CHAPTER TWO
FOR PERHAPS two seconds Beverley stared at the Httle girl in appalled silence. Then now entirely unheeding of the fact that one simply did not encourage a child to discuss other people's private affairs she said, a trifle hoarsely, "Di-did you say Geoffrey Revian?" "Yes." Toni nodded emphatically. "He painted a portrait of Sara, and she got fond of him and " "But how do you know? I mean oh, we shouldn't be talking about this at all. It isn't our business," stammered Beverley distractedly, as her natural sense of integrity returned to her. "You mustn't tell me your sister's private affairs. I am a stranger and ""That's why I told you," Toni explained simply. "But there's nothing I can do about it! Even if it concerned me. Which it does not," Beverley said quickly. And then, for a bitter moment, she thought of Geoffrey, and how deeply this really did concern her. "No. I don't expect there's anything that anyone can do about it," agreed Toni mournfully. "I expect Sara will just marry Franklin and gradually die of a broken heart." "Nonsense. No one does that in real life," Beverley asserted, as reassuringly as she could. Though the almost physical -ache which she seemed to feel in the region of her own heart made her wonder if this were quite true. "Anyway, I feel better now I've told you." Toni seemed immensely relieved and cheered suddenly. Al-most as though she had literally shifted her dreadful burden to Beverley."Well, I'm glad of that." Beverley spoke almost absently. "But " wrong though it was, she knew, to continue the subject, there was one question she simply had to ask "how can you possibly be sure 26 that you have this right? You may have made some mistake, you know. Your sister might have liked the the other man once, but decided later that she wanted to marry Mr. Lowell. Lots of girls do that." ' She was even slightly cheered herself by the presentation of this theory. But Toni shook her dark head determinedly. "Not Sara." "But you can't be sure!" "Yes, I can." Toni seemed rather affronted at having her version of the story called in question. "She knew him quite a while before Franklin came along " "While I was away in London!" thought Beverley with a pang. " And then, after she got engaged, Franklin wanted a portrait of her for his house, and he said he knew a good artist in the district, and it turned out to be this Geoffrey Revian. What did you say?" "Nothing," said Beverley helplessly, unable now even to attempt to stop this flood of chilling information. "Well, he used to come here to paint her, and they got more friendly still, I guess. And one day I went in and he had his arms round her and she was crying and " "Don't tell me anymore! I won't hear any more," cried Beverley angrily. "If you must tell someone, you had better tell your mother or your other sister. It's more their affair than mine." "But I couldn't tell them," Toni explained patiently. "They all want Sara to marry Franklin, because then there won't have to be a mortgage on the house and all the bills will get paid, and Madeleine will have a season in London. And so shall I, I suppose, when the time comes," she added reflectively. "Though would rather do without the season and have Sara marry whoever she really wants." This was so palpably true, in a naive way, that Beverley felt her heart warm to the little girl, in spite 27 of the fact that she seemed to have a terrifying talent for acquiring information which she was supposed not to know. , "Well, perhaps " Beverley sighed, but felt she must offer some form of comfort to the child "perhaps everything will work out all right, in the end. It's surprising how often one worries about things that never happen." "You mean " Toni looked hopeful . "that Sara may never marry Franklin, after all? that even now she might marry this Geoffrey Revian instead?" "No!" Beverley spoke sharply, because this suggestion hurt quite unbearably. "I meant that she may well find she is fond of of her fiance, and that in actual fact he is the man she wants, after all." Toni looked at Beverley in unconvinced silence for a moment. Then she said reflectively, "You haven't seen Franklin yet, have you?" "N-no." Beverley was oddly impressed by the tone. "But the photograph doesn't suggest that he is a an unpleasant person in any way." "Oh, no. Not unpleasant," Toni conceded. "Infact, he is rather nice, and very generous. But he is kind of overwhelming. There isn't much room for anyone else when he is around." In spite of herself, Beverley glanced at the photograph once more, and she could not help thinking that, for a little girl, Toni had a good deal of natural judgment. Then to her mingled relief and disappointment footsteps were heard in the passage, and their agitating tete-a-tete was obviously at an end. A moment later tea was brought in by a maid, and almost immediately afterwards Mrs. Wayne re-joined them. "I hope Toni has managed to entertain you." Mrs. Wayne smiled at her youngest child, with an indulgence Beverley felt she would hardly have displayed if she could have known just what form Toni's entertainment had taken. But Beverley said politely, "Yes, indeed." And 28 then they had tea, and it was obvious that the social part of this visit was over. "I am afraid you will have to walk down to the bus stop," Mrs. Wayne said. "My son has taken the car off somewhere. It was just a chance that he was available earlier this afternoon. I hope you don't mind." "Not in the least," Beverley assured her. "I expected to walk both ways, and it's a pleasant walk." "Well it gets a little wearisome if you have to , do it too often." Mrs. Wayne smiled. "But whenever it is possible to arrange a lift for you I will do so, and perhaps you won't mind the other times too much." Once more Beverley gave an assurance that she would not. And, after repeating that she would be back, ready to start work, before ten o'clock next morning, she took her leave. Toni, with obvious friendliness, accompanied her to the front door, and, looking at the big hall clock, said, "You'll have to hurry, Miss Farman. The bus goes from the Crown at a quarter past five, I think." Spurred on by this thought, Beverley actually ran part of the way along the lane, for she knew there would probably be a wait of nearly two hours between buses. The hurrying kept her from thinking too deeply about her afternoon visit. But nothing could entirely hold at bay the anxious thoughts which Tom's revelation had prompted. She tried to tell herself, as she half walked, half ran along, that the really important event of the afternoon was the securing of a large order for most congenial and interesting work. But, in the back of her mind, looming over every other consideration, was the revelation which the youngest Wayne daughter had insisted on making to her. "She is only a child," Beverley told herself. "She has overheard some half-truths and seen one or two things which she has misinterpreted. Then she put all of them together and has distressed herself badly with 29 her own garbled version of the situation. That's what it is."But she did not really believe this. She believed that what Toni had told her was substantially the truth. Somehow, in a naive, disconnected way, the story had the ring of truth about it. And, if that were the case what of her own position with regard to Geoffrey? Until that moment, somehow, Beverley had never really thought of anyone supplanting herself in Geoffrey's affections. She had accepted the fact that it might be years before he felt in a position to marry her if ever. But that he would want to marry . someone else had not entered her calculations. She had always thought of him as someone who would not think seriously about any girl. Now she saw how ridiculous and untenable such a theory must be. Like everyone else in. the world, Geoffrey might have his firm intentions and make his plans. But, human nature being what it is, no amount of planning will safeguard one against the sudden capitulation of the heart. Why should he not fall in love with Sara Wayne? She was lovely enough, in all conscience. And, as she reached this point in her thoughts, Beverley slackened her pace. She forgot about the bus, and thought only of the unspeakable desert which life would become if she had to face the fact that Geoffrey belonged to someone else, so far as his affections were concerned. It was not as though she could ask him anything about it. For one thing, if he did not choose to confide in her' and why should he? it was not for her to force the issue. And, in any case, she had no right to the information in the first place. She even wondered remorsefully now if she should somehow have managed to stop Toni before she had said so much. But it was no good going back over that ground now. And then Beverley turned the last curve in the lane, and was immediately presented with a practical 30 fact which drove melancholy
reflections from her mind for the moment. The bus-stop was in full view, though a good hundred yards away. And there, just drawing up to decant a couple of passengers and take up two or three more, was her bus. Too late she broke into the sharpest sprint she could manage. She had not covered half the intervening distance before the bus moved off once more. And Beverley was left panting and waving fruitlessly, while the bus sailed away over the hill into the distance. It was the most maddening thing! For something like two hours she would have to sit there on a bench at least there was a bench! kicking her heels and waiting for the next bus. She could hardly go back to the house. She did not know the family well enough for that. And there was a four- or five-mile walk between her and any other bus route that would get her home. More slowly, since speed did not matter now, she made her way to the bus-stop and stood disconsolately studying the out-of-date and rather fly-blown time-table pasted on the board. This told her quite a lot about the buses which would not be running on Christmas Day and Bank Holidays, and even stated the times of buses during the winter months. But there was no information about summer services, and she turned away, with a gesture of impatience and disgust. As she did so a car drove up and a voice called out, "Have you just missed your bus?" "Yes, I'm afraid so." She approached the car eagerly. "Where do you want to go?" The man in the driving-seat leaned over and opened the nearside door. "Binwick. Or wherever I can pick up a bus that goes there." "All right. Jump in. I'm going through there. I'll take you along." "Oh, thank you! But if you could just manage to 31 overtake the bus and put me down at a stop further on that would do," Beverley assured him, as she climbed into the seat beside the driver. "Sorry. I shan't be following the bus route. I have to cut across by Steeplemere." "Well, if you don't mind taking me all the way, that's better still, of course. I'll be home .sooner than the bus would take me," Beverley said. And, having slammed the car door, she turned to have a better look at her companion. She then saw that it was Franklin Lowell. He was quite unmistakable. The photograph back there in the little drawing - room at Huntingford Grange was really very good of him. Except that it had not conveyed in full measure the almost dynamic impression of energy and vitality which flowed from this big, dark man, with the abrupt but not unfriendly voice. For a moment Beverley sat wordless, watching his strong, well-shaped hands on the wheel of the car, and wondering what she should say to him. However, he made it quite easy for her by asking .if she belonged to the district. "Not immediately round here," Beverley explained. "My home is in Binwick. I came here to see Mrs. Wayne. I am going to do some dressmaking for her in the coming weeks." She thought she had better make her position clear at once. "Is that so?" He sounded quite interested. "I know the Waynes well. In fact, I'm engaged to Sara, the eldest daughter." "Yes I know," Beverley said a little shyly. He flashed her an amused glance. "How do you know?" "There is a photograph of you in one of the rooms at the Grange, and the little girl Toni was anxious to explain about you." "She would be." But he sounded good-humoured about it _"She is the most chatty kid I know. Where she acquires all the information she passes on is a mystery to me." 32 "Yes, indeed," said Beverley with some feeling. Perhaps with more feeling than she knew, for he gave her that bright, half-amused glance again. "She gave you the family history, I take it?" "Well " Beverley smiled with determined composure "I was glad when her mother came in and cut short any further confidences. It is rather embarrassing to be handed out personal details when you hardly know people." He laughed. "Don't pay too much attention to what she says. She also has a lively imagination." "Do you think so?" Beverley simply could net hide her eagerness to have that confirmed. "Why, of course." He looked slightly surprised. "Don't most children of that age? And Toni has more imagination than most. Did she tell you something that embarrassed you?" "Not exactly." "I suppose she said that Sara was marrying me for my money, and that, otherwise, the family would be in the workhouse or whatever the modem equivalent is." "Oh not quite." She was a good deal startled at the almost brutally careless candour with which he said that. And yet, after a moment, she was extraordinarily reassured too. For even this uncompromising man would hardly put such an idea into words, if it were even remotely near the unfortunate truth. "I didn't really pay much attention, you know." She found suddenly that she could laugh quite naturally, because her heart felt immensely lightened of its load. "As you say, all children romance a bit. And the odd thing is that they more than half believe it themselves." "That goes for a surprising number of grown-ups too," he replied dryly. And then he changed the subject by asking if she had lived long in Binwick. "All my life," Beverley told him, with a smile. "It's a charming place. Do you know it?" 33 "Fairly well. I know a very clever artist chap who lives there. I expect you'll know him too." "You mean Geoffrey Revian." "Yes. Do you know him?" "Very well." "I got him to do a portrait of Sara quite recently. It was very successful." "I I'm sure it was." "The odd thing was that I didn't even know he lived in the district until then. But I'd always been interested in his work. Not that I know much about art. But I bought a picture of his at an exhibition some years ago." "Did you?" She could not help being interested. "What made you buy it? I mean if you're not interested in painting." "I hardly know myself." He laughed slightly, as though he were 'surprised to find he could not explain any impulse of his own. "It was just a picture of a most charming child, sitting on the grass in a blue and white frock. I suppose she would be about Toni's age. No, maybe rather more. Say fourteen." "Not really?" Beverley laughed slightly in her turn, on a note of incredulous surprise and pleasure. "Was it the painting or the subject that made you buy the picture?" "Both, I suppose. At least, I thought the artist had very cleverly caught the personality of the subject. I remember everything else in the exhibition bored me. But I thought I'd like to know that girl. She's the kind of kid one would like to have around." "So you bought it?" "Yes, I bought it." "And you still have it?" "Yes, of course. I don't know that it's of any special value, in the market sense. But I wouldn't part with it for a really fancy price. There's something very sane and lovable about my little girl in the blue and white dress, and although .my worst enemy wouldn't call me a fanciful chap, I regard her as a very pleasant companion in my house." 34 "I'm so glad," Beverley said, and laughed. "You sound as though you really mean that." "Well, I do! Have you never thought that your little girl in the blue and white dress must be quite grown up now?" "Yes, certainly. Why do you say that?" "Because though I find it rather embarrassing to tell you so, after all the nice things you have said was the little girl in the blue and white dress. It was the first picture Geoffrey ever sold." "You don't say!" He actually drew the car to a standstill by the roadside and turned to look at her, his eyes alight with interest, and his whole attention so completely fixed on her that she flushed slightly under his scrutiny. 'Tell me what your name is." "Miss Farman." "No. Your first name," he said, rather peremptorily. "My little girl in the blue and white dress wouldn't answer to the name of Miss Farman." "My first name is Beverley." " Beverley "he repeated it experimentally "it's a nice name. And it suits her. You, I mean." Again that bright, penetrating glance travelled over her. "I can see now, of course, that you are exactly as she would have grown up." "Oh thank you." She laughed, and once more she felt herself flush. "That's very nice of you though a trifle embarrassing." "It need not be. I don't think it's in the least embarrassing. I find it most intriguing," he said. "Like meeting an old friend." She hardly knew how to take such frankness, and yet she could not be -anything but touched and flattered by it. "You know," she said, "you are a most surprising person. No one would suppose from your general air that you were at all romantic or- " "I am not in the least," he assured her. "But you must be," she told him. "No' entirely practical and common-sense person would make a 35 friend of a picture and take such obvious pleasure in tracing up the original years later." "You mean you think it's rather silly of me." He considered that frowningly. "Indeed I don't! I think it's extraordinarily nice of you. I don't remember when I've felt more gratified. C
ertainly not since the picture was painted and exhibited. And sold," she added, with a half-wistful smile. For she suddenly remembered with poignant clarity how jubilant Geoffrey and she had been over that first sale. "Well " he looked amused again "that seems to establish this as a very satisfactory meeting on both sides." ' And then he drove on once more, while Beverley sat there thinking what an extraordinary day of discoveries this had been. First there had been the contact with the Waynes, and the work which was going to follow as a consequence. Then there was the revelation which Toni had insisted on forcing upon her. Though this, Beverley was daring to begin to think, was greatly exaggerated and by no means to be . taken as seriously as she had at first supposed. And now there was the surprising discovery that Franklin Lowell not only owned the picture of herself as a child, but put a most flatteringly high value on it. "I should like to see it again," she said on impulse. "What? The picture of yourself?" "Yes." "Well, you shall. I'll drive you over to my place one of these days, and you shall see how you looked when you were a little girl." "Thank you," Beverley said. But she wondered a little uncomfortably if she should have invited that suggestion, and whether the Waynes were the kind of people who drew a very clear social distinction between wealthy fianc�and girls who came to the house to do dressmaking for the family. During the rest of the drive they talked of unimportant things. But he insisted on taking her right to 36 her own front door, and waved away her thanks when she very earnestly expressed these Beverley was aware, from the odd twitching of the front-room curtains, that Aunt Ellen was watching the scene no doubt with intense and rather disapproving curiosity. But she managed to say -goodbye to Franklin Lowell, and even to give him an impersonal but friendly little wave as he drove away. Then -she went into the house, and immediately Aunt Ellen popped out from the front room .to demand, "For goodness' sake, who was that in the handsome car?" "That was Franklin Lowell," said Beverley, taking off her hat and running her fingers through her hair, while she tried to look as though it were nothing in her young life to be driven up to the house by a reputed millionaire. Or near enough. "Franklin Lowell?" Aunt Ellen sounded more scandalized than approving. "But he's engaged to the eldest Wayne girl, surely. You shouldn't go driving around the country with another girl's fianc� "Oh, Aunt Ellen, don't be so stuffy," said Beverley thereby causing her aunt to look very much offended. "He only gave me a lift home because I missed my bus. But come into Mother's room and hear all about it. I've had the most exciting afternoon!" Curiosity getting the better of any huffiness, Aunt Ellen followed Beverley into her mother's room. And here over another cup of tea Beverley gave a lively account of her first visit to Huntingford Grange. She missed out all that Toni had said, of course, and she did not give any of her own impressions of Sara's curious listlessness or apparent lack of interest in her trousseau. But she enlarged on the attractive prospects of the actual work, and also on the friendliness which had been shown her. "Darling, how kind Mrs. Wayne sounds," exclaimed her mother. "She really need not have kept you to 37 tea like that. Or, at least, not in her own drawing room." "It's always a mistake to start by being too friendly," observed Aunt Ellen gloomily. "Why?" enquired her sister flatly. For a moment Aunt Ellen was nonplussed. Then she expressed it as her opinion that people who started that way usually ended by thinking you were presuming on their friendliness. " Beverley would never presume on anyone," stated Mrs. Farman firmly. "How did you get home, dear? You're too early to have come by the bus, surely?" Beverley explained about missing the bus and about being given a lift by Franklin Lowell. "And just imagine, Mother! it was Mr. Lowell who bought that picture which Geoffrey painted of me when I was fourteen." This information so delighted her mother and even impressed Aunt Ellen that Beverley had to explain about this too, in detail. And at the end her mother said, "Fancy Geoffrey never mentioning the fact to you!" "But he probably didn't know of Mr. Lowell as anything but a name until quite recently." "He could have told you recently, though," put in Aunt Ellen, in a vaguely censorious tone. "Oh, I daresay he didn't think of it. Or he didn't think of my ever having any connection with Mr. Lowell or being interested. But I think I shall run down a bit later and see if Geoffrey is in." Carelessly she proposed the one thing she had been longing to do ever since Toni had dealt her that blow. "He will be interested to hear of my meeting with Mr. Lowell." To her mother and even to Aunt Ellen this seemed a perfectly normal procedure. So Beverley spent an hour putting everything in order for her first day's work on the morrow washing a pair of white gloves, tacking a fresh collar on to her dark. workingdress and so on. And then, telling her mother that she would be back in good time for supper, she went off down the village street towards Geoffrey's cottage. 38 She had very little idea, even now, what she was going to say to him. And certainly she had no intention whatever of asking any leading questions, or iri any way showing that she knew of a connection between him and Sara Wayne.But surely, in the natural course of her account of the day, he would say something which would give her a hint of his real position in this story. After her talk with Franklin Lowell, and the carelessly reassuring things he had said about Toni's lively imagination, she was inclined to take a much more hopeful view of things. She imagined his saying casually, "Oh, I know Sara Wayne quite well. I painted her portrait. Lovely girl she is, too. I'd have fallen in love with her myself, if I could have allowed myself the luxury. But, as it is, she's marrying a very nice chap who can well-afford to give her the setting she needs." Oh, if only he would say just that! And in a tone that meant he didn't care about her at all except as a pretty girl whom he naturally admired. But, even if he did say that or something like it would she entirely believe him? Or would she wonder if he were putting up an elaborate smokescreen, so that she should have no inkling of what was really in his mind and heart? To imagine that it could have come to that! Her even supposing for one moment that there should be a barrier of deception between her and Geoffrey. She told herself that she should be ashamed to be thinking such a thing, on the strength of no more solid evidence than the chatter of a highly imaginative child. And, a good deal cheered by her own vehemence, she turned in at the gate of Geoffrey's cottage.. . But this time too there was no answer to her knock. And, although she thought it doubtful that he would still be working in his studio at the. end of the garden, she went round the house and along the rather untidy path which led to the small converted barn used by Geoffrey as a studio. 39 As she did so, the most extraordinary sense of misgiving assailed her. It was nothing to do with anything she saw or heard or could in any way account for. Only, as she neared the studio, it seemed to her that her heart sank unaccountably, and she even found that she was trembling. She paused for a moment by the big old rambler which sprawled in picturesque untidiness over an archway half-way down the path. And, as she did so, the door of the studio opened suddenly - as though someone on the other side of it had wrenched it open. For a second a girl stood silhouetted in the door-' way. Then she banged the door behind her and came running up the path. There was no time to conceal oneself. Hardly even time to step aside out of her immediate path. In a matter of moments the girl had cleared the distance between them, and, with a great gasp, came to a stop only a yard or two from Beverley. Beverley caught her breath in a gasp too. For the girl who had run from Geoffrey's studio in such agitation, and now stood staring at her utterly nonplussed, was Sara Wayne. 40
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