her want to cry out to him. He got into the car and drove away, and old Isaac closed the gates after him.
Shelley pressed her forehead against the chill hardness of the window pane, and anger mounted in her. He could go like that, without farewell, thinking only ill of her, leaving her to shame or repentance until he should have decided what he would do. For the first time in years rebellion shook her, and she knew that all her life she had submitted to authority, and never questioned; the nuns, her father and Nicholas; and authority was not always right, or very kind.
She lingered for a few minutes more, warming her hands at the fire, then she collected her few belongings and softly closed the door behind her.
She met Baines in the hall and asked him to ring up the village garage for a car. She had no money and the taxi must go down to Nicholas' account.
"You are going away, ma'am?" the old man said with faint surprise.
"Yes, for a little while," Shelley said, flushing under his enquiring look. "I - I'm going to my father." She disliked lying to him, but Baines knew she had no friends and had never before been away from Garazion.
The old man's eyes were troubled.
"Will you be back before Mr. Nicholas, ma'am?" he asked. "No - I don't know," she said quickly, "I'll leave a note, in case."
He gave her a long thoughtful look, but said no more and went to telephone the garage, and Shelley sat down at the desk in Nicholas' study and pulled paper and pen towards her.
What could she say, she thought, save that she was running away from him, that she was sorry for the trouble she and her father had caused, that would he, please, forgive and forget her. It took her a long time to compose her stiff little note, but it was done at last, then she slipped off her wedding-ring and dropping it into the envelope, sealed it, and propped it on the mantelpiece under the portrait of the child.
Baines handed her into the taxi when it came, then stood in the wet, his old eyes troubled and a little dim.
"Come back to us, soon, ma'am," he said gently, and Shelley stretched out a hand to touch him.
"You've always been kind to me," she said, her eyes suddenly bright. "Thank you, Baines."
He blinked, and his hand shook under hers.
"Polzeal station?" he asked, shutting the door of the car.
"Yes, Polzeal," she replied, and did not look at him again as the car moved off.
She knew he was puzzled and a little troubled. The fast London train had left Polzeal long ago, and there was not another until the evening, neither could the small case he had lifted in beside her possibly hold more that a night's bare necessities. Well, she thought bleakly, the servants must think what they would. Nicholas, on his return would, doubtless, offer his own explanation.
The driver set her down at Polzeal station and drove away, and she stood uncertainly beside her suitcase and wondered what to do next. She did not know how to find Colin except through the theatre, and that would be closed at this hour. She picked up her case, and wandered slowly into the town which was shuttered and empty during the lunch hour. She had a few pounds in her purse, and she thought she would find a teashop and get a cup of coffee while she considered her next move. She passed the arts and crafts extablishment where she had bought the frame for Nicholas, and, almost next door she found a little shop called Anne's Pantry, and went in thankfully, out of the rain. It was late, and the place was dark and nearly deserted. She found a table in the shadows, and ordered a plate of baked beans and a cup of coffee. She was beginning to feel very tired and an air of unreality engulfed her and would
not, as yet, let her realize that there was no return to Garazion. She put her elbows on the rickety little table and rested her chin on her hands, waiting indifferently for the food to be brought. "Shelley!"
She looked up and blinked in a dazed fashion at Colin so suddenly materialized beside her.
"What on earth are you doing here?"
"Oh! Oh - Colin!" she said, and he sat down opposite her.
"I was at that table in the window," he said, "but you never saw me. We're at sixes and sevens in the theatre; our leading lady's gone down with appendicitis, and we're at our wit's end to know what to put on next week. We're doing Charley's Aunt as a stop-gap."
"I'm sorry," she said, and he looked at her sharply.
"You don't sound too bright, yourself," he said. "What are you doing in Polzeal on such a filthy day? I thought you never ventured out of the dragon's fortress."
"I've run away," she said.
"What!" he exclaimed.
The waitress brought Shelley's baked beans and slapped the plate down in front of her.
"Did I understand you to say you had run away?" Colin enquired when she had gone."
"Yes. I was coming to see you."
He lit a cigarette and observed her shrewdly through the smoke.
"I see," he said carefully. "Am I also to understand that you've left your husband for me?"
"Not exactly," she said, looking a little dazed. "I thought, perhaps, you would give me a job. You did once say Jake could fit me into the company. I could be a maid, or prompt, or play the piano for you - anything."
"I see," he said again, "Or rather, I don't. What's made you decide to leave Penryn?"
She began half-heartedly to eat the beans.
"Nicholas found out about us," she said wearily. "He thinks you were my lover. He - there's a lot more involving my father, which you wouldn't understand. Nicholas no longer believes in
me. I had to go."
"Did he turn you out?"
"Oh, no. He doesn't know. He's gone away, himself."
He watched her in silence for a moment, trying to make up his mind exactly how the situation was going to affect him. He remembered that he had once asked her to run away with him, and felt a little uneasy. He wanted Shelley, yes, but could he afford the publicity of a divorce, or the future responsibilty of a wife? She was a girl one would definitely have to marry, indeed one would want to if one was contemplating marriage at all.
"Have you thought this thing out?" he asked gently.
She raised her wide, grave eyes for a moment.
"Oh, yes," she said. "All last night after - after he's left me and - didn't want me."
He gave her a swift glance which held a suggestion of amusement.
"Were you trying to make amends?" he asked. "When a man is angry and believes he's been made a fool of is scarcely the moment to offer your favours, you know."
She pushed the plate from her, without finishing the beans, and sat, stirring her muddy-looking coffee.
"I always seem to have done the wrong thing with Nicholas," she said, and he saw how very tired she looked.
"Poor sweet," he said, "You were too young - too inexperienced for someone like Penryn. But, Shelley - don't you think you should go back, all the same - now, before he knows anything about it?"
"No," she said, and sounded as if she might cry. "No, I can never go back - my father and I - we - we've cheated him, and - I can't, Colin - I can't live at Garazion any more, shut up in a glass case with all the other exhibits."
She was nearer to breaking point than he had realized, and he said quickly:
"All right, all right, I won't try to persuade you, but you must re
alize that if you come to me, you've burnt your boats. We'll both have to go through with it."
She smiled at him and touched his hand across the table.
"Dear Colin, I don't mean to embarrass you," she said
gently. "I'm very fond of you, but I don't want - I mean I hadn't thought of being unfaithful to Nicholas. I just thought you might help me to be independent by giving me a job."
His smile was half tender, half exasperated.
"You mean you don't want me for a lover, in spite of having run away?"
"No - not any man," she said. "Don't be hurt, Colin. I don't think you would really want the responsibility of me."
"But, my dear child, don't you see that the fact that you've come to me will only confirm your husband's suspicions? He's bound to take the appropriate measures."
"Would you mind very much? You see, then he'd be free of me, and - and it doesn't really matter what he believes, now."
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "I don't know what to say to you, Shelley," he said. "I could find a place for you in the company, yes, but - " "But what?"
"Well, I'd thought you were getting fond of the dragon, you know."
"Perhaps that's it. Don't you remember? 'The love I fear to lose, the love I find: Those who might miss me - those who I might miss..."'
His face changed.
"By heavens, Prunella!" he exclaimed' "We could put on Prunella, with you in the name-part! Even if we find you aren't much of an actress, you'll look enchanting, and it would see us through until Betty comes back. Come on, we'll go and see Jake."
Already his thoughts had left her problems for his own more pressing ones, and he could think only of the theatre. He paid her bill, picked up her suitcase and bustled her out into the rain.
As they hurried through the wet streets to the theatre, he talked enthusiastically. His earlier dejection had completely vanished. Shelley's difficulty and that of the company could be resolved together.
They found Jake, whom Shelley only vaguely remembered, sitting on the empty stage, gloomily reading a script while