With All My Worldly Goods (18 page)

She had drunk quite half the glassful before he sprang up and stopped her.

“Darling, if you put it like that, it’s almost a sacred drink,” he said quite solemnly. “And I must share it with you.”

He took the glass from her cold fingers.

“To
my
love and trust, my dear.” And he drank what remained in the glass. “There—if we were Viennese we should break the glass, so that no one could ever drink from it again. But since it’s not our own glass, perhaps we had better preserve it.” And he set it down with a little laugh. It was a perfectly natural laugh, though slightly unsteady with emotion.

And that was the last thing she heard before she fainted.

When she came to herself again, she was lying on the sofa under the window, and an agitated Bruce was hanging over her.

“Oh my dear”—he drew a quick, anxious breath—“are you all right? Whatever made you faint like that?”

She was not quite sure herself at the moment. And then she remembered. It had been relief. Just that. Overpowering almost unbearable relief. Because she had faced what she had believed to be death, and found that it was not, after all.

But she couldn’t tell him that, of course. She must never let him know that
she
had known. That absurdly insignificant glass of orange juice had been almost symbolical. He had brought it to her because, just as he had once brought her those others, he now wanted to be the one who gave her something perfectly harmless.

And she had taken it at its face value. By a terrific effort of will she had managed to appear to trust him. And that trust had been justified. Even if there had been poison in that glass he would never have let her drink after what she had said. And never again would he bring himself even to think of it. Of that she was perfectly sure now.

She had answered his gesture with one of her own. It was her victory as well as his.

They had won.

Leonora felt the slow tears come into her eyes.

“What is it, Lora dear?” He was still watching her anxiously.

“Nothing.” She put her arms round his neck. “Nothing, Bruce. Only, I love you so much.”

He didn’t say anything. He just kissed her quietly instead. And she thought: “It is perfectly true. Love
is
stronger than death.”

There had been other times in Leonora’s life when she had known happiness, but nothing like the glory of contentment in the next few days had ever come her way before.

Perhaps it was the contrast with what had gone before. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she had won it by her own courage and determination. But, whatever the reason, those bright spring days were like heaven.

Sometimes she faced the fact that this idyllic existence could hardly go on for ever, but for the moment she let one day drift contentedly into another, scarcely noticing so much as the passage of time.

It was when they had been there just over a week, that Bruce said he had to go to London that day on business, and would call in at the town house to collect any letters. He made no suggestion that Leonora should accompany him, and she somehow gathered the impression that he would much rather go alone.

“There are one or two things I want to do in the garden—” she began. And he interrupted almost at once:

“Oh yes. You are much better down here, now that it’s getting so warm. It is only a business trip in any case, so there is no point in your coming.”

She wished suddenly that he need not go either. It was silly, of course, to have this queer feeling, as she said good-bye to him, that it was unsafe for him to go. But she would be glad—passionately glad—to have him safe back again in their happy retreat.

It was a million chances to one that, out of all the people in London, he would chance to meet Martin. But if he did, the slightest word would be sufficient to start black suspicion.

She wished now that she had told him about the letter to Martin. But it would have been almost impossible without giving explanations which must never be made. In any case, her fears were absurd, and the best thing to do was to work them off in the garden.

She proceeded to do so with a good deal of enthusiasm. But, even so, she came back to the house a dozen times in an hour to see if Bruce had returned, until at last Mrs. Mackay remarked

“It’s easy to see you two haven’t been married too long.”

“It is?” Leonora coloured a little. “Why?”

“Well, the only times a woman runs in and out every five minutes to see what her husband is doing are when she’s first married and when she begins to think he’s going after someone else.”

Leonora didn’t know quite what to say to this piece of matrimonial wisdom. So presently she went out into the garden again, to wait for Bruce with what patience she could muster.

Strange how all her life and thoughts revolved round him now. If anyone had told her it would be so on the day she met him—and disliked him so heartily—she would have been quite incredulous.

“But perhaps it’s often that way,” Leonora thought, as she stooped to examine some little green shoots that were just showing themselves above the ground.

Not, of course, that she really believed there were other cases to compare with hers and Bruce’s. But no doubt other girls had eventually married men they had begun by disliking.

“Did I
really
dislike Bruce at any time?” Leonora thought, straightening up again and smiling away thoughtfully into the distance. “I think I must always have loved him—or, at any rate, I was always waiting, ready to love him when the time came. Otherwise, how could it all seem to inevitable as it does?”

There didn’t appear to be any adequate argument against that, and for a moment Leonora lost herself in the happy realization of
how
inevitable it all seemed now.

“That’s why nothing could surely spoil it,” she told herself anxiously. “But, oh, I wish Bruce were safely back home here with me.”

It was silly.

Here she was, back again at the beginning of her unreasonable fears, in spite of all her attempts to be sensible.

Do what she would, Leonora found herself unable to settle to anything for long. But at least she did manage to stop in the garden this time, until the sound of the car sent her flying down the front path to the gate.

Yes, it
had
been ridiculous of her, really, working herself up for nothing. He was here, safe back again and, even as he got out of the car, she could see from his smile that everything was all right.

He put his arm round her as they strolled back to the house together.

“Had a good day?” he wanted to know.

“Oh yes.” She would not have confessed her silly fears to him for the world. Besides, she could have given him no explanation for them.

“There was one letter for you.” He took it out of his pocket and handed it to her. But she did not even glance at it. Bruce was so much better than any letter.

Only when he had gone upstairs to change did she turn over the envelope idly and look at it.

It was addressed in Martin’s handwriting.

At first it gave her a little shock of fear. Then she remembered that, of course, she had told him any correspondence would be forwarded after her on the mythical cruise.

Feeling slightly guilty, she opened the letter.

But the first sentence drove all smaller considerations from her mind.

“Lora dear,”
he wrote, in his rather thick, firm handwriting,
“of course your story about the cruise was nothing but a fabrication, and it has frightened me terribly. The simplest inquiries disclosed the fact that no cruises to the West Indies were starting this week, so what am I to think?

“Either you have been persuaded to write this story, or else you have done it voluntarily, but in either case it must be to hide the fact that you are going away with your husband. Even if you refuse to realize what a mad and dangerous thing this is, I will not, and I am going to take matters into my own hands.

“I am sorry if this seems unpardonable interference, but appearances don’t matter in the face of such danger. I hate to do anything so melodramatic as setting a time limit, but if I have not heard from you by the evening of the 14th, I am going straight to the police. For I shall only be able to think that, for one dreadful reason or another, this letter has not reached you. Martin.”

The police! The police brought into this, in an endeavour to prove Bruce an attempted murderer.

What, in heaven’s name, was Martin thinking of?

And then—far, far more important—what, in heaven’s name, was the date?

Leonora seized a calendar and wildly flicked over the leaves. What was it today? Monday? Yes, Monday.

Saturday the 12th.

Sunday the 13th.

Monday—

She sank down on the sofa. Today was Monday the 14th!

CHAPTER
TEN

It was only a
second before Leonora was on her feet again. With Martin setting such a terrifying match to powder, it was not for her to sit there waiting meekly for the explosion. She must do something.

But what?

She glanced at the clock. Already nearly five o’clock. Already perilously near what one might call evening.

She could not possibly reach Town in time—quite apart from the minor difficulty of inventing some excuse to satisfy Bruce and persuading him to drive her to the nearest station.

A telegram sent over the phone?

No. That was no good either. He would probably think it a blind and perhaps even suppose that she was already dead.

She would have to telephone. She would have to hope to heaven that Bruce would stay long enough upstairs for her to get through to Martin, and then somehow,
somehow
convince him that she was all right.

Leonora seized up the telephone, and a little unsteadily gave Martin’s number. As she did so, she heard sounds of Bruce moving about upstairs, and then—to her intense relief—of water being run into the bath. Evidently after the hot drive from Town he meant to have a cold bath, and that would give her a little while longer.

“I’ll give you a ring when your number comes through,” the operator said.

But Leonora didn’t want any ring of telephone bells which might prompt inquiries later.

“No, no. I’ll hold on.”

“I’ll give you a ring when your number comes through,” repeated the operator relentlessly, just exactly as though Leonora had not spoken.

It was useless. She would just have to sit there, waiting to snatch up the telephone the moment the bell rang.

With a sigh Leonora replaced the receiver. And as she sat there restlessly drumming her fingers on the desk, she suddenly remembered waiting for another long distance call to Martin. That time, too, she had waited almost in tears, but then it had been because she wanted so much to tell him how her father had not come, and that, instead, there was a dreadful man called Bruce Mickleham expecting to look after her.

Oh, if only they would
hurry!

Did long distance calls always take such a time to come through? She didn’t seem to remember so. But then she had never waited before in such crushing anxiety.

And suppose he had left the office early? Suppose she had to do this all over again with his home number.

Leonora bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Bruce couldn’t possibly be much longer—

Ting!

She had the receiver off before the ring was a quarter ended.

“Yes?”

“Were you wanting a Holborn number?”

“Yes, yes.” She felt wild with impatience. “Have you got it?”

“It’s come through now,” the operator said with admirable self-control.

“Hallo—hallo! Is that Dumroy and Minton?—It is?—Please may I speak to Mr. Velnott?”

“Did you want to speak to Mr. Velnott?” inquired a languid voice on the other end.

“Yes, yes. I’ve just said so.”

“Will you hold the line, please?”

The clerk didn’t sound the kind who would ever hurry.

“It’s very urgent—” Leonora began, and then realized that no one was listening to her anxious appeals.

There were a few more sickening seconds, and then Martin’s voice said:

“Velnott speaking. Who is that?”

“Martin!”

“Lora! Is that you?”

It was difficult to say which voice held the more frantic relief.

“Where in God’s name are you?” Martin asked, and at the same moment she said:

“You haven’t done anything ridiculous, have you, Martin?”

They both started to reply together then, and Leonora said:

“Listen, Martin. You’d better let me do the talking because I’ve only a few minutes.”

“Yes. Go ahead.” He sounded grim even all that distance away, and she knew she was not going to have an easy task.

“I’ve only just received your letter—”

“Yes?”

“You haven’t done anything? Gone to—to the police, have you?”

“Not yet.” That sounded horribly grim, too.

“Not
yet?
What do you mean?”

“That depends entirely on what you have to tell me,” Martin said.

“Oh, don’t sound so ridiculously like counsel for the prosecution,” Leonora cried, because her temper was beginning to give way under the strain.

But the silence at the other end shocked her back to composure again.

“Martin, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, listen. Will you please understand that I am perfectly safe.
Perfectly
.”

“What—at some address unknown to your friends, and in company with a husband who has been trying to—”

“He has
not!
That’s all wrong. It’s a ridiculous mistake.”

“I’m sorry, Lora, but even if you choose to be gullible, my dear, I do not. I’m much too fond of you for one thing. And, quite apart from that, I will not let that scoundrel get away with it.”

“But you
must
understand—”

She stopped suddenly, for Bruce was moving about upstairs again, and that meant he might be down at any moment.

“Martin, I can’t talk any more, now, but—”

“You mean you’re virtually a prisoner.”

“Oh
no!
But I’ll write to you, Martin. I’ll write to you.”

“That won’t do.”

“What do you mean? It’s got to do!”

“No.” She had never heard anything quite so determinedly obstinate as Martin sounded now. “I must see you.”

“But you can’t come down here,” she exclaimed in horror.

“Then, I’m sorry, Lora, but you must come here.”

“But I
can’t
.” Lora was almost in despair.

“No, I thought not,” Martin said grimly. “Then I go to the police.”

“Martin—”

“I mean it, Lora. Either you meet me in person and talk the whole damned business out to a satisfactory conclusion, or else I go to the police.”

“It’s preposterous! Do you realize how unpardonably interfering you are being?” Leonora’s voice trembled with anger as well as anxiety.

“I don’t care about that,” Martin said roughly. “We’ve got long past the minor courtesies. I’m not going to argue about this, any more than I should argue if I saw you about to chuck yourself under a bus. You seem determined to commit suicide, and
I’m not going to let you
.”
She could hear Bruce now at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll meet you,” she gasped quickly.

“When? Tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, yes, if you insist.”

“I do insist. Tomorrow. Five o’clock. At our usual restaurant. Is that a promise?”

“Yes, yes.” She didn’t wait either to say good-bye or hear it, but replaced the receiver just two seconds before Bruce came into the room.

Leonora was standing at the window by then, looking out over the garden and trying by every means in her power to conquer her agitation.

“Well—” Bruce came over and put his arm round her. “Did you miss me?”

By an almost superhuman effort she managed to control her nervous trembling, and smiled up at him.

“Of course I missed you. I hope you paid me the same compliment.”

“What do you think?”

He bent his head and kissed her brusquely.

“Oh, Bruce—” she said, because she was so terribly troubled that she could not even keep back the exclamation.

“What, my dear?” He turned her quickly towards him. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Sure?” He looked at her anxiously. “There is something, I’m certain.”

Leonora pulled herself together. She must do better than this. Besides, she would have to rub her wits together and think of some perfectly valid excuse for going to London tomorrow.

“It’s only—” she hesitated, “—that I’m a bit fed up—”

“With me?”

“No, of
course
not.” She laughed slightly at that, and put her hand against his cheek with a quick, reassuring gesture.

“What then?” He turned his face for a moment so that his lips were against her hand, and she thought despairingly:

“It’s this sort of thing that Martin is trying to ruin, if he only knew.”

Then she gave a convincing little sigh of impatience.

“It was that letter you brought from Town. It was from a—friend of mine—”

“Anyone I know?” he interrupted sharply, and she saw ills eyes narrow with anxiety.

“No,” she said with desperate steadiness. It was horrible having to lie to him now, after their sweet confidence in each other. But what else
could
she say? If she let him suppose for a moment that it was Martin, the situation would become impossible.

“Very well. Go on.”

It seemed to make it all the worse when he so obviously believed her.

“It was—from an old school-friend of mine.” She thought how ridiculous it was that she had to keep on inventing mythical school-friends in order to satisfy either Martin or Bruce. “She wants me to meet her in London tomorrow, and says that I need not bother to reply if I can come. The letter has been at home some days, you see, so she’ll expect me to turn up. I—I don’t see how I can get out of it.”

“And you don’t want to go?”

“I hate being away from you another day,” Leonora said—all the more fervently because that, at least, was true.

“Then send her a wire.”

“I can’t,” Leonora exclaimed quickly.

“Why not?”

“Well—well, she doesn’t give her address, you see.”

“But I thought you were to write back to her if you couldn’t come.”

Leonora swallowed. She was really the most dreadfully clumsy liar.

“She writes from her
home
address,” Leonora offered desperately. “If I’d had the letter when I should, I could have replied, but now—I suppose she is in London.”

“Address unknown?” suggested Bruce with a look of sceptical amusement.

“Yes.” Leonora wondered if it sounded as unconvincing to him as to her.

Apparently it did, because, after a moment, he put his hand under her chin and very gently turned her face up.

“You’re not telling me quite the truth, darling, are you?”

He said it so sweetly, and smiled with an air of such charming ruefulness that she could not be frightened. She only wanted to fling her arms round him and blurt out the whole truth, and ask what she could do. But that was quite impossible.

There was a short pause, and then she said desperately.

“Well—not—entirely. Does it—matter?”

“No, my dear.” He spoke very gently. “We
both
pledged ourselves to complete trust, you know. You don’t have to explain every action to me. It is sufficient if you wish to go to London. I will drive you to the station whenever you like. Unless you would prefer me to drive you all the way there.”

‘To the station will do nicely,” Leonora said, and then was too much moved to add anything else.

It could not have been an easy thing for Bruce to say, she knew, for anything the least bit out of the ordinary must start his fears and anxieties at once. But he was determined—so touchingly determined—to equal the trust she had in him, that he was willing to do even this.

“Oh, I will save him,” she thought, with that sudden sense of fierce protectiveness. “I
will
make Martin understand somehow.”

And after that Bruce didn’t mention the subject again. He seemed quite content to wander with her in the orchard and garden and, later, just to sit in the deepening twilight and talk. And it was all so soothing that Lenora felt her own strained nerves relax, and she could even take pleasure in the comparatively minor fact that Bruce looked overwhelmingly handsome in white flannels.

She thought suddenly of what her father had said about him, and laughed involuntarily.

“What?” He looked across at her inquiringly and smiled too.

“Oh—I was just thinking of something daddy once said about you in a letter.”

“Really? What did he say?” Bruce didn’t look specially pleased, but Leonora knew by now that that little frown was not really meant to quell her.

“That all the women ran after you—”

“Good heavens!”

“—And that you were rather brutal to them all.”

“What nonsense.” Bruce seemed much more annoyed than amused. But Leonora laughed.

“Well, didn’t they?”

“What?”

“Run after you. You needn’t look guilty. I’m not jealous.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Lora. There was never anyone but you, Not
anyone.
You must believe that.”

“But I do believe it.” Leonora was genuinely amused. “Only that might not prevent their running after you.”