With All My Worldly Goods (17 page)

It was some little while before Bruce came into the room, and when Leonora finally forced herself to look at him, his grim pallor almost made her heart stop dead.

What
must Martin be thinking? What, indeed, was she thinking herself? Couldn’t he manage any better than that? She wondered despairingly.

It seemed he could not. His part in the conversation was almost non-existent. He roused himself occasionally to contribute some remark of his own, but most of the time he did no more than answer when actually addressed.

Agatha glanced at him once or twice, and Leonora could see that she was faintly surprised at his attitude. But she was not unused to her brother’s sudden moods, of course, and was quite able to discharge his part as well as hers in entertaining their guest.

Even when a message was sent down to say that Millicent had gone to bed with a headache, she was quite unperturbed. She liked Martin, and determinedly spent a pleasant evening entertaining him.

Martin, by now, was acting up splendidly, and Leonora, aware that she was seconding him very poorly, felt dimly grateful to him for dealing so well with the situation.

After all, it couldn’t be very nice for him to have to sit in the same room with Bruce, when all the while between them was the knowledge of what had just been said in the dining-room.

It was over at last. Leonora could never have said just how the evening had crawled away. But, anyway, it was over now, and Martin was saying good night.

Agatha declared most cordially that he must come again and, with apparently equal cordiality, he assured her that he would.

Bruce, Leonora noticed, did not second the invitation. But that was scarcely to be expected.

Martin shook hands with her, managing to give her an encouraging and reassuring glance as he did so. The two men bowed slightly to each other. And then Martin went—and the awful farce could stop.

Leonora could not pretend any longer. She just said baldly: “I’m going to bed now. I’m—frightfully tired—”

“Are you all right, Lora?” Agatha asked, at the same time as Bruce said sharply:

“What is the matter, child?”

“Nothing’s the matter.” Leonora spoke almost irritably, feeling that at any moment she might scream. “I’m just dead tired.”

They didn’t protest any more. They just said good night to her and let her go.

Once upstairs in her room, she wandered about distractedly. She ought to be almost used to these terrible periods of self-questioning, when she seemed to turn and twist, trying every way she could to avoid the dreadful and obvious conclusion.

But she was not used to them. Each one left her more exhausted than the last.

Each time that new and ugly facts reared their heads she had somehow managed to combat them or, at least, to disregard them. But she could not go on doing that. She was pretty near breaking point now, she knew.

“Martin must be mistaken.” She spoke the words aloud, mechanically, but they made no real impression upon her.
“It isn’t possible. It simply
is not
possible.”

But it was possible, she knew perfectly well. And again it was obvious even to herself that she was merely repeating words that had no meaning.

Wearily she tried to go over exactly what Martin had said. But, although she knew every word might be important, she found it impossible to recall them accurately.

If he said
that,
it just might have been taken another way. But
had
he said just that? And, in any case, he himself had only been reporting a conversation, putting his own interpretation upon it, whether he meant to or not.

It was hopeless. She pressed her hands against her forehead. At first she tried to make herself think, forced her tired mind to remember. Now she made a desperate effort to stop her thoughts. They were becoming so rapid and involved that she felt half crazy.

She could not possibly go on like this. No human being could. But where was it to stop? She sobbed a little under her breath as she slowly undressed and, when she finally crawled into bed, she felt almost as though she had been physically beaten.

She had not been very long in bed when he came to her room. It was not entirely unexpected, but she wanted to say: No, no, that he could not come in. But there was no reason to give, and so she had to sit up once more, put on the light, and face a pale troubled Bruce, who stood there, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing-gown, his dark eyes shadowed with anxiety.

“What is it, Bruce?”

She didn’t know quite what she expected, but it was certainly not what actually happened.

He came over swiftly and, kneeling beside her, he put his arms very gently round her waist.

“Lora”—she had never seen him look quite so serious—“Lora, I’m going to ask you something quite absurd, but will you answer me truthfully?”

“Of course.”

“Then—do you really love me?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she gave him the only true answer there was, in spite of everything.

“Yes. I love you from the bottom of my soul.”

“Oh, my darling—” He hid his face against her, but only for a second. For he looked up almost immediately to ask the much more difficult question:

“And do you trust me—absolutely?”

There was only one true answer to that, too of course. That she did not. But, with those wild dark eyes looking at her so imploringly, she could not voice the words.

The extraordinary thing was that there was appeal in the way he looked at her—as though he were drowning, and asking her to throw a rope to him.

She was quite calm at once, as she always was when she recognized a definite appeal from him.

Pushing back the dark hair that fell forward over his eyes, she gently put her hand against his forehead.

“Yes. I trust you—absolutely,” she said steadily.

Was it possible—just remotely possible—that her unquestioning trust might save him from himself? Such things had happened before and—yes, she was willing to risk anything for that. She saw him close his eyes for a moment, but whether with relief or just with the sweetness of her touch she could not tell.

Then he opened them again and looked at her much more tranquilly.

“I want you to trust be absolutely then in this, my love. Will you come away with me, as soon as possible—tomorrow if it can be managed? And I don’t want
anyone
to know where we have gone.”

CHAPTER NINE

There was
a terrible stillness in the room.

Leonora had no idea how long it lasted. She was only conscious of his imploring eyes on her, and she thought: “Is he trying to hypnotize me?”

But she knew it was not really that Then what was it?

Was he just seeking desperately to escape from the danger which Martin’s words must have shown him? Was he trying to—finish his dreadful intention where no suspicious Martin could observe him? Or was it just possible that, in a sense, her love had saved him and he wanted—madly, passionately—to get away and start again. To have the second chance which her love seemed to offer him.

One thing was certain. If she refused him now—that was the end. Nothing else could save him. He might escape from justice but never from the blackness of his own deed.

Whereas, if she went with him, risked her very life on the chance that he was sincere—

She drew a little sigh, and at that he spoke, again with that terrible earnestness.

“It is because of my love that I ask you, Lora.”

She smiled then and gently put her hands round his face.

“And it is because of my love—remember that, Bruce—that I will do what you ask.”

He hid his face against her again then, and kissed her with such relief that she thought she must weep in front of him. But she managed to keep calm.

Then at last he looked up.

“Thank you, darling. Thank you for your touching faith. Now go to sleep. I’ll see to everything.”

She stroked his hair anxiously, unable to bear the expression of weariness and strain which had come over his face now. And when he bent to kiss her good night, she suddenly locked her arms around his neck.

“No. Don’t leave me. Stay here with me to-night.”

“But—you’re terribly tired, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you rather be alone?”

“No,” Leonora said. “No, I’m not very tired, after all. And, anyway, I love you so much to-night that I can’t bear to let you go.”

She never forgot the way he kissed her for that. And she thought that if she were really risking her life in what she was doing, it was rather a wonderful way to die.

When she woke the next morning he was still asleep, and she lay there against him, watching his sleeping face and trying to read there an answer to all her doubts.

It was not a specially inscrutable face—certainly not the face of a calculating criminal. And she wondered a little if it had always looked so tranquil and—artless, she supposed was the word—when he was asleep. Or was what had happened last night responsible for his expression?

He stirred then and opened his eyes. For a moment that expression of startled anxiety was there again. Then he saw her smiling slightly at him and, with a quick movement, he bent his head and kissed her.

“Good morning, Lora.”

“Good morning, my dear. What are the plans for today? Or do I just do what I’m told when the time comes?”

She spoke quite lightly, and saw at once how relieved he was.

“Oh, it’s not such a mystery as all that,” he told her. “We can either go off motoring, as we did on our honeymoon, or—” He hesitated. “I suppose you wouldn’t like us to take over the cottage at once and go down there?” She knew quite well that was what he himself wanted and, if they were to work out this strange situation together, the first essential was a fixed home.

“Let’s take the cottage,” Leonora said, and smiled to see his pleasure. “Can we really do it all so quickly?”

“Oh yes. I’ll see the house agent this morning. He knew that we were thinking about settling the deal, in any case. And I suppose someone has been coming in and out to keep the place in order. No doubt she will be able to light fires and cook and so on until we make our own arrangements.”

“Very well. Then it’s settled that we go to the cottage either to-day or to-morrow?”

“Yes. But, Lora—”

“Um-hm?”

“I shall not tell Agatha. I prefer her to think we are simply motoring round the country without a fixed address.” Not tell even Agatha!

There was a moment’s silence. Then, with a great effort she said:

“Very well. Arrange it as you think best.”

Leonora didn’t know quite how he explained things to Agatha, but she seemed fairly well satisfied. Certainly she did say:

“Do you really want to go rushing off like this at a moment’s notice, Lora? Or is it just a case of falling in with the arrangements to satisfy Bruce?”

“Oh no, I’m really very happy about this,” Leonora said. And it was true of course. She was extraordinarily happy.

“Well, I’ve just been telling Bruce that I think I shall go up to Scotland and complete the holiday that his homecoming interrupted.”

Leonora thought then what a lot had happened since that holiday had been interrupted. She remembered so well her grim, new-found guardian saying: “My sister was away in Scotland, but I cabled her from the boat, and I have no doubt she will be in London to-day.”

How she had disliked him then!

And how she did love him now.

“Will Millicent go with you?” she asked absently.

“No. She was going on a cruise at the beginning of next month, you know, and she was saying this morning that perhaps she will go by an earlier boat, after all. One that starts in about a fortnight’s time. It was partly that which made me think of going to Scotland.”

“I see.” Leonora was glad that Agatha was so much occupied with her own plans. It made her less likely to ask awkward questions.

There remained the other—and much greater—problem of explaining to Martin without arousing suspicion.

It was an almost impossible task. In fact, she knew, it was quite hopeless to give an explanation that would entirely satisfy him, and there seemed nothing for it but a deliberate and unblushing lie.

It was Millicent’s intended cruise which gave her the idea and, quite calmly, she sat down and wrote at some length to Martin.

“My dear Martin,—I expect you will be very much surprised to get this letter, but when I rang you up you were out, and there was no opportunity of phoning again.

“I am off to-morrow on an eight weeks’ cruise to
—”

she gazed thoughtfully out of the window, and then wrote at random—“
the West Indies.”
They sounded satisfyingly remote, in any case.

“Bruce is not coming with me”
—that was a masterstroke, she thought—
“because he has some business which is taking him away to the North of England.

“I don’t know if I ever mentioned a school friend of mine called Sally Thessaly? Anyway, I hadn’t seen her for ages, and then I met her, quite by chance, in Bond Street, this morning. She was very much upset because her sister, who was to have gone on this cruise with her, had to cry off at the last minute. And, on the spur of the moment, I offered to go with her instead.

“You will know why I absolutely snatched at the chance and, in spite of a good deal of surprise at home, I am going. In fact, I shall be gone by the time this reaches you.

“I can’t give you an address to write to because I don’t know myself yet when and where we shall pick up mail
—
only on the return journey, I suppose. But, anyway, if you write to me at the house here it will be forwarded as soon as possible.

“Would you please be so kind as to explain to Dr. Brindbent? I have sent him a note, saying that I am going away, but of course I cannot be quite so candid to him as I can to you. However, I know I can leave it to you to say just enough and not too much.

“Thank you, Martin dear, for all your kindness and help recently. I know you will be very glad to hear what I am doing. And, frankly, I am very happy about it myself. Always yours sincerely
—
Lora.”

Leonora read it through slowly, a little shocked and a good deal surprised to find herself such an excellent liar. She had never written down a deliberate and elaborate untruth before and, in actual fact, she felt dreadfully guilty now.

But it was for Bruce, and so it must be done. It would have taken more than a lie to make her flinch at this point Even though a lie to Martin seemed especially mean. But one day she would explain to him, and they would perhaps even laugh over it together, and he would forgive her.

After that, there was only the short, formal note to Dr. Brindbent, and ten minutes was sufficient in which to concoct that.

Quite late that night she ran out and posted them both, so that neither would arrive until she and Bruce were well on their way the next day. When that was done, she drew a deep sigh of relief.

The first step had been taken.

The morning dawned, brilliantly fine and with the first real touch of spring in the air.

“It’s like another honeymoon,” she told Bruce gaily.

“Is it?” He didn’t say any more than that, but he smiled at her in a way that satisfied her completely.

Then they said good-by to Agatha and started off on their journey.

He glanced at her once or twice with an air of tender amusement, and finally he said:

“You are a funny child, Lora. Do you make a sort of treat out of everything unexpected that happens?”

“Well, yes. I think I do.” Leonora smiled a little too. “Daddy was just the same, you know. Most things were exciting and an adventure with him.”

“Were they?”

She looked surprised.

“Why, yes. You must have noticed it surely in all the time you knew him?”

“Occasionally, perhaps. But I daresay he was not quite so bubbling with high spirits in the days when I knew him.”

“Poor darling—no.” She was suddenly very serious. Then after a moment she said: “You were very great friends, weren’t you?”

“We knew each other for several years,” was how Bruce put it.

Leonora was silent, but not for very long.

“Bruce—didn’t you like daddy much?”

It was a question she had often wanted to ask, but she had always been a little afraid of the answer.

“For many things—yes, Lora. But there was—something quite late in our friendship which rather changed things. I never felt quite the same again. Only, I’d rather not talk of it, if you don’t mind.”

“Was it—was it something wrong that he did,” Leonora asked, as though she couldn’t help it. And then she thought how absurd it was that she always assumed Bruce must be in the right—even when her own father was involved.

Bruce smiled faintly.

“Well, if it were that, you know, it wouldn’t be very fair to talk about it now, when he is beyond defending himself. Would it?”

“No,” Leonora said with some remorse. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I won’t ask again.”

And they drove on in silence, happy, it seemed, just to be in the sunshine together.

They stopped for lunch on the way, and eventually arrived at the cottage in the late afternoon. It had been quite hot during the last part of the drive, and Leonora had drowsed for a while against Bruce’s arm. She scarcely realized that they had reached the place until she found that he was lifting her out, and laughing a little as he kissed her.

“Are we home?” she murmured rather confusedly.

“Yes, you absurd darling. We’re home,” Bruce said. And at the tone of his voice she thought again:

“I’m
glad
I came, whatever happens.”

A pleasant, middle-aged woman, with a self-effacing manner, opened the door of the cottage to them, and it was obvious that the place had been carefully made ready for them.

In answer to Leonora’s questions she explained that her name was Mrs. Mackay, and that she was willing to “do” for them during the day, but she had to go home in the early evening. It was “half an hour’s sharp walk” to her own place and her husband liked her to be back in good time to prepare his supper.

“She can’t see much of her husband,” Leonora said feelingly when she and Bruce had gone up to their bedroom to examine things and unpack.

“Perhaps that’s all to the good,” Bruce suggested.

“Oh Bruce, don’t be cynical.”

He laughed at that

“We haven’t seen Mr. Mackay,” he reminded her. “It all depends on him, you know.”

“Yes. I suppose so. And not all husbands can be as good as mine.” He didn’t answer. “Can they, Mr. Mickleham?”

“You haven’t got a specially good husband,” he told her, without looking up from what he was doing.

“I
have
.” She came over and put an apparently careless arm around him.

“All right—have it your own way.” He kissed her.

“Don’t you want me to think you nice?”

He smiled.

“I’m divided between gratification that you should think so and fear that one day you’ll see me in my true colours.”

“I love you, faults and all, so what does it matter?” she said. And as there seemed to be no argument against that, they went down to tea together.

The excellent Mrs. Mackay had prepared a very good meal for them, and was obviously pleased at their approval.

“If you just want everything quite simple, miss, I can manage very well,” she told Leonora. “I can’t do any late dinner business for you, but I can always leave you a cold supper ready, or something that don’t need much preparing.”

“Well, I think that will do very nicely, at any rate for the time,” Leonora said. She wondered if the efficient Mrs. Mackay could tell at a glance that she had never issued orders before. It made her feel very young and inexperienced.

“Very good, miss. If you’ll come into the kitchen when you’ve finished your tea, I’ll show you where everything is.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mackay,” said Leonora. And, when she had gone: “Do I sound at all like the mistress of a house, Bruce?”

“Not in the slightest, but she’ll soon teach you,” Bruce assured her. “Oh—and do you mind explaining to her that we really are respectably married? It makes me feel like the villain of the piece when she will, keep on calling you ‘miss’.”

Leonora laughed.

“I don’t think she means it as a reflection on our morals. She probably calls every one under fifty ‘miss’ on principle.”

“Very well. But, as a husband and householder, I feel it is time I stood up for my right to be respected.”

“Poor darling.” Leonora came and hung over the back of his chair. “Do you have awful difficulty in getting yourself respected as a husband?”

“You know I do.” He smiled up at her with a carefree boyishness that made her drop a quick kiss on the top of his head before she went off to learn domestic wisdom from Mrs. Mackay.

It was heavenly, she thought, to have Bruce in this mood. Worth any faint fear of her own. Besides—where were her fears now? she wondered. Almost completely gone.

Almost.
Not quite.

When Mrs. Mackay had gone, and the place was entirely their own, they wandered about, inspecting things and enjoying everything afresh.

“Isn’t it lovely to say ‘our orchard” and ‘our garden’?” Leonora said contentedly.

“Yes. Shall we go and see if there’s ever likely to be any fruit in our orchard?” suggested Bruce.

So they went through the small wicket gate at the end of the garden and into the picturesque, untidy orchard.

Leonora didn’t know anything at all about fruit-trees, but Bruce explained to her exactly why it looked as though they would have plenty of fruit of their own.

“It’s sweet here,” Leonora said with a sigh. “I’m glad it’s not too formal and tidy.”

“No.” Bruce looked round. “It’s rather like the Little Orchard at Farron,” he remarked thoughtfully.

His tone was not at all discontented, but it frightened Leonora to have him even mention Farron. She was afraid he might start longing for it again. And then:

“Never mind about Farron,” she almost begged him. “It’s lovely just for its own sake.”

“Why, of course, Lora.” He looked slightly surprised, which made her feel ashamed, and recalled her to herself. They spent an entirely satisfactory evening doing nothing, and when it was time for supper, they found that Mrs. Mackay’s idea of “leaving everything ready” was gratifyingly literal.

Bruce insisted on helping to carry in the things.

“What will you have to drink?” he asked, inspecting the little stone-flagged cupboard which Mrs. Mackay had referred to firmly as “the wine pantry.”

Leonora stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen, a plate of bread in one hand and a bowl of fruit in the other.

“I don’t mind.” She wondered if her voice sounded entirely natural. “I’ll have—I’ll have whatever you are having.”

He emerged from the cupboard.

“Well, I’m having cider”—he was examining a bottle—“but you don’t like that, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” she assured him almost feverishly. “Yes, I do. Cider will do splendidly.”

“All right. I’ll only open the one bottle at the moment It seems a fairly large one.”

Her throat ached with relief. They were to share the same bottle of cider. Well, there could be no harm in that, then. She had been pretending to herself that she was quite calm and unafraid. No more fancies. No more suspicions. But it had not been true, of course. It was not humanly possible to be utterly unafraid. And now there was this reassurance.

She went back into the little dining-room. It looked over the garden and orchard, and she stood at the window gazing out.

It was all right. It was almost certainly all right. There was no need to entertain these sickening fears any longer.

Bruce and she—

He came into the room then, set down the bottle of cider, one empty glass and, beside her plate, a glass of orange juice.

“What—is that?” Leonora just got the words out He laughed.

“Well,, don’t you know your favorite orange juice when you see it? I found some oranges and did it for you, because you don’t really like cider, do you?”

She didn’t say anything. She stared fascinatedly at the innocent-looking glass of orange juice. She could find no words to say that she didn’t want it, that she had suddenly developed a passion for cider. She could only sink slowly into her seat, wondering if there were death in that glass.

Leonora scarcely knew what she said during that meal. She certainly had no idea what she was eating. Her throat felt dry, but she dared not drink.

If only he would go out of the room, even for a moment. She could pour it out of the window—anything.

But he didn’t go out of the room. Instead, he said carelessly:

“Don’t you want your orange juice, Lora? You haven’t drunk any of it.”

She smiled, rather stiffly, and put out her hand towards it. She could, of course, knock it over and pretend it had been an accident.

And then—quite clearly and relentlessly—she saw that that would be no way out of it at all, no solution of the ever-recurring problem. There was one way, and one way only, in which the terror could be faced and possibly—overcome.

She took the glass in her hand. Then, pushing back her chair, she stood up.

Bruce watched her, slightly puzzled and slightly amused.

“Are you going to make a speech, Lora?”

She nodded. And this time the smile was much more natural.

“As this is the first drink you have prepared for me in our home, I think I must drink a toast in it, even if it is only orange juice.” She paused. ‘To my love for you,” she said slowly, looking straight at him, “and to my absolute trust in you.”