With All My Worldly Goods (15 page)

“Yes, of course. Anyone would like it.”

“And you don’t mind its being so far from anywhere?” It was that which brought her to her senses a little. It
was
“far from anywhere”—desperately remote. Martin and his friend the doctor would think her really mad if she agreed to live there.

“Well—well, that is the chief objection, of course,” she said, a little uncertainly.

“I know.” He looked as though it was only with difficulty that he was keeping his disappointment at bay. “But we don’t have to decide yet. There’s no desperate hurry.”

“No, no—of course not.” There was some slight sense of reprieve about that. She didn’t know what else to say, and presently he put his arm round her with a smile.

“We’ll leave it for the moment, shall we?”

Leonora nodded. Then she managed to look up and smile too, because otherwise it seemed so queer and curt, as though her interest in the house had entirely gone.

“We’ll stop and have dinner on the way back. There’s a very nice place about half-way.”

“Yes. I should like that,” Leonora agreed.

Then she caught herself thinking: “
One
safe meal,” and wanted to laugh hysterically.

They lingered for quite a long time over dinner, so that it was really very late when they started for home.

“I hope Agatha won’t be anxious,” Leonora said.

“Oh, no.” Bruce was quite casual about it. “She knows we had a long way to go and she isn’t fanciful.”

Leonora realized from his tone that he was smiling and she glanced at him.

“What is it, Bruce?”

“Nothing—I was just thinking of an adorable ward who once waited up for hours because she thought her guardian must have been killed.”

“Oh—” She flushed and laughed. “You did think me a little fool that night, didn’t you?”

“Did I? I don’t remember that. I was too busy thanking God you were mine.”

“Oh, my dear—” Leonora laughed, but rather unsteadily. “Now it’s you who are absurd.”

“Why?”

“Well, there’s nothing much in waiting up because you’re anxious about someone you love.”

“Isn’t there? Well, it was the first time it had happened to me, you see. Perhaps it had all the charm of novelty.” His tone was quite light as he said that, but something in his expression moved her beyond words. So that she was silent and thoughtful for the rest of the way home.

Evidently his judgment of Agatha had been quite correct, because she had not even waited up for them. The servants too were in bed, and the house was quiet.

Bruce paused for a moment in the hall to glance at one or two letters.

“I am going straight on up. I’m really tired now,” Leonora said.

“Umm?” He was busy reading. “All right, darling.”

She kissed him and received a rather absent kiss in return. But he was often like that when he was very intent on anything.

Leonora went slowly upstairs.

It was so good—it was so good to have the weight of anxiety lifted. She glanced round her bedroom and almost smiled at she remembered the fantastic fears she had called up here.

Well, it only showed how far you could go if you let your fancy have rein.

And as she got into bed she thought:

“I’ll have to manage to see Martin, instead of phoning. Then perhaps I can convince him how idiotic the whole thing is.”

She stretched out her hand to the light switch, and just then there was a tap on her door.

“Hallo. Yes? Come in.”

Bruce came into the room carrying a glass.

“I’ve brought you a hot drink, Lora. That last half of the drive was rottenly cold,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You’ve—
what?”

Leonora sat up slowly, hoping that the thumping of her heart was not actually audible.

He looked surprised.

“Why, what is the matter, Lora? Has something scared you?”

“No—no. It’s all right.” She must try to appear natural, somehow. But how
did
one appear natural when one’s husband offered one poison.

He was standing beside her now, looking exactly as he had those other times—boyishly eager and a little bit pleased with himself that he had thought of the idea.

“I don’t want it,” she got out at last, and then added: “Thank you,” mechanically.

Bruce looked disappointed, but not specially concerned. In fact, he said firmly: “Oh yes, you do. You don’t know what’s good for you. Drink it up, there’s a good child.”

“No!” Leonora spoke so violently that she was surprised herself. “The doctor said—”

“The doctor? What doctor? What do you mean, Lora? Have you been seeing a doctor?” She saw he had gone a little white as the questions were shot at her.

“Yes. You see—”

“Why?” He seemed extremely upset, and scarcely gave her a chance to reply to his first inquiries before he added others. “You said nothing to me about it. What had you to tell a doctor that you couldn’t tell me?”

“Bruce,
please
—wait a minute while I have time to think.” He was all contrition then. The drink was apparently forgotten and, sitting down on the side of the bed, he drew her close against him.

It was strange that, even then, she was conscious of no physical fear of him.

“It’s not that I’m specially brave,” she thought dazedly. “I’m not. It’s just the impossibility of believing—”

“Tell me, darling,” Bruce said quietly, and she felt him kiss the top of her head. “I must know. You make me dreadfully anxious.”

She supposed that might be taken two ways, but she said:

“It was only that once or twice—since just before we were married—I’ve felt very queer and unwell. Not—not ill, exactly.” He was watching her intently, she knew, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “And today—”

“Yes? What happened today?”

If only he wouldn’t sound quite so strained and queer. “I met Martin quite by chance this afternoon and he insisted on my going to see a doctor—a friend of his.”

“
Martin
!” A deep tide of angry color swept into Bruce’s face. “You told Martin and yet you wouldn’t tell me?”

“Oh, Bruce, it wasn’t like that. Don’t be silly!” That he should take it upon himself to be jealous—or appear jealous—at this point seemed to add the last fantastic touch. “I just came over faint while I was with him, and he asked all sorts of questions—”

“Damned impudence,” Bruce muttered, but she took no notice of the interruption.

“And then he begged me to come with him to see his friend, Dr. Brindbent.”

“And what did the doctor say? Tell me
exactly
what he said, Lora. It—it may be most important.”

It was horribly difficult to know what to say on the spur of the moment, but she did the best she could.

“He said I had some kind of—of digestive trouble.”

“Serious?”

“No—not very,” Lora said rather helplessly.

“Yes? And then?” He never took his eyes off her.

“Oh, he just said I must be a bit careful about what I ate, and—and especially that I mustn’t have anything late at night.”

“Not even to drink?”

“Not, not even to drink.” Leonora wondered if he could hear the hint of grimness in her tone, but if so he made no sign that he had. He was intent on something else. “I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me before, Lora.”

“Well, it just didn’t seem important until Martin made such a fuss.” That was true enough anyway.

“But I mean today, after you had seen the doctor. You’ve been with me half the afternoon and evening, and you haven’t said a word.”

She didn’t know what to say, and presently she just looked up at him.

“Are you very angry with me?”

“Angry? No, of course I’m not
angry,
child. I’m worried and—”

How well he did it, she thought, missing the end of his sentence.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I would have told you, only we got so interested about the cottage, you know. There didn’t seem to be a chance. And I more than half forgot about it myself.”

“Yes, I see.” He seemed almost mollified.

“And anyway, Dr. Brindbent is coming here tomorrow and you can see him to speak to then.”

“What did you say?” There was no mistaking the return of anxiety. “The doctor is coming
here,
to see
me
?”

“Well yes, Bruce. He thought it best.”

“Yes—naturally. Only, somehow, that makes it all sound so serious.”

He couldn’t know, of course, how agitated he sounded. She wanted to tell him that he must do better than this when Dr. Brindbent did come, but she just kept back the words.

“Anyway—” She looked at him a little nervously. “That’s—that’s why I won’t have the hot drink.”

“Yes. I see,” he said again.

“You’d better have it yourself.” On a sudden absurd impulse she thought even now there might be a chance for him to prove himself innocent.

But he shook his head impatiently.

“No, thank you. I don’t want it.”

He did that very well, she thought And the next moment, with an amusement that bordered on the hysterical again, she told herself it was like the last act of a melodrama. “Everyone offering everyone else poison, and no one quite knowing who is going to get it.”

“Well, you had better get to sleep, Lora dear.” He had roused himself now and looked more himself.

“Yes,” she said meekly.

He bent over her and put the bedclothes round her with extreme tenderness.

“You’ll be all right now? You
feel
quite all right now. don’t you?” His dark eyes looked into hers with a concern that was absolutely convincing.

“Yes, thank you.”

He kissed her then, and she found she could return his kiss without any effort.

And then he went away, obviously worried to death.

The next morning, his air of slightly grim solicitude towards her was reminiscent of the early days of his guardianship. But—most unlike those days—he caught her against him once as she was passing and said:

“You all right, my sweet?”

It was so marvellously done that for a moment she could only cling to him with the sheer pleasure of being held like that.

“Yes, yes. I’m all right,” she assured him. And at that he gave her one of those long, suffocating kisses that had made his tumultuous courtship so irresistible.

Dr. Brindbent came just before lunch, and it was obvious to Leonora from the first that Bruce didn’t like him. He was curt almost to the point of rudeness, and it was he—not the doctor—who did most of the questioning.

But Dr. Brindbent was evidently a master of the art of evasion when he liked.

Yes, Mrs. Mickleham was undoubtedly in need of medical attention. No, nothing to which one could put a name except the vague one of “digestive trouble”. No, not dangerous—at present, but she needed watching.

“And she must be very careful about her diet, I suppose?” Bruce asked sharply.

“Yes. I have explained that to her.” Dr. Brindbent smiled imperturbably at Leonora, who found herself incapable of returning the smile.

“For instance, what does she specially need?”

“There is nothing special,” the doctor said coolly. “Her diet must be kept to the strictly normal. No little out-of-the-way dishes prepared specially for her as though she were an invalid, or anything like that. Just whatever everyone else is having.”

“I don’t call that being careful about one’s diet,” Bruce exclaimed impatiently. “There’s nothing sensational about having what everyone else is having.”

“Well, of course, we hope there will be nothing sensational about Mrs. Mickleham’s case
in any way
,” Dr. Brindbent said dryly as he rose to go.

Bruce gave him a quick, half-suspicious look as he said good-bye, and Leonora almost thought he was going to refuse to shake hands. But he didn’t permit himself that childish discourtesy.

When the doctor had gone he said flatly:

“I don’t like that fellow, and I don’t think he knows his job.”

“Oh, Bruce, he’s really very clever,” Leonora protested. “Who says so?”

“Well—Martin. He knows him very well.”

“
Martin
!” Bruce looked his contempt.

“Really, Bruce, there’s no need to speak like that. You scarcely know anything about Martin, if it comes to that.” She knew it was silly to be nettled about so small a matter when so much was at stake, but she could not help it.

“No. You’re quite right. I
don’t
know anything about Martin,” Bruce said unexpectedly. “And I think perhaps it’s time I did. Why don’t you ask him along to dinner one night? I’ve no objection to your going on seeing him, but I think I’d better look him over, too.”

Leonora was taken aback by this, but, of course, there was no real objection to make. And at one time she had certainly intended the two men to meet.

“Very well,” she said, a little reluctantly. She didn’t
want
Martin to meet Bruce now—to watch him critically, draw acute and disturbing conclusions. Impulsively, she took Bruce’s arm.

“You’ll be nice to him, won’t you?”

“Eh?” Bruce looked down at her, grimly amused. “Be nice to him? Is he so sensitive then?”

“No, of course not.” She laughed a little crossly. “Only—only, I want him to like you.”

“And me to like him?”

“That’s not so important.”

“Isn’t it?” He smiled. “I suppose that’s a nice way of saying you can be sure of his good behaviour but not of mine.”

“Oh, Bruce, don’t be tiresome!” She pressed her cheek against his arm—and then suddenly remembered how incongruous that was. It was terrible how she couldn’t remember to fear and dislike him. She was always doing quite naturally the things which she should be forcing herself to do in order to avoid suspicion.

“Either I must be utterly spineless or else I’m a bit queer,” she thought with some self-contempt.

But Bruce didn’t seem to think her either. He put his hand on her cheek, so that he could press her head against his arm again.

“I’ll behave like a cross between an angel and a cabinet minister. Will that do?”

“Marvellously. Except that it won’t be a bit like you,” Leonora said with a laugh, and returned the rather curt kiss that he gave her.

Later on, she remembered that she had promised to telephone Martin some time during the afternoon, but, feeling a little deceitful, she decided to wait until Bruce had gone out.

When she did finally ring him up there was evidently someone in the office with him, and as it was impossible to say much, he begged her to meet him for tea.

Leonora hesitated, feeling again that unfamiliar sensation of deceit. But, after all, she had to arrange about Martin coming to dinner, and there were one or two things she wanted to explain to him before he came.

In the end, she agreed to come and, telling Agatha she would be back before dinner, she left the house hastily, before Bruce should return.

When she met Martin, Leonora’s first thought was: “He looks far more worried than I do.”

It was quite true. There were tired little lines round his eyes that spoke of a bad night, and the general air of strain was unmistakable.

“Oh, Martin—” She took his hand sympathetically.

“You really mustn’t worry so much about me. I don’t believe you slept at all last night.”

“About an hour,” he admitted with a rueful grin.

“Why, that’s much worse than I did,” she declared almost gaily. “
I
had a good night.”

“You are a brave little sport,” he said earnestly, and then cleared his throat rather sharply and proceeded to order their tea.

When the waitress had gone, he leaned forward very seriously, his hands loosely clasped in front of him on the table.

“I did a bit of thinking while I was lying awake, Lora,” he told her. “And I’m not sure that I haven’t hit on a way of avoiding the—the danger.”

“Have you, Martin?” She looked eager. “What is it?”

“Quite simple, really. Alter your will. Leave everything to hospitals, charity, dogs’ home—whatever you like. But leave it somewhere impersonal.”

There was a silence. And then she said coldly:

“You realize what you are implying, don’t you?”

Martin flushed.

“Lora, what’s the good of fencing? It’s so obvious.”

“What is?”

“Well, that your husband is—that—”