“Because—well, can’t you see that she would have a good deal of influence?—It might mean promotion—even a partnership.”
Again Hope hesitated, but only so that she might choose her words very carefully.
“Yes, I see that she might have influence. I think I see the point of the partnership too. That would be, of course, if you were so fortunate as to marry her?”
It was Richard who hesitated that time, and suddenly—because she could bear neither his embarrassment nor her own any longer—Hope came coolly to his rescue.
“Richard, let’s be frank and sensible about this. Things have changed since my financial position has changed, haven’t they? You used to say once—half jokingly—that you would have to marry money—that your tastes were too expensive for you to live an un-moneyed existence. That was the literal truth, wasn’t it? I don’t know whether you’re really fond of me or not, but—”
“I am,” he exclaimed urgently. “You know I am!”
“Very well, my dear. I’m willing to take your word for that. I’m willing to believe that, if I had had even a reasonable amount of money, you would have been happy to marry me—”
“Happier than I’d ever dared to hope,” he said rather despairingly, and with a sincerity she could not doubt.
“But things just haven’t worked out that way, Richard, have they?”
She looked squarely across the table at him, and saw that he was biting his lip—more agitated than she had ever seen Richard before. He looked oddly tired and white, and every vestige of his usual gaiety and laughter was gone, as though a lamp had been put out. She thought—he looks almost like that. Old and weary and—beaten.
And, on a sudden impulse of pity and generosity, she put out her hand on his as it lay on the table, and said: “Listen, Richard. I’m not blaming you. In a way, you were always quite frank about this money business. If you’d met me six months later than you did, you’d never have made love to me. You would have liked me, but passed on without even thinking of me in terms of marriage. It was just bad luck that we—that we got so far without either of us knowing the true situation.”
He turned his hand and gripped hers hard.
“Hope, you’re an angel of generosity. Don’t try to make it sound better than it is. At this moment I know myself for what I am, but—”
“But that doesn’t affect the main question, does it?” There was a tense little pause. Then she spoke again. “Richard, let’s just wipe out the past weeks. We—we never got as far as thinking about marriage. We met—and liked each other—and that was all. There isn’t really anything between us. There couldn’t be anything between us. And”—suddenly her courage failed her—“and, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go.”
“No, Hope!” He got to his feet as she did. “Don’t go like that!”
“It is the only way to go,” she said quite gently. “Please, Richard. There—there’s absolutely nothing else to say. And don’t follow me. I’d rather go alone.”
She was never quite clear afterwards about the moment when she pulled her hand away from his. She only knew that she was walking out of the restaurant, passing the astonished waiter who arrived just then with their meal.
Oh, well, it didn’t really matter. Richard could make some excuse—or no excuse. Nothing really mattered. Nothing, except that she had left before she could weep, and so a little of her pride and dignity was saved.
She was glad that it was cold when she got out into the street. The sharp evening air revived her a little, and made her feel less stupefied. She walked along rapidly, hardly bothering where she was going, conscious only of the one fact—it was over.
For the moment she could think clearly of only one fact at a time. And the overwhelming fact was that she and Richard were not going to be married, after all. Later she would begin to think of other things—she would remember—
And then she did remember.
The shock of realization was so tremendous that Hope came to a dead stop.
How could she have forgotten? How could she have ignored the terrific implication contained in the decision she had just made?
True, the fact that she was not going to marry Richard was overwhelming. But there was another fact, more overwhelming still. As things now stood, she was bound to marry Errol Tamberly.
CHAPTER SIX
IN the first terrified shock of realization Hope actually turned to go back to the restaurant, full of some wild idea that she must somehow reverse the decisions just taken.
But the next moment she realized of course that such a notion was absurd. Even apart from the terms of her agreement with Errol, she could not possibly go back to Richard and say, ‘I forgot—you’ll have to marry me after all. Otherwise, I shall have to marry Errol Tamberly.’
In hopeless confusion she stood where she was on the pavement, until an unpleasant-looking man stopped and said:
“Are you going or coming, sister? Or maybe”—he leant towards her with an inviting leer—“just staying?”
Hope brushed past him and somehow found the way to her bus-stop. She must go home. She must—unless she was to go mad—concentrate all her thoughts on doing some active, simple thing during the next half-hour. To get home—that was the sole purpose of existence just now. Here was the bus. She must get on it—take her ticket in a perfectly normal way—sit there looking like any other girl going home late from business—remember to get off at the right stop. Never mind about anything else just now. The great thing was to get home.
Once or twice during the ride she found that she was mentally addressing encouraging words to herself. ‘It’s all right—nothing to worry about really—you’ll think of something. Wait until you get home. It will be all right then.’
And then at last she was home.
But it was not all right. She had not thought of anything. Every way she turned, the one fact presented itself. She would have to marry Errol Tamberly.
How, Hope wondered distractedly, had she got herself into this preposterous and melodramatic position? Errol’s offer of the five hundred pounds—on terms—now seemed outside all the accepted bounds of normal behavior.
And yet—at what point could she have acted differently?
He had been the only person to whom she could apply. If she had not accepted his offer, then Richard would most surely have gone to prison. Could she have let that happen? Could she, even now—knowing so much more about Richard—really think of him in prison while there remained any possible means of saving him?
It would have been so much simpler if she could have hated Richard. But she didn’t. In some odd way, she was almost as sorry for him as for herself. One blamed him, of course, for being weak, lacking in moral courage. But she knew quite surely that, if material circumstances had permitted, they would have married and been ideally happy—so long as his courage and principles had not been too severely tested.
But was he, after all, completely lacking in courage? He had, by all accounts, displayed a certain amount of it at the time of his bankruptcy and the failure of his business. Was it, then, possible that this disheartening experience had caused him to lose all faith in his fellowmen, with a consequent lowering of his own moral standards?
She realized suddenly that her mind was seeking some measure of relief in wandering away from the grim essentials of her own position to purely speculative thoughts about Richard. But that was not solving her problem. By Monday of next week she had to be prepared to go to Errol Tamberly with her answer. She must tell him she was going to marry Richard, or she must hand him back his five hundred pounds and call the deal off, or she must say she was ready to marry him.
Well, the first alternative was ruled out now.
The second?—Oh, that was ruled out too. How could one ask for the five hundred pounds back again? How—knowing the inevitable result—could one even stop payment of the cheque, supposing Richard had not yet presented it? And, anyway, a faintly cynical streak of common sense in H
ope told her unerringly that that cheque had been presented for payment at the earliest possible moment.
No, the five hundred pounds, like the possibility of marrying Richard, had gone beyond hope of recall.
There remained the third alternative. Better face it. Errol Tamberly had won.
That was not the end of Hope’s self-argument, of course, nor of her efforts to find a way out. She examined and re-examined the position a hundred times during that evening and night—but always with the same result. And she could not imagine that a whole week-end of thought and self-communing would provide her with any different answer by Monday.
She was not usually expected to go into the Laboratory on Saturday mornings, but on this particular day she had some work to finish. In one way she was glad of the fact, because it gave her something to occupy her thoughts. In another she was sorry, because it took her to surroundings where everything reminded her of the man she would willingly have thrust from her thoughts.
One thing—there was no risk of his coming in on a Saturday, and, in fact, Hope had the place to herself, except for the old Laboratory attendant, who pottered about washing things at one or other of the deep sinks, and occasionally treated Hope to his views on life in general.
By twelve o’clock she had finished, and was just getting ready to go when the telephone in Dr. Tamberly’s office rang. Hope went in and took off the receiver, but failed at first to recognize the slightly languid voice which enquired:
“Is that Hope Arning?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Magda Tamberly speaking.”
She would be Magda, thought Hope in momentary amusement, but she managed to infuse a certain synthetic warmth into her voice as she said:
“Oh, yes? How are you, Mrs. Tamberly?”
“Oh, as well as one ever is, you know. Errol said I might reach you at the Laboratory this morning. I’m in Town. I’ve been doing some shopping. So tiresome and exhausting because no one ever has what one really wants these days. But I wondered if you’d have lunch with me, and come back to Orterville for the week-end. The children seemed to think you would, though Errol didn’t for some reason.”
“Well, I—” Hope hesitated, genuinely undecided for the moment. If she went, it would be impossible to keep the real situation to herself. And yet—since she really knew what she was going to have to say on Monday—wasn’t it perhaps better to get it over on Saturday, instead of suffering a week-end’s hideous anticipation?
“Are you there?” Mrs. Tamberly enquired a little plaintively.
“Yes. Yes—I’m sorry—I was just wondering if I could manage it,” Hope lied, still hesitating for a second longer on the brink. Then she glanced round the office, and suddenly made up her mind. Better to have it out with him in the less formal atmosphere of Orterville. She didn’t want another conversation like the last they had had here. Somehow, she always felt at a disadvantage here, whereas at Orterville there had been a faint suggestion that the disadvantage might be the other way.
“I’ll come, Mrs. Tamberly. Thank you very much. I can manage it and I—I’d like to,” she added, departing from the strict truth. “Where shall I meet you?”
“At the Carlton Grill at a quarter to one.” Mrs. Tamberly didn’t lack briskness and decision when making arrangements that she wished to have kept, and Hope felt there was nothing to do but murmur a meek “Very well.”
As she replaced the receiver, she told herself with a slight grimace that it was to be hoped that this was Mrs. Tamberly’s party. The Carlton Grill was not exactly in her own line now that she was a working girl with nothing but her salary.
At least—was she quite that? More exactly, she was Errol Tamberly’s fiancée—though he was unaware of the fact at the moment. Still, that took her right out of the “working girl” sphere into the realms of money—lots of it. Enough to suit even Enid.
And then, at the thought of Enid, Hope turned hot and cold with embarrassment. Oh, why had she been so ridiculously informative about Richard? Why couldn’t she have waited just a day or two longer? Now she was going to have the humiliating (not to say difficult) task of explaining to Enid that she was not going to marry Richard Fander, after all. That, in fact, she was going to do the very thing Enid had so absurdly suggested—marry Errol Tamberly.
Perhaps it was only a minor irritation, compared with the major quandary in which Hope found herself, but it certainly did not tend to raise the general level of her spirits. And it was a rather serious Hope who met Mrs. Tamberly at the entrance to the Carlton Grill.
“Hello, Hope dear.” The words of Mrs. Tamberly’s greeting were affectionate and the tone indifferent. “I’m so glad you’re punctual. I’m not, by nature, but Errol has made me so. If you live long enough with a punctual man you either become punctual yourself or go mad. Shall we go in and see what they have?”
They went in and saw what “they” had, and over an excellent lunch (which Mrs. Tamberly chose with speed and discrimination) her hostess regaled Hope with an account of her morning’s shopping. Hope couldn’t help thinking that even if “no one ever had what one really wanted” Mrs. Tamberly still appeared to have spent a busy and extremely expensive morning.
“Of course there are a lot of things one must have when one’s getting married—even for the second time,” Mrs. Tamberly explained, adding as an afterthought, “You know I’m getting married again next month, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know it was next month, though the children told me that you were marrying someone in the neighborhood. May I—may I offer you my very best wishes?”
“Sweet of you,” Mrs. Tamberly said, with a smile of what Hope took to be genuine amusement. “I always think good wishes to the prospective bride sound a trifle menacing. ‘I hope it will be all right, but very much doubt it’, don’t you know?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Hope protested with a smile.
“I’m sure you didn’t, my dear.”
“As a matter of fact, I should think any marriage you entered on would be pretty sure of success, Mrs. Tamberly. Otherwise, if you don’t mind my saying so, I shouldn’t expect you to enter on it.”
“I don’t mind your saying so. Why should I?” Mrs. Tamberly said equably. “I’m glad you think I have a modicum of sense.”
“At least I think you know what you want,” Hope told her with amused candour.
“It’s the same thing. Know what you want, and get it with as little fuss as possible. It’s such a good rule, and so few women observe it. It’s really the only line to take if you’re going to live with a man like Errol—or his father.”
“Is it?” Hope was faintly startled.
“Why, of course. Both what the romancers call masterful men, you know. So nice in a book, so complicating in real life. I wonder how Errol and a housekeeper will get on together.”
“A—housekeeper?”
“Why, of course. He will have to have one when I go. Especially with two children to look after. I confess the prospect gives me a certain amount of malicious amusement. Errol has never been at the mercy of domestics before.”
“Perhaps,” Hope said carefully, “he will marry.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you?” Hope said curiously. And then, as Mrs. Tamberly showed no disposition to elaborate that, she added irresistibly, “Why not?”
“Because Errol is not in the least degree a woman’s man. He is the kind who remains a bachelor all his life, or else falls violently for some entirely unsuitable woman who makes his life a hell. Up till now I have seen no signs of a fall.”
“No,” Hope said. “N-no, certainly not. But—”
She wished Mrs. Tamberly didn’t speak with such cool positiveness. It made one feel she must be right—and yet it didn’t fit the situation as it was developing at present.
“What do you mean quite by ‘an entirely unsuitable woman’?” Hope enquired finally. “Someone not quite respectable?”
&nb
sp; “Oh, no. Not necessarily. I meant more—someone who didn’t specially want him. Errol has a tendency to be violent in everything he does, you know. It’s such a mistake for a man to marry someone he adores, if she’s rather indifferent to him.”
“I suppose—that’s better—than just going on wanting her?” Hope suggested.
“Oh, dear me, no.” Mrs. Tamberly once more seemed genuinely amused at what she evidently considered Hope’s naive outlook. “If you find you’re emotionally at the mercy of someone, the only thing is to get as far away as possible.”
“I think that’s rather shirking the big issues,” Hope said firmly.
Mrs. Tamberly looked at her with amused, speculative eyes.
“But, then, you’re very young,” was all she said.
Hope sat in silence for some moments, considering what had just been advanced as a philosophy of living. She found it singularly arid and unsatisfying.
“Then you think,” she said slowly—going back to an earlier point in the conversation, “that if Errol—if Doctor Tamberly did fall for anyone, he’d do it very thoroughly.”
“Most tiresomely so,” was his mother’s odd comment.
“Tiresomely?”
“Oh, yes. Errol’s got a one-trade mind, so far as his emotions are concerned. He had, even as a child.”
Hope had never thought of Errol Tamberly as a child, she discovered, but felt an odd curiosity about him now.
“How do you mean exactly?”
“Why, most only sons are reasonably devoted to their mothers, you know. But Errol was a most violently affectionate little boy. Really quite embarrassing at times. And of course one has got other things to do besides accept filial devotion.”
“You mean,” Hope said slowly, “that you didn’t much like being adored?”
“Not by stormy little boys,” Mrs. Tamberly said a trifle distastefully.
“I see.”
Hope wondered now why she had thought, earlier in the conversation, that perhaps she liked Mrs. Tamberly after all. Her surface agreeableness and her rather entertaining way of putting things intrigued one, of course. Besides, there had been something faintly flattering about the fact that for once she agreed to talk of something other than trivialities.
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