Nothing Venture (5 page)

“I quite see your point of view; but it is too much—
really
.”

The hurt, angry child disappeared. A rather lofty stranger said in tones of icy politeness,

“The deed is already signed. I would prefer not to discuss the matter any more.”

Nan looked up with a sparkle in her eyes. And then the sparkle died, because she saw him suddenly so tired, so done. She could guess that he had not slept for nights, and, because she loved him very much, she could guess how his anger had ridden him at this fence of marriage and now had left him bogged upon its farther side. He had had one aim—to defeat Rosamund; to score in the game of wits; to keep what she had planned to take from him—and in order to win he had mortgaged all his future. Now that the game was won, he had no pleasure in it. He did not care whether he was a beggar or not. He saw himself tied to a stranger, and all that he wanted was to be rid of her as quickly as possible.

Nan gave a little nod.

“Very well,” she said.

Then she came up to him with her hand out.

“Good-bye.”

For the second time that morning their hands touched. He said “Good-bye” with an air of relief. Then, with her hand still in his, she looked past him and saw the photograph. It hung with other groups above the mantelshelf. Nan did not see the other groups at all. She saw a lawn set about with trees; an old man in a chair—Mr Ambrose Weare, whom she had seen once; a woman standing beside him—Rosamund Carew, whom she had never seen at all; and a third figure—a man walking across the lawn, his back to the camera.

It was at the third figure that Nan stared. Her hand tightened unconsciously on Jervis Weare's hand.

“Who's that?” she said.

He turned. Their hands dropped apart.

Nan stood on tiptoe, pointing.

“Who is that?”

He threw her an astonished look. She had a bright colour in her cheeks; her lips were parted. Before he could look away she flashed round upon him.

“Who is that man?”

Jervis became, if possible, a shade more distant.

“His name is Leonard—Robert Leonard—a connection of—my grandfather's. I don't think you are very likely to have met him.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

His voice stiffened.

“A family connection.”

Nan's right hand took hold of her left.

“You are thinking it's very strange that I should ask questions about Mr Leonard, but I've got a reason. Will you please tell me where he has been for the last ten years?”

He took a little more serious notice of what she was saying. Ten years ago she would have been a child; her interest in Robert Leonard could not possibly be a personal one.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I think I saw him once ten years ago.”

“Once! Ten years ago! Good Lord! What sort of memory are you giving yourself?”

“Don't you remember anything that happened ten years ago? I do—little things—all sorts of things—like little sharp pictures in my mind. When I saw that, I remembered him. Won't you tell me what I asked?”

He laughed outright.

“Why, the photograph doesn't even show his face!”

Nan wasn't remembering a face; she was remembering just that square thickset figure, and just that turn of the head.

“Tell me,” she said.

“What do you want to know? Ten years ago—ten years ago.… well, exactly ten years ago he was over on a visit from South America staying with my grandfather. I remember that because I know he was staying in the house when I nearly drowned myself out on Croyston rocks.”

“Yes?” said Nan in a little half voice. “How—how did you do that?”

“Oh, slipped up on the rocks and banged a hole in the back of my head. The tide was coming in, and they only found me just in time.”

Nan had turned very pale.

“Mr Leonard found you?”

“Oh no—he wasn't anywhere about. It was an American fellow who was taking photographs.”

Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley rushed into Nan's mind—important, efficient, and immensely talkative. And then he was gone again, and she saw the beach, the jagged rocks which hid the pool, and the thickset figure of a man coming from behind the rocks and walking away towards the headland. He was walking away from her, and he was walking away from Jervis, who lay half in and half out of the pool with a hole in the back of his head and the tide coming up. She said breathlessly,

“I want to know about Mr Leonard. What happened to him after that?”

“He went back to South America.”

“At once?”

He stared at her.

“I don't know—I was ill.”

“And when you got well—was he there then?”

“No, he'd gone.”

“Where is he now?”

“Down at Croyston. He's got a chicken farm.”

“Is that—near your house?” It was a child's question asked in a child's troubled voice.

“Three and a half miles,” said Jervis Weare.

“Thank you,” said Nan.

She put out her hand again.

“Good-bye,” she said.

Then just by the door she turned. He had crossed to open it with mechanical politeness. Her movement brought her round facing him as he stood with his hand on the door. Her lips were parted, and that direct gaze of hers puzzled him. It was evident that she wanted to say something. But what did she want to say, and would she say it, or would that astonishing nerve of hers fail to bring her up to the scratch? If he had known that what Nan wanted to say was, “Won't you stop bothering about this wretched business and go off and play golf or something, and—and—go off to bed early and have a drink of hot milk the last thing?” would he have been moved to laughter, or to furious anger, or just possibly to something else? Nan wanted most earnestly to say these things, but her nerve failed before the bored politeness with which he was waiting for her to go.

This time she went without saying good-bye.

VII

Cynthia was married on the twentieth of August, and on the twenty-second she sailed with Frank Walsh for Australia. He was to be there for six months and then return to take up the junior partnership which his own small capital and Cynthia's two thousand pounds had made possible.

Nan looked at Cynthia as she came down the aisle on Frank's arm, and wondered at the miracle which happiness had worked. Once again Cynthia bloomed in fragile beauty. She walked as if she trod on air. Her blue eyes were as full of light as the sky on a sunny morning. It seemed odd that good, plain, commonplace Frank Walsh should have the power to charm this beauty into being. Frank would never set the Thames on fire, but he would make Cynthia a kind and faithful husband.

Nan went to the station to see them off. She was dutifully kissed by Frank, and rather perfunctorily by Cynthia. She walked back to a room strewn with all the odds and ends which had not been worth taking to Australia, with the feeling that she had come to a dead end. She was married, and Cynthia was married. She had lost her job. Cynthia didn't want her any more. Jervis Weare certainly didn't want her.

She tidied the room, and then sat down to face the future. She had been married six days, but it was the first time she had really had time to think. To get Cynthia married, to buy Cynthia's outfit, and to get her off by the same boat as Frank, had taken every bit of her thought and time and energy. It was characteristic of Cynthia that she had not even asked what Nan was going to do. For the moment her consciousness was so saturated with Frank as to be unable to take in anything else. She had gone as completely, if not as irrevocably, into another world as if she had died. Some day she would come back. Some day she would probably want Nan again. But Nan was not able to derive a great deal of comfort from this thought. She had mothered Cynthia ever since Cynthia was born and she, a baby of three, had cuddled the new baby in her small strong arms.

When she had sat on the edge of the bed for about half an hour she got up, put on her hat, and went out. It was perfectly clear to her that she must have a job—and jobs do not just drop into your lap; you have to go out and wrestle for them.

When she had been to three agencies, she felt better. None of the agencies had anything to offer her, but one of them had asked whether she would care to make a voyage to South America in charge of children. She toyed with the idea over a cup of tea. It was not without its charm. Very, very badly she felt the need of someone to look after. What she really wanted to do was to look after Jervis Weare. She wondered if he was sleeping better. She wondered if he had left town. She wondered who darned his socks. She wondered if he was very much in love with Rosamund Carew.

Rosamund's name brought up Rosamund's picture as she had seen it in the group hanging over the mantel-piece in Jervis' room. Rosamund was tall, fair, and very good looking. The photograph showed her bare-headed. She had lovely hair and an oval face. She began to wonder about Rosamund Carew—what sort of woman she was; and why, when she might have married Jervis, she had let him go. She wondered where Rosamund was now. Would she have stayed in town, or would she have gone away? It would be quite easy to find out. Mr Page would know. She couldn't ask Mr Page; there was no need to ask Mr Page. She knew Rosamund's address well enough, since she had often taken letters for her from Mr Page's dictation—29 Leaham Road.

She paid her bill at the tea-shop and walked slowly along. It would be quite easy for her to walk down Leaham Road. It was, of course, very improbable that she would learn anything by doing so. It was irrational to expect to learn anything. It was irrational to want to see Rosamund.

“But I
do
want to,” said Nan to herself. “And why shouldn't I walk down Leaham Road if I want to?”

She walked down Leaham Road. The door of No. 29 was shut, and the blinds were down. The house had every appearance of being shut up. When Nan had walked to the end of the street, she turned and walked back. This made it necessary for her to pass No. 29 a third time. She had passed it twice on the opposite side of the road, but now she crossed over and walked slowly down the near pavement.

No. 29 stood at the corner of a small side street, with its entrance on Leaham Road. Nan stood still and looked at the house. The front door was painted a bright dark blue. There were blue window-boxes full of white and yellow daisies. Behind the flowers the blinded windows faced the street. Something came to Nan from the house. She didn't quite know what it was, but she didn't like it. She obeyed an impulse that she did not understand and turned into the side street.

The house had no windows on this side. It stood up over her like a grey wall. And as this thought went through her mind, she saw a taxi coming up the street towards her. As it passed her, it slowed down. She heard it turn the corner behind her, and then she couldn't hear it at all. The taxi had stopped, and Nan felt as sure as she had ever felt of anything in all her life that it had stopped in front of No. 29.

She whisked round and ran back to the corner, keeping close in to the blank wall of the house. She was in time to see Rosamund Carew emerge from the taxi and mount the steps which led up to No. 29. Nan received an impression of height, grace, and brilliance. Rosamund Carew was a beautiful woman, and she held herself as if she was very well aware of the fact. She went up the steps, and a man got out of the car and followed her.

Nan leaned sideways against the wall of the house, and felt it shift and rock. She tried to step back, and the pavement lifted under her foot. The man was Robert Leonard. After ten years, she was just as sure of that as she was that when she had seen him last he had just struck down Jervis Weare and left him to drown—and she was just as sure of that as she was of being Nan Forsyth. She took a grip of herself and looked again. He had gone up the steps after Rosamund Carew. She could not see either of them now. The taxi stood by the kerb with its back to her. The driver was looking straight in front of him.

Nan walked out of the side street and stood behind the car, looking towards the door of No. 29. It was open. Miss Carew had disappeared, but before Nan had done more than reach the car Robert Leonard ran down the steps. Nan saw him for a moment in profile, and then the car was between them. He wore a light felt hat and a grey suit. His face was florid and tanned. He had a small fair clipped moustache and a straight line of light eyebrow. The eyelids beneath it had a crumpled look.

Nan pressed close up against the car. She did not want Robert Leonard to see her. He must be a cousin of Miss Carew's—she remembered that Rosamund was Rosamund Veronica Leonard—there was nothing odd that he should be with her. These thoughts just flickered in her mind. And then Robert Leonard's voice disturbed them.

“It's the four-fifteen all right. You'll have to hurry. Let him come out of the station and get well away. He's sure to walk—he has a craze for exercise.” A sneer just touched his voice. Nan thought involuntarily of scum on dirty water.

“And supposin' he takes a taxi—what abaht it then?” This was the driver, in a hoarse, throaty voice.

“You must do the best you can,” said Leonard impatiently. “And you'd better be getting going—you haven't too much time.”

He turned away. The driver's voice followed him.

“Look 'ere, guvnor, I'm not so keen on this job as I was.”

Leonard turned round again.

“Take it or leave it!” he said.

“Five 'undred pound's five 'undred pound,” said the hoarse, complaining voice.

“Exactly.”

“And jug's jug.”

Leonard laughed.

“A couple of months for dangerous driving! What's that?”

“Well, you've not got to do it,” said the driver. “And it might be a blank sight more than two months.”

“Well,” said Leonard carelessly, “you needn't touch it if you don't want to. I promise you the money won't go begging.”