Who Pays the Piper? (4 page)

“What do you want to talk to me about?”

A little dark colour came into his face. There was a sense of emotion kept in check. He said,

“Don't you know, Susan?” And then, “I think you do.”

Susan kept her eyes on his face. She said,

“I don't want to know.”

“Is that because you want to save my feelings? But suppose I don't want to have them saved. It won't hurt you to listen to me, will it? I won't make a scene or distress you. I only want a hearing—I only want to put my case.”

“You haven't got a case,” said Susan quickly.

“You mean you have prejudiced it. Well, even so, it can't possibly hurt you to listen to what I have got to say.”

“But it's no use——”

He smiled.

“How do you know that? I have got things that I want to say to you. I shall never rest until I have said them—I shall never stop trying to make you listen. You know, I am not asking so much—I only want you to listen. You will do that, won't you?”

Susan looked away. There was something in his eyes—something. She said,

“Very well, I'll listen—but it isn't any good.”

There was a little pause. She thought he came a step nearer, and she thought that he was smiling.

“We are both taking a good deal for granted—aren't we, Susan? You're quite right of course. How soon did you find out that I was in love with you?”

Her colour rose. She made no reply. He said,

“I wanted you to know. It happened the first time I saw you. You had on a blue dress—you had caught it on a rose bush—you asked me if I had a pin, and I gave you one to pin it up with. I fell in love with you then. Whilst you were pinning your dress I said to myself, ‘That's my wife. She doesn't know it yet, but that's my wife.'”

Susan made an abrupt movement.

“I can't listen to this sort of thing, Mr. Dale.”

“Why? It doesn't hurt you, does it? And you promised to listen. I was trying to explain. I don't want you to think I fell in love with you in just the ordinary way—I didn't. You got me the way a woman does get a man once in a while. I'm not saying much about how I feel, but if there's any way a man can love a woman more than I love you, I'd like to know about it so that I can love you that way too.”

The tears stung in Susan's eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Dale,
don't!”

“Because of Bill Carrick?”

“You know we're going to be married—you've always known.”

He shook his head.

“I don't know it now. You're going to marry me.”

Susan flamed with anger.

“How dare you say a thing like that to me? I'm engaged to Bill, and I'm going to marry him—sooner than you think perhaps.”

“What does that mean?”

“It might mean next week.”

Anger had ripped up her discretion. She wanted only to convince him and to convince herself. Because she was frightened—she was frightened. There was nothing to be frightened about. There were gardeners within call. What could he do? She couldn't guess. He was smiling. His smile frightened her. He said easily,

“Look here, Susan—have you ever thought what you are doing to Bill Carrick? If you were fond of him you wouldn't want to do it. He may be as clever as paint and as good at his job as you think he is, but how is a young fellow going to get on if he's got a wife tied round his neck just when he wants all his thoughts and energies for his work? It's a hard scramble getting up the ladder, and the married men don't make it. They're carrying two, and the last little bit of push that means success peters out over trying to make both ends meet round the family bills.”

Susan said, “Stop!” Her eyes were wide and frightened. This wasn't Lucas Dale's voice. It was a voice that talked with her when she was tired, when she was discouraged, when she couldn't sleep.

He said, “It's true.”

Susan tried for words. She couldn't get the right ones. She tried again.

“People have to make up their own minds about that sort of thing. No one else can say.”

“That's true enough,” said Lucas Dale. “And you're putting it kindly. You might have told me to mind my own business, and if you had, I should have told you that it was my business because I love you, and because I know what I'm talking about. You see, when I was Carrick's age I did just that very thing—I fell in love and I married with nothing in the cupboard and my way to make. That's why I could say what I did just now—I've been there. It was just plain hell. You don't know what it does to a man, trying to be in two places at once, live two lives, work double tides, never get anywhere, and come home at night to a girl who hasn't known what to do with herself all day. There wasn't much left of our fine romance after six months. We had to count every penny. Sometimes there weren't any pennies to count. She was very pretty, and she'd been used to more money than I could give her—she was on the stage. We'd been married just a year when she walked out on me.”

“Is she dead?” said Susan. Her soft heart was touched. She was sorry for him.

He gave a short laugh.

“No, she's not dead. You know the first thing I did when I struck a bit of luck? I got my divorce, and I was every bit as glad to get it as I had been to get the licence to marry her. That makes you stop and think a bit, doesn't it? She'd been bad luck to me all right, and when I got rid of her I got rid of my bad luck too. That's when I went out to my first job in the States, and from then on everything went right. I couldn't put a foot wrong if I tried. Well, I didn't mean to go into all that. I only wanted to show you that I knew what I was talking about. And if you marry me, I'd know how to make you a good husband. I'd make you happy, Susan.”

She looked at him without anger and shook her head. There was pity in her eyes, and something that wasn't quite a smile.

“You don't think so now,” said Lucas Dale. “But I'll make you happy, and I'll make you love me.” His voice was suddenly rough with feeling.

“I can't listen,” said Susan. “
Please
, Mr. Dale——”

He stood out of her way.

“That's all,” he said.

CHAPTER V

Coming up the garden, Susan met Montague Phipson. He had an inky forefinger, and his usually sleek fair hair was slightly ruffled. His pince-nez dangled by the cord, and without it his pale blue eyes had a vague, short-sighted look. He was hurrying, but when he saw Susan he stopped.

“Oh, Miss Lenox, have you seen Mr. Dale anywhere?”

“He is in the rose garden—I've just left him there.”

He looked worried.

“Then perhaps I—or is he just coming, do you think?”

Susan hoped not.

She said, “I'm late—I must fly,” and hurried on. She was angry, resentful, and frightened, but in some odd way Dale had touched her. There had been tears in her eyes. She wanted to get away, to be alone, to think about Gilbert Garnish and fees—lots and lots of comfortable fat fees for Bill, so that they could have their house and make the two ends of their income not only meet but overlap. It was an insult for this other man to call her his wife. What was it Miranda said to Ferdinand in The Tempest? “I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid.” She was Bill's wife and she would marry him. There wasn't anyone else—there would never be anyone else.

Half way across the terrace she came face to face with a spruce little man she had never seen before. He had rather upstanding black hair and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. His eyes snapped brightly here, there and everywhere. He reminded her of a squirrel looking for nuts. He took off his hat and addressed her politely.

“Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Dale?” Voice and accent were American.

To her annoyance Susan's colour rose. It was the flush of anger, but he wasn't to know that. He thought she was a mighty pretty girl, and he thought Dale was in luck.

“Oh, no—I'm Miss Lenox. If you are looking for Mr. Dale you will find him in the rose garden just down there.”

She pointed, but he stood there and showed a disposition to talk.

“I'm a very old friend of Mr. Dale's. And will he be pleased to see me!”

Judging this to be a rhetorical question, Susan made no attempt to answer it. The little man threw back his head and laughed.

“And that depends on how much store Mr. Dale sets by his old friends, doesn't it? That was what you were going to say if I'd given you time. Did you ever hear him speak of Capper G. Bell? That's my father. Or Vincent C. Bell? That's me—and very pleased to meet you, Miss Lenox.”

“Thank you,” said Susan. “I have only known Mr. Dale a very short time. If you go down that path at the end of the terrace you will find him.”

She got away this time with a slight inclination of the head and the faintest of smiles. The audience was closed. Vincent Bell considered that he had been given the air. He felt a trifle aggrieved. He was anxious to see Lucas Dale, but business which had kept for a couple of years would have kept for another ten minutes or so. He had an eye for a pretty girl. He looked after her with some regret before taking the path to the rose garden.

He encountered Mr. Montague Phipson coming back.

“Oh, Mr. Bell, I'm sorry you didn't wait in the drawing-room. Mr. Dale is just coming in.”

Vincent Bell appeared to be amused.

“He's coming in, and I'm going out. What happens next? I'd say we'd meet—wouldn't you? We're very old friends, your Mr. Dale and me, and if you've been with him long you'll know just how much ice that cuts.”

He laughed and went on down the path, leaving Mr. Phipson rather at a loss. Perhaps he ought to have stopped him. Perhaps Mr. Dale would be angry. It was at all times most necessary to know just what would or would not anger Mr. Dale. There seemed to be no rule about it, but just now, when he had announced the arrival of an old friend, there had certainly been no enthusiasm—rather, a certain tension.

Mr. Phipson didn't really know what to do. Lucas Dale had said quickly, “Where is he—in the drawing-room? All right, keep him there. I'm coming.” And he had had no chance of keeping him there, because Mr. Bell had already followed him. It was quite on the cards that Mr. Dale would be furious. It was equally on the cards that he would be indifferent or amused. It was very worrying indeed not to know where you were. It might be as well to find out.

Mr. Phipson turned and went back along the path towards the rose garden, but before coming to it he struck across the grass and, arriving at the outer side of the fine yew hedge which kept the wind from the roses, proceeded to skirt it, head a little on one side and ears cocked, rather after the manner of the nervous terrier who smells a rat but is almost certain to turn tail and bolt if the rat comes out of his hole.

He had not gone more than a dozen yards, when Lucas Dale's voice made him start. It was raised above its normal tone, and there was no doubt that it was raised in anger.

“And what do you think you'll get by coming over here and pitching that sort of tale? You've come to the wrong shop, and the sooner you make up your mind to that the better! Not a penny—not a cent—not the smell of half a dime! Do you get that? You'd better!”

Mr. Phipson found himself very much interested. The hedge made a perfect screen, but it afforded no obstacle to sound. He could hear every word. He heard Vincent Bell laugh, and he heard him say in a tone of what he supposed to be mock admiration,

“If that isn't interesting!”

“I hope it interests you,” said Lucas Dale.

“Very much—very much indeed. I like to see a man change his mind and change his tune, and I'm looking forward to seeing you change yours.”

“You won't.”

“Will you bet on it? I shouldn't if I were you, Dale, because you'd lose. You see, I've got you in a cinch. And how? You can't go into court, and I can.” He laughed with apparent enjoyment. “Why, I'd be tickled to death! Too bad, isn't it? But that's the way I'm playing. Very nice place you've got here too. It would be a pity to have anything happen so that you'd have to move on—wouldn't it? You think it over, and when you've made up your mind you'll play my way you can let me know.”

There was a pause. Then Mr. Phipson heard his employer say in a slow, harsh voice,

“Where are you staying?”

Vincent Bell sounded more amused than ever. He said,

“I'm stopping here.”

CHAPTER VI

Cathleen O'Hara looked up from the letter she was writing. She had caught the sound of a footstep on the flagged path outside. Her writing-table faced the windows of a deep recess which gave her what amounted to a room of her own to work in, though it was open to the study. Lucas Dale's table, large, masculine, and in perfect order, stood on the far side of the large room. When he sat there he had only to lift his eyes to see across the terrace, and across the valley to the line of distant hills.

Cathy's windows were at the side of the house. The flagged walk ran below them. She looked over it to a small sunk garden which would be bright with spring bulbs later on. She wondered if it was Lucas Dale who was coming along the path, or his American friend who had dropped from the blue yesterday afternoon. She liked him very much. Or did she? She wasn't really sure. She liked the way he spoke. It was different—amusing. She liked his being so new, so different, but she wasn't sure whether she really liked him. When you have lived in a place all your life, you know everyone so very well. You know just what they will think, and what they will say, and what they will do, and that may be dull, but it gives you a very safe feeling. When you don't really know people you don't feel quite so safe. Cathy liked to feel safe.

But it was neither Lucas Dale nor Vincent Bell who was coming along the path. It was a woman. She came up to the casement window and leaned on the sill, looking in. Cathy had never seen her before. As she met the bold, challenging stare she began to wish that she hadn't opened that window. The sun on the glass had tempted her.