There Were Three Princes

by Joyce Dingwell

  As for herself, the relief of spilling out everything had lightened her so considerably that with the first buttering of dawn she felt almost like the new day.

  Taking Chris's hand in hers, she smiled up at him, and they descended from the Outcrop to start the long trek home.

  "Possibly we'll be met halfway," Chris said. "Someone will see the horses, guess what took place, and come out for us."

  They had gone only a short distance when this happened. Turning a bend with a concealing mulga blotting out the track beyond it, they came almost on the car.

  "Hi," called out Big Gunnar from behind the wheel, "all well and accounted for?"

  "All well, all accounted for," called back Verity cheerfully, Chris's hand still in hers, her eyes still smiling because of that smile now in his. Then she froze.

  Sitting beside her employer was someone she had not expected, or wanted, out here.

  It was Bart.

  CHAPTER XI

  BART made no attempt to claim Verity, but on the other hand he prevented any move on her part to claim him by inserting blandly : "Very well, very accounted for, from the look of the victims, so your worries were unnecessary, Gunnar. Being acquainted with the lady ... yes, I am ... and knowing her resourcefulness" ... the slightest of pauses ... "I should have reassured you previously. Careless of me, my friend. I must have been concentrating on the male side of the episode. Your neighbour, Chris Boliver, I should say?"

  "Yes, you can say that." Chris had stepped forward and extended a firm hand.

  Verity was glad that when she had told the American her story, she had used no names. Chris had an open way with him and certainly would have registered immediate pre-knowledge of Bart. As it was, all that his likeable face expressed was a continuance of that acceptance and serenity that he had thanked Verity for up on the Outcrop.

  That Bart could interpret the look as something intrinsic between the man and herself did not occur to Verity. She simply was relieved that Chris did not know, that Gunnar did not know, that Bart had the control to wait for a private moment.

  Gunnar was saying, "Well, it's a small world" of Bart's casual acknowledgment of Verity. "But," he went on, "I should have known, she's so keen on furniture, and it seems you antique people are a race apart." There was a general laugh at that "antique people" which considerably lightened the strain for Verity. She was glad when Gunnar continued, "As Grete remarked last night : 'Fancy coming out all this way for Uncle Bent's old stuff.' Yes, a race apart, as I said." Gunnar spread his hands. "Not that we would have it any other way, thank you, Bart," he hastened to add.

  He turned now to his American neighbour. "Was it as we guessed, Chris? Something startled Nomad, Sally took up the scare, and the two of them left you stranded?"

  "Exactly," nodded Chris Boliver. "Still, it could have been worse, we could have had to walk right back." They were now getting into the car.

  "And we could have frozen had Chris not had a jacket," came in Verity unthinkingly.

  Chris finished, "And that jacket not been large enough to lend Verity one of the sleeves. I tell you my outsize tent saved our lives, or at least our comfort, last night."

  "Closer settlement, no doubt," Bart said quite pleasantly, no undertone at all.

  "Very close," laughed Chris. "Ever shared a jacket?" "No. I must do it some time." Bart still kept up the mild amiability, he still did not look at Verity.

  Gunnar backed the car, and they set off for the farm.

  Chris was persuaded to continue on to the homestead for lunch. "And to tell Grete all about your adventure," added Gunnar with a laugh. "You know our Grete and her enthusiasms."

  Verity, who had left some of her things at Chris's bungalow and would have been better pleased for them to remain there until later than have attracted more attention, heard Chris say, "But we must call first at the villa, Verity has belongings to pick up from yesterday."

  She need not have concerned herself, Bart remained as supremely untouched, even uninterested. He did show interest in the cotton as they passed it, though, and the conversation . . . thankfully for Verity . . . changed focus.

  The boys took over at the meal, proudly showing "Uncle Bart" how well they could speak now. Not just howareyoumate as learned from the hands as before, pointed out Ulf, but Big Words. He demonstrated, losing much of the effect by putting his Big Words in the wrong place. However, like his mother, Ulf was a cheerful person and did not mind the resultant laughter.

  Much as she would have liked to have slipped away, Verity was included in Grete's furniture showing to Bart during the afternoon. Chris had gone, but not before he had arranged with Bart to view the cotton the following morning.

  "Yes, I would like to see it," Bart had accepted at once, "I would like to find out the prospects of it. That's very important, I think." For the first time a look was flicked at Verity.

  "The prospects are excellent," Chris assured him enthusiastically.

  "Then excellent," said Bart. Although he did not look at her a second time, Verity still had a sense of being in his deliberate line of vision. it was not a comfortable feeling.

  In the lumber room afterwards he accepted every piece that Grete offered. His price must have been very satisfactory, for Grete protested once : "You are too generous."

  "My dear Grete, the last thing in the world I am is a benefactor, but I would never rest another moment if I was not fair." — Once again Verity had the impression of his estimating eyes on her, and yet his back was turned.

  Grete went out to bring in a small piece she had forgotten, and Verity stiffened herself for the words she knew he would now say to her. A few minutes went by in silence, they seemed an eternity, then he remarked : "Quite an interesting line to that chiffonier, don't you think?"

  "Bart —" If he wouldn't begin it, she must; she could not go on any longer like this.

  "Also, the divan head is rather unique." Then, without drawing a breath "Not until I see the cotton, please, see how you'll be placed."

  "Placed?"

  "That's what I said. You must have heard me tell Grete that I would never rest if I wasn't fair."

  "What do you mean, Bart?"

  "Oh, come ! " he said impatiently, his head inclined to the corridor along which Grete should return at any moment. "I am well-placed . . . extremely well-placed. Do you think I would let my" . . . a deliberate pause . . . "wife suffer with less than she could have snared?"

  She realized what he was thinking. He had gathered the impression that she and Chris, that they —

  "You're making a mistake, Bart," she said it urgently. "I made it," he corrected coolly.

  "Bart —"

  "I made it . . . but I am prepared to pay for it. Hence the cotton inspection to assess the position. No" . . . as she went to speak again . . . "there's nothing to be said that wasn't said in your two faces as you came along the track. But not to worry, I'll see you don't lose."

  Indignation rose in Verity. "I would think you were being very magnaminous assuring that," she flung, "if I didn't know how important it all is to you." How important to get your release, she was thinking, a release without tears if possible, as it should be possible with your added money, if it's needed, to help it along. A release to go to Adele.

  "Yes, it is important to me." He turned and looked at her fully for the first time. "It's the most important thing in my life."

  "Then why —" Why, she had been going to ask, didn't you wait for Robbie to die, for Adele to be free, why did you put us through all this?

  "Grete is coming," he said, and his voice was cold.

  The next day he spent over with Chris, then when he returned in the late afternoon she saw that his bag was in the hall and that Gunnar had the car out to take him to the airfield.

  "Priscilla will be arriving," he said as he stood waiting for Grete and the boys to come and say goodbye.

  "Priscilla." Verity said the name blankly, her attention elsewhere.

  "She always does the
after stuff." It was not a reminder of what she should know but a statement as to a stranger. "Yes, of course," she murmured.

  A short silence.

  "I think you need have no fears," he said. "You know what I mean."

  "I don't, Bart."

  She might just as well not have spoken. "If you do have," he went on, "you know the address. However, I found that cotton very safe."

  "Bart —" she began.

  "Though if you believe you're not doing as well as you might have —"

  "Bart. Bart, please."

  He did not turn to her, but he did ask tersely, "Yes?" "I'm sorry. It was abominable of me."

  Now he must speak at last, she thought. He would agree, and she would tell him why she had left with only a few written words, tell him half of the fault had been his, that his voice when it had answered ... so soon ... from Adele's apartment that evening had been the real reason she had gone away. Tell him of moments when she had stood beside him in the church. Tell him...

  But what was she thinking of? This man was only interested in assuring himself that he was strictly fair and just. And only concerned for Adele.

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled again.

  "Not to worry." He had advised that before. He said again as he had said yesterday : "Grete is coming."

  Within minutes he had left.

  The week that followed prior to Priscilla's arrival to do the after-sale things was a very long one for Verity.

  Chris, in his new acceptance, did not notice any difference in the girl, but sharp Grete did.

  "You are not happy, Verity. It did not work out as I hoped. And yet in the beginning you two seemed to get on so well."

  "What two ?" For a moment Verity forgot what Grete had planned, what Chris himself almost believed he had wanted.

  "You and Chris," said Grete, sharper than ever. "Who else?"

  "Oh, Grete dear, it was never like that at all, and it never could have been."

  "Yet Chris seems more contented," went on Grete, puzzled.

  "He is, because he was one of the few who did not need your help, any of our help," said Verity gently. "For a while he believed what you urged, Grete, but, it was only a phase. He is still married to that girl who died, you know."

  Grete thought that over for a few minutes, then gave a little defeated smile. "Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps Chris is right."

  "We are. We are sure of it."

  Now Grete nodded soberly. "Yes, and I must believe it, seeing his serene face. But you, Verity, you look —" But at a look now in Verity's eyes, Grete simply touched her hand, then changed the subject.

  Several days afterwards Priscilla flew in.

  It seemed a lifetime since Verity had watched Priscilla go through her "after-ing" processes, the cataloguing, the recording, the describing for identification, all the necessary details that the girl did so efficiently, a lifetime away, and yet it was only a few weeks. So much had happened in those weeks. Robbie had died. She had been married. She had run away from the marriage and come here. She had met Chris, and her husband ... for a moment Verity stopped, surprised at herself, it was the first time she had said that ... and Bart had thought that she and Chris . . .

  "There, I think that's all for that section." Priscilla turned a page of her book.

  There was something different about the girl, Verity thought, coming out of her introspection. Priscilla, as Grete had remarked of Chris, looked more at peace with herself. In fact, she looked almost —

  "I suppose," Priscilla smiled, "Bart supplied you with all the Prince news."

  It was Verity's turn to smile back, but it was a thin little smile, for she was thinking how meagrely Bart had spoken about anything. She heard herself murmuring, "Not expansively. You know men."

  "I don't," admitted Priscilla, but she did not look wistful about it as she used to look.

  "As you would know, Matthew and Cassandra are married," she told Verity, "they have a flat above Matthew's surgery. They're both rapturous — that's the only way I could put it." Priscilla looked very pleased herself, and Verity recalled her

  saying once that Cassandra's beauty was something she felt she could never handle.

  "So," Priscilla finished, "the first of the Princes is accounted for."

  Now Verity darted a quick look at the secretary. So Priscilla still did not know. Well . . . bitterly . . . that made for belief, Bart had not had time to let anyone know before, then after, with Robbie not standing between anyone any more, it had been the last thing he would have wanted to be known.

  She watched Priscilla now recording the chiffonier. Was the girl's new assurance based on the welcome fact that Cassandra had been removed from the scene . . . as regarded Bart? Poor Cilla, if that was the case.. .

  "How about Peter?" she inquired automatically, concluding that it was expected of her . . . then was shaken out of her polite interest by the almost dramatic change on Priscilla's face. There was no mistaking that change . . . that very lovely change.

  "Why, Cilla! " she said, caught up by the girl's cheeks that had flushed to a warm pink.

  As she did not answer, Verity crossed to her and tilted her chin. "Cilia, I don't understand," she begged.

  "You mean," said Priscilla incredulously, "that you don't understand that I . . . that Peter . . . that we . .." She paused to take a deep breath. "That I always —"

  "No. No. I believed it was — Bart."

  "Bart?" Now it was Priscilla's turn to look surprised. "You were always so gentle with him."

  "Could anyone be anything else with Bart?"

  . . . Yes, thought Verity, I was. I was abominable with him. Even though he had been using me, how could I have done such an embarrassing, cruel thing?

  "But you loved him," she said to Priscilla. "You always

  loved Bart."

  "Yes."

  "He loved you."

  "Yes ... but oh, Verity, never in the way you're thinking. How did you ever reach that conclusion?"

  "He would look across at you. You would look back at him." "Because there's something terribly close between us. If I could tell you —"

  "You must tell me."

  "It's Bart's story." — Priscilla had said this, Verity recalled, once before.

  "You must tell me," she appealed with sudden urgency, "Prissie, you must."

  For a few moments the girl hesitated, then with a little resigned gesture she sat down.

  "If Bart hadn't done what he did, I wouldn't be here," she related soberly. "Bart saved my life. A thing like that leaves something, Verity, just as it should. I can never look at Bart now without remembering ... and thanking him for ever."

  "Has this anything to do with his injuries?"

  "Everything," Cilla replied.

  "Then why is he still so bitter? What he has sustained can be surmounted, it has already been surmounted to a large degree, and at least he has the satisfaction that he achieved what he did with you." She waited ... then when Priscilla did not speak, she asked: "You did tell me he saved you, Priscilla ?"

  "But not the child," Cilla said quietly. "The little girl died."

  There was silence in the room. Somewhere a clock chimed and the notes fell cool and clear. Then somewhere further away ... in the garden? ... small Ulf called. Ulf. Rising twelve robust years. And a child had died.

  Verity looked across to the secretary, and waited.

  "We had this business call to this old suburban home that had been donated to a charity. Already a number of girl wards had been accepted, so more suitable furniture, child-suitable, I mean, was replacing the antique stuff. Bart, of course, was interested."

  "But Bart," interrupted Verity, "wouldn't be in the business then, he only came after the accident." The accident, she thought, that had stopped his medical career.

  "It should have been Peter," nodded Priscilla, "but Peter was suddenly somewhere else . . . that's Peter . . . so Bart, as he always did, stepped in to help.

  "We were in the garden at
the time, the little girl and I. Bart had gone into the house to talk to the matron.

  "We shall never know how the hideous thing started, perhaps one of the children, even the little girl herself, had decided to burn up the dead leaves that the gardener had raked. Perhaps there was a spark from somewhere. An incinerator, or so." Priscilla sighed.

  "Anyway, all I can recall is that all at once a child was aflame. I ran to her. Then" . . . a little shiver . . . "we were both alight."

  "After that, I can't recall anything .. , but I've been told. I've been told that Bart leapt from the balcony from such a height and in such a way that he did much more than the usual damage a fall can do, yet in spite of the awful impact it must have been he still ran across and pulled me out and threw me to the ground, rolled me over to extinguish the flame . . . then he turned to the child and did the same."

  "I didn't see it," Priscilla repeated. "I'd passed out, and anyway, people had run down and carried me off. I didn't see Bart's shocking injuries as he tried to save that child. The awful thing was he did save her, as he saved me, but what he did not know was the previous state of her heart, poor mite. As Matthew has tried to tell him a thousand times since, the child would never have grown to maturity, anyway. But Bart would never accept it. To him it was a failure on his part — a failure to save a child's life."

  There was a long pause now.

  "He was months . . . a year . . . in hospital. In that time he became very embittered. He gave away all thoughts of continuing his career. I think" . . . looking at Verity . . . "that that's why you coupled us. I visited Bart all the time, I understood what he was going through, because of what had happened. When two people are involved like that, there is, there has to be, an intrinsic understanding."

  "Mrs. Prince also coupled you," said Verity absently. Her mind was on Bart and the horror he had known.

  "I suppose so. There are things between us and I expect they must show." She looked directly at Verity. "Will you mind?"

  "Mind? I mind ?"

  "Because," went on Priscilla, not heeding her, "it will always be that way . . . a look and a memory. You mustn't think that —"