“Mr. Darley,” said Bel breathlessly. “Do you think you could possibly give me a lift. Our car has broken down.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere,” said Bel. “I mean I want to get a train or a bus back to London. Any station would do.”
“What’s the matter with London?” said Mr. Darley. “That’s where I’m going when I’ve had my supper.”
“Do you mean you would take me?”
“For better for worse,” said Mr. Darley cheerfully.
When Mark heard that the matter had been arranged so simply, and without the slightest difficulty, he was very much annoyed. Mr. Poulton was annoyed too, for he had hoped to let his rooms. Of course Mr. Poulton’s feelings did not matter but Mark’s feelings mattered a good deal. Fortunately Bel had time to soothe him down while Mr. Darley was finishing his supper; she assured Mark that she would have liked to stay but it was absolutely essential that she should be at the office at nine the following morning. Mark received the impression that Mr. Brownlee was an absolute tartar and that Bel was terrified of him—it was an erroneous impression but that could not be helped.
“Oh well, if you’re determined to go I can’t stop you,” said Mark with a sigh. “I quite see you can’t risk losing your job.”
“You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mark. He sighed again and added, “If only we had gone to Brighton, as I suggested, this would never have happened. There are hundreds of garages in Brighton.”
“I know,” agreed Bel. She had no intention of reminding Mark that it was he who had become weary of the endless procession of cars on the Brighton Road and had suggested they should turn up the side road to Lesston Haines. “I know,” repeated Bel. “If we had gone to Brighton I could easily have got a train back to London, couldn’t I?”
“There would have been no need. Any garage could have found the short and given us a new battery in twenty minutes.”
“You aren’t angry with me, are you?”
“No, of course not—but I’m awfully worried. You’ll be careful, won’t you, Bel?”
“Careful?” asked Bel in surprise.
“We don’t know anything about the fellow,” Mark explained. “Poulson seems to think he’s a bounder.”
“Oh he isn’t really!” exclaimed Bel.
“You wouldn’t know if he was,” said Mark with unusual perspicacity. “You wouldn’t know until he began to bound and then it would be too late. I shan’t be happy until I know you’re all right. I’ll look in tomorrow at the usual time and see you.”
“Yes do,” said Bel. “Come to supper and then you can tell me all that has happened about the car.”
Mr. Darley’s car was very different from Peter’s aged vehicle. It was a two-seater Sunbeam, long and low, with an adjustable hood. Its lights blazed ahead cutting through the darkness like swords. Mark who had come to the door to see the travellers start was moved to admiration. It was exactly the sort of car he would have liked to possess.
“Yes, she’s not a bad little bus,” said her owner complacently. “I’ve had her ticking along at a hundred but of course there’s no chance of that tonight with all that beastly traffic. We’ll go now if you’re ready, Miss Lamington.”
Miss Lamington was ready.
*
4
Afterwards when Bel thought about it calmly she could not understand why she had been so desperately anxious to get away from the inn at Lesston Haines. She had told Mark that she wanted to be at the office at nine the following morning; this was true, of course, but there was more in it than that. She had actually been frightened. Why she had been frightened she did not know. It was really very strange.
The drive to London was uneventful. Mr. Darley did not talk much and showed no signs whatever of bounderism—if there be such a word. He was intent on driving his car. If Bel had not been so taken up with her own thoughts she might have been considerably alarmed for Mr. Darley was the type of driver whose sole object is to get from one place to another in the least possible time regardless of the other traffic on the road. A vehicle in front was a vehicle to be overtaken and passed—no matter where. Mr. Darley gritted his teeth and passed it. He squeezed between buses with scarcely an inch to spare; he overshot traffic lights whenever there was the slightest opportunity. In fact he committed every offence against the good manners recommended to road-users by the Highway Code. Mr. Darley’s progress was pursued by curses from his fellow motorists but the curses never seemed to catch him up and blight him—or at least they did not catch him up that Sunday evening. Bel was deposited scatheless at her door.
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Darley in answer to her expressions of gratitude. “I’m always glad to help a lady in distress. There aren’t many people who could have got you here in less time.”
“Nobody could,” declared Bel enthusiastically. “It’s been marvellous. Thank you very, very much.”
“Not frightened, were you?”
“Not a bit.”
“Good,” said Mr. Darley. “I drive pretty fast of course but I’m a very good driver. I’ll take you for a spin some other day. We could have a go at Mi and get the bus really moving. What’s your phone number?”
“I haven’t got a phone.”
“Oh?” he said doubtfully. “Oh, that’s a pity. Well, I’ll have to drop you a card or something. Good-bye for now.”
Bel thanked him again—but it did not occur to her to thank her Guardian Angel for an exceedingly arduous night’s work.
Chapter Seven
The next evening was wet and Mark did not come. Bel had expected him to come for he had said quite definitely that he wanted to see her and make sure she was all right. She had laid on a very special supper to please him and to make up for the way she had abandoned him at Lesston Haines, so it was disappointing when her guest did not turn up as arranged. She realised that he could not have climbed down over the roofs in their present condition, slippery with rain—it would have been dangerous—so perhaps that was the reason for his absence. Something inside her kept on hinting that if Mark had really wanted to see her he could have come by the stairs but she refused to listen to the Something.
It was fine and dry on Tuesday. Bel hurried home expecting to find Mark in her roof-garden but he was not there. He did not come on Wednesday either.
By this time Bel felt quite desperate. All sorts of horrible ideas occurred to her: perhaps he was ill; perhaps he had fallen off the roof and been taken to hospital. Something must have happened, she was sure. She decided that she could not bear the suspense a moment longer, she must go and see what was the matter with Mark.
Having made up her mind Bel did not delay. She knew where to go of course for she had been to his studio on the night of the party; it was right at the top of the house in number 23.
Bel was quite breathless when she had toiled up the five flights of stairs so she stood on the landing until she had recovered.
There was no noise today. It was very quiet indeed. She began to wonder if she should have come. She remembered Mark saying that he wished people wouldn’t batter on his door. Perhaps she should go home. She could go now; there was nothing to prevent her. Mark would never know she had come.
Bel turned away and began to go down the stairs—and then she paused. Supposing Mark were ill! Supposing he was lying there ill, with nobody to look after him! This was Bel’s own special nightmare so she could not brush it aside. No, thought Bel. No, I can’t go home. I simply must see him and make sure he’s all right.
The bell was broken, it was hanging limply from its socket, so she was obliged to knock on the door. She knocked and waited but there was no reply. She knocked again more loudly; she knocked several times, but there was no sound at all. Bel was just about to turn away when she heard footsteps from inside the flat and the door opened.
There was Mark!
“Bel!” he exclaimed. “I didn�
�t know it was you. I thought it was one of the gang and of course I didn’t want them to see it until it was finished—but you don’t matter.”
“I just came to see——”
“Come in, Bel. Come in.”
“I thought you must be ill.”
“Ill? Why on earth did you think that? I’m never ill.”
“I just thought——”
“Well, never mind,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve come. I want you to be the first person to see it. Of course you won’t like it,” he continued, seizing her by the hand and dragging her in and shutting the door with a bang. “It’s just an idea. It came to me suddenly. I don’t know whether it’s any good or not. It’s an idea,” he repeated. “You don’t understand that, do you?”
The studio looked different today, it was bare and austere, light from the north window and the sloping skylight filled the room with light and shadow. Mark pulled the big wooden settle out of the corner and motioned her to sit down, then he lifted a canvas and put it before her on an easel.
“There,” said Mark.
For a moment or two there was silence. Bel was dazzled, almost horrified, by the splashes of brilliant colour. She did not know what to say. Then gradually as she gazed the colours seemed to take shape and she realised that the medley of greens and purples and pinks which filled the foreground were bushes—bushes of rhododendrons, perhaps. In the background there were slender grey columns stretching up into a bright blue sky.
“Oh Mark! Yes. It means something!” she exclaimed.
“Of course it means something.”
“Mark—I don’t know. It’s rather—rather frightening.”
Apparently she had said the right thing or at least something not too horribly wrong.
“Frightening!” he exclaimed, laughing in an excited sort of way. “What a dear funny little mouse you are! Why does it frighten you?”
“I don’t know. It’s fierce and—and powerful. Tell me what it means.”
He was pleased, that was obvious. He began to tell her about his picture, about the composition of the masses and the planes of light.
Presently she said, “It’s no use, Mark. I don’t understand a word you’re saying. I just see what I see, but I’m quite sure it’s good.”
“You’re quite sure it’s good?”
She nodded, “Quite certain. It opens windows in my mind. It wouldn’t do that to me if it wasn’t good.”
“Bel!”
“It’s magic,” said Bel seriously.
“What do you mean?”
She thought for a few moments and then said, “You take a piece of canvas and some paint and you make something exciting. Isn’t that magic?”
“You darling!” cried Mark. He sat down beside her on the settle and put his arm round her. For a moment she resisted and then she could not resist any longer. She laid her head against his shoulder. He kissed her gently on the cheek.
“Oh Mark!”
“Darling little mouse! There’s nobody like you—nobody so sweet. Adorable little mouse!”
He kissed her again. It was a different kind of kiss this time and it alarmed her.
She disengaged herself from his embrace and stood up.
“I must go home,” she said breathlessly.
“Nonsense, you’ve just come. Why must you go home?”
“I’ve got things to do. I just came in for a minute to—to see if you were all right. You understand, don’t you? I just—just came for a minute——”
Mark was silent. She looked at him in surprise and saw that he was not listening; he was gazing at his picture with half-closed eyes. He said, “It needs something to balance that mass of purple——”
“I’ll see you tomorrow of course,” said Bel.
“Tomorrow?”
“It’s your birthday,” she reminded him.
“Oh yes, so it is,” said Mark. He rose and picked up his palette and began mixing paints.
“I must go now,” repeated Bel.
“Well, if you must, darling. It was sweet of you to come,” said Mark vaguely.
Bel watched him for a few minutes and then turned and went away, shutting the door very softly behind her.
It was not until she was half-way down the stairs that she suddenly remembered that there had been no mention of the adventure on Sunday. Mark had made no enquiries about Mr. Darley, nor had he asked if she had got home safely . . . but of course he was too busy thinking about his picture, and of course he could see, without asking, that she was perfectly safe and well.
Bel had not asked about the car, nor what sort of a night Mark had spent at Lesston Haines. She must remember to ask all about that tomorrow.
*
2
The next day was Thursday, Mark’s birthday! Bel had knitted two pairs of socks for him (his socks were in a deplorable condition). She had managed to complete the socks the night before, on her return from her visit to the studio, and had done them up in a parcel with a birthday-card and left them on the top of her bookcase. She was looking forward to giving them to him; he would be pleased with them she was sure—pleased and surprised.
They had arranged to celebrate Mark’s birthday by going out to dinner together but Bel had a feeling that he might have forgotten all about it. She realised that it depended upon whether or not the picture was finished . . . she was so doubtful about it that she was quite surprised when she found him waiting for her in the little roof-garden.
“Hullo!” she exclaimed, opening the window. “Hullo, Mark! Many happy returns of the day!”
“Bel!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for ages! I thought you would never come! Marvellous news! You’ll never guess! Somebody has bought the picture! Greenfingers, I mean. Twenty-five quid! Can you beat it?”
“Oh Mark, how splendid!”
“Gosh, I’m walking on air! Greenfingers—sold! And, as if that wasn’t enough, Uncle Henry has remembered my birthday. It never rains but it pours! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Wonderful!” agreed Bel.
“I feel like a millionaire,” declared Mark, laughing excitedly. “It’s a gorgeous feeling—absolutely gorgeous. I could jump over the moon.”
“We’re going out, aren’t we?” asked Bel. “I mean we decided to celebrate——”
“Not tonight. I’ve got an awful lot to do. I just dropped in to tell you about it, that’s all.”
“But you’d like supper, wouldn’t you? We could have it here if you’d rather.”
“No time,” declared Mark. “As a matter of fact I’m not a bit hungry—too excited. I’ve been terribly busy all day—writing letters and making plans. I’m off to Florence on Tuesday.”
“Off to Florence?”
“Yes, I told you, didn’t I? Edward Yates has a flat in Florence. Marvellous!” cried Mark. “Think of it, Bel! Think of the sunshine and the flowers and the blue, blue sky! Goodbye to dirty old London!”
“How long will you be away?”
“Oh, I don’t know—haven’t thought about it. Edward said I could stay as long as I liked. You can bet your boots I’ll stay as long as I can—which means as long as the money holds out. I could paint a few pot-boilers which would help. Of course I shall do some serious painting as well. Edward has a studio in his flat. I’ve cabled to Edward, but it’s sure to be all right. I could see from what he said that he really wanted me to go. I’m not worrying about that.”
“What about your studio?”
“All fixed,” said Mark laughing. “I told you I’d been busy, didn’t I? There’s a chap here who’s only too willing to take it off my hands. He’s moving in on Tuesday . . .”
Mark went on talking excitedly and Bel listened. He was leaving London; he was giving up his studio. She would never see him again.
She realised with a sinking heart that she meant nothing to him—absolutely nothing. He had no regrets; he did not even pretend to regret that he was leaving for an indefinite period—perhaps for e
ver. If he had said one word—if he had evinced the slightest sign of regret at the prospect of parting from her she would not have minded . . . or at least she would not have minded so much. He was not thinking of her at all. That was obvious. He was all eagerness to go, and to go as soon as possible, and to stay away as long as he could. He was going away. She would never see him again. It was all over.
By this time Bel had climbed out of the window and they were both in the little roof-garden. She turned and leant upon the wall. She did not want to show him her face. It was the sort of face that expressed its owner’s feelings much too openly. If Bel were happy, if she were sad, if she received a sudden shock it was written in her face for all the world to see. She had often wished for a “poker face” but never more than now. A wooden face, thought Bel, miserably. One of those inexpressive faces which do not blush nor pale nor suddenly become a mask of tragedy!
Fortunately she could control her voice more easily so she was able to say the right things.
“Marvellous,” agreed Bel. “No wonder you’re excited. It will be lovely for you, Mark.”
He went on talking about his plans. He would break his journey in Paris; he had a friend there who could put him up. He might spend a couple of nights in Paris—or perhaps longer. Paris would be rather fun.
Bel could scarcely bear it. She wished with all her heart that he would stop talking and go away. Would he never go away, she wondered.
At last, she said, “I expect you’ve got a lot to do, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I must go. Look here, Bel, what about tomorrow night? We could do a play or something.”
“I can’t,” she told him.
“Well then, what about Saturday night? That would be better, really. We could go to——”
“I can’t,” repeated Bel.
“You can’t?” asked Mark in amazement. “Why can’t you?”
“I’m going away for the weekend.”
“You’re going away?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Armstrongs,” replied Bel. The idea had come to her suddenly. They had said they could have her “any time.”
Bel Lamington Page 6