Love Him or Leave Him Page 12

  The next morning, Anne’s post was enlivened by a short but informative letter from her cousin Angela, whom she had kept fairly well posted with the news of her holiday.

  ‘I don’t want to sound coarse and materially-minded, darling,’ Angela wrote, after the usual preliminaries of family news, ‘but is the Jerome man paying you while you prolong your stay in luxury at your Towers? Otherwise you must be going through your legacy like fun. We all feel it’s time he put foot to the ground and hobbled back to London, so that you too can transfer yourself here. We’re missing you. Anyway, at least ask him how much longer he thinks he’ll be.’

  There was something in what Angela wrote, of course, and Anne decided that she would have a word with Mr. Jerome that day about their return. Or at any rate, her return.

  When she reached Greenslade that afternoon the front door was standing open—as was often the case on warm, sunny days—and Anne was sufficiently at home now to go in without knocking.

  She glanced into the sitting-room, but there was no sign of Mrs. Eskin or Deborah, so she went upstairs, unable to suppress the foolish hope that, somehow, Mr. Jerome would have had a perfectly satisfactory explanation of the missing letter since she last saw him, and would greet her with a smile and the reassuring sight of a long and congratulatory epistle from Mr. Pennerley.

  However, as she reached the top of the stairs, she realised that Deborah was in his room, and that something of a discussion—even argument—was in progress. She hesitated, wondering whether to go quietly down again, or whether her footsteps had already been heard.

  And, as she paused, irresolute, Deborah’s voice carried clearly to her.

  ‘It’s absurd, David. You know the girl isn’t reliable. I think you’re crazy to take her back into the firm.’

  It was not Anne’s wish to eavesdrop, but she would have been superhuman if she could have torn herself away at that moment. And she heard Mr. Jerome reply, curtly—and rather as though he had been over this argument before:

  ‘I tell you, Deborah, that decision was made before this unfortunate business. I’m not prepared to go back on my offer.’

  ‘Not even when she’s made a second major error?’

  ‘Not even then,’ confirmed Mr. Jerome dryly, thereby lacerating Anne with the implication that he did accept her responsibility. ‘I was unfair to the child on a previous occasion. And, even though I’m morally certain that, in some way, she’s responsible for this miserable affair, I owe her the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘And suppose she makes a third error?’ Deborah’s voice sounded unusually angry and energetic.

  ‘Then she’ll go,’ replied Mr. Jerome’s voice coldly. ‘But I shall have satisfied myself that she has had a fair chance.’

  ‘Rather an expensive way of satisfying yourself, if it costs you another contract,’ Deborah retorted scornfully.

  ‘Some things are worth a little expense,’ Mr. Jerome replied unexpectedly, and Anne was nearly sure, from his tone of voice, that he was smiling slightly.

  The outlines of the stairs and upper landing blurred before Anne’s eyes, in a rush of just-controlled tears. And, as she turned and ran quietly downstairs again, she heard Deborah exclaim impatiently:

  ‘I’ve never known you quixotic about your office staff before!’

  Anne didn’t hear his reply. She didn’t need to. She had heard enough. Even the fact that Deborah had used the very word Robin had used last night.

  He had said David Jerome was not quixotic where his business was concerned and that he would have to be very, very fond of someone before he would allow concessions in business.

  Anne didn’t imagine it was a question of fondness. But she was touched to the core to realise that he was going counter to all his natural convictions, rather than risk doing her an injustice again.

  She was not quite sure if her tears were for the pain of knowing that he did believe her responsible for the misfortune of the letter, or the pleasure of discovering that he minded so much about her feelings.

  She felt overwhelmingly grateful to him for defending her against Deborah’s spiteful attack. Or at least, for refusing to be influenced by what she had said.

  But, because Anne was herself essentially generous, she immediately began to wonder if she ought to accept so much generosity from him. Since she had, quite by chance, heard the real state of affairs—since she knew that he was keeping her against his real convictions—ought she not to relieve him of that necessity by some action of her own?

  She went out of the house, and slowly climbed the hill which led up to the woods beyond. It was not an absolutely fixed arrangement that she should call at Greenslade each day, so her failure to appear would not cause comment. And, at the moment, she wanted to be alone, and think out what she was going to do.

  Once before, she reminded herself, she had wondered whether it were right or wise to return to David Jerome’s employ. Then there had been only the question of her own feelings. Now there was the question of fairness to him.

  ‘But it isn’t as though it would really be to his disadvantage to have me back,’ Anne thought earnestly. ‘I would work for him as never before. I’d prove to him that he had been right to give me another chance,’ she vowed, in defiance of Deborah’s spiteful suggestion that it would be an expensive experiment if she made another error.

  She sat down on the grass, and absently brushed her hand to and fro across the cool green surface.

  ‘I want to go back and work for him more than anything else in the world,’ Anne told herself. ‘More than one should want to work for anyone who is engaged to another girl, I suppose,’ she admitted, with a sigh. ‘If I don’t go—what’s the alternative?’

  She could reconsider Robin’s more than half serious suggestion that she should stay in this part of the country and work in his office. But if she undertook to do that, and then found that she simply could not bear the separation from her friends and the life she knew and—she had better face it—from David Jerome, it was going to be difficult to escape, without feeling that she was letting Robin down.

  Alternatively, of course, she could go back to London and find other employment, as she had originally intended. Live in the same city as David Jerome, possibly work in very much the same district—but never see him.

  It always came back to the one essential. Could she bear not to see him again? Or, alternatively, ought she to force herself to make the break now, rather than court fresh complications and unhappiness which must inevitably result?

  ‘If only there could be a compromise!’ Anne sighed, shrinking from the finality of an irrevocable decision. ‘If only there could be some way of testing my own resolution, without being cut off from retreat if I found things unbearable.’

  She knew this was cowardly, and not at all constructive. But it was also, of course, very human.

  Cupping her chin in her hand, Anne looked absently, and yet with a sort of deep, inner pleasure, over the scene around her. Beautiful, beautiful place for a holiday. Beautiful place in which to live—if David Jerome lived here too. But if living here meant never seeing him again—

  She broke off, with a sigh. And then, looking down to the road below, she saw that Robin was coming along. Not in the car, but walking.

  Dear, comforting, easy-tempered Robin. She waved to him, even though she thought she was probably too far up the hillside for him to notice her.

  However, she had forgotten that her red jacket would be easily identified against the green background. He looked up, waved in return, and came springing up the hillside to join her.

  She felt too pleasantly relaxed and lazy to come down half-way to him. So she waited, smiling, until he came up with her and flung himself down on the grass, panting a little.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he told her, smiling up at her with his bright blue eyes.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I was hoping to see you. Tell me, have you quite decided to go back to D
avid’s office at the end of your stay here?’

  Anne’s eyes opened wide. It was almost uncanny to find that his thoughts had been following so similar a path as her own.

  ‘I think—I don’t know, Robin. Why?’

  ‘Because we’re in a bit of a spot at the office. One of the girls has to go into hospital for an operation during the next few weeks. She expects to be away for three months, anyway. I was wondering if you’d like the job. It would give you the summer here and—Oh, Anne, do take it! It would be wonderful to have you here for some months longer.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For some minutes, Anne made no attempt to answer Robin. Again she absently brushed her hand to and fro across the grass, while she kept her head bent and did not even look up at him.

  Here, beyond all question, was the compromise for which she had been sighing. It had been presented to her, with almost frightening promptness and completeness. Three months in this heavenly spot. Three months in which to get over what she recognised now as her unsuitable devotion to David Jerome. Three months in which to decide if she could bear the wise course of complete separation.

  Nothing absolutely final about it. Nothing to make her feel an exile from the familiar life in London. Just the chance to do what she knew she should do, in the least painful circumstances. It would be almost wicked of her to refuse.

  And yet the very first step would be to tell David Jerome that she was not coming back to London with him. And she was appalled to find how hard even this first step could be.

  ‘Well, Anne?’ Robin said at last. Not impatiently, but as though he were a little amused and puzzled that the decision took her so long. ‘Is it such a very weighty matter?’

  ‘N-no.’ She knew she must not let Robin—or anyone else—guess what tremendous issues were involved for her. ‘No, I was just wondering if—if it would seem very ungrateful to Mr. Jerome.’

  ‘Ungrateful to David?’ Robin sounded astonished. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s been so—good to me.’ She must not think how good, or she would find it impossible to go on. ‘It was generous of him to offer to take me back, in the first instance, and more than generous to keep to that offer after—after what happened. I shouldn’t like him to think I didn’t appreciate what he did. That I tossed his offer aside for the first nice holiday job which was offered me.’

  ‘Oh, David wouldn’t look at things that way,’ Robin assured her easily. ‘He knows you weren’t all that keen on his office.’ Anne bit her lip hard, to keep herself from angry denial. ‘He’s made this gesture of confidence in you —and, to do him justice, I think he genuinely intended it as the amende honorable—And you accepted it in the spirit in which it was offered. Everyone felt nice and comfortable and bygones were bygones. But I don’t imagine he or you wanted to make a great business of it. You can part quite good friends, he can find another shorthand-typist, and you and I can have a delightful summer.’

  Anne was silent again, amazed that the situation over which she had been agonising could be reduced to such simple and comfortable terms, when viewed through Robin’s eyes.

  ‘Perhaps—you’re right,’ she said slowly. And in that moment she thought that, away from David and in Robin’s company, she might possibly come to look at things as sensibly and sanely as he.

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ Robin agreed heartily. ‘Come on, Anne. Decide to stay!’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to David—to Mr. Jerome first.’

  Robin glanced at her curiously. Perhaps he noticed that twice lately the intimidating Mr. Jerome had become David to her.

  ‘Yes, all right. Let’s go and see him now, then.’

  Robin, who was no mean tactician, in a simple way, was not going to miss the advantage of a quick decision.

  There was no objection to raise to that. And she let Robin take her hand and draw her to her feet.

  He kept her hand in his as they went down the hillside, and she thought that, in some warm, friendly way, it gave her a little courage.

  All the same, when they reached the house, she said firmly:

  ‘I’ll go up alone.’ For she was determined that no third party—not even anyone so fair and well-intentioned as Robin—should affect her decision at this point.

  He looked faintly surprised, but yielded at once. And Anne went slowly upstairs alone.

  When she came into the room, she saw that David Jerome was up, sitting in a chair by the window, fully dressed for the first time, and looking much more like the employer she had known. Even his first remark was in character.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I expected you before this.’

  Anne smiled, amused and oddly steadied by his tone. ‘I’m sorry. Was there something urgent?’

  ‘No. I missed you, that’s all,’ he said, with abrupt simplicity. ‘You usually come earlier than this.’

  Anne felt weak suddenly. Not steadied and restored at all. He had missed her!

  With a great effort, she preserved her matter-of-fact air. ‘I’m glad to see you up and dressed,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I’m glad to be so. I shall be going back to London in three or four days. Can you be ready by then?’

  Anne was unprepared for this immediate broadside. She passed the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips.

  ‘Mr. Jerome, I wanted to—talk to you about that.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve had an offer of—Robin has suggested that I might like to accept a temporary job which is falling vacant in his office. One of the girls there will have to be away on sick leave for about three months. It would mean having the whole summer here and—’

  ‘I can’t keep your place in London open for three months,’ Mr. Jerome interrupted curtly.

  ‘Oh, no. No, I wasn’t suggesting that.’

  ‘What were you suggesting, then?’

  ‘Mr. Jerome, please don’t think I’m not very, very grateful for your offer to have me back at the office, but—’

  ‘You’re refusing it,’ he finished for her.

  ‘I should like to take this job in Robin’s office.’

  He looked at her in that extremely penetrating way which was so extraordinary difficult to sustain.

  ‘You haven’t some silly, quixotic idea of effacing yourself because of that business about the lost letter, have you?’

  ‘No. Oh, no, that isn’t the reason,’ she assured him quickly. And, in that moment, she realised this was true.

  The lost letter incident had nothing to do with her decision, except that it had served to show her she was already too fond of David Jerome, and must keep away from him if she were not to make herself more miserable than she was already.

  ‘What is the reason, then?’

  ‘I—beg your pardon?’

  ‘What is the reason for your not wanting to work for me, after all?’

  ‘It isn’t that I don’t want to work for you!’ she cried, in distressed protest, and with so much emphasis that he smiled faintly.

  ‘No? I’ve completely worked my passage home, have I?’ His smile deepened, but became a little sardonic. ‘What’s the trouble, then?’

  ‘Mr. Jerome, there is no trouble. It’s just that I love this place, and I can’t resist the idea of being able to stay here some months longer, and, at the same time, earn my own living.’

  To her own ears, both her words and her tone sounded convincing. But he continued to regard her with a considering air which made her uneasy.

  ‘This would be only a temporary job?’

  ‘I suppose it might lead to something permanent.’

  ‘And you would like that? What you really want to do is to live here, instead of in London?’

  ‘I—don’t really know. But I should like to make the experiment. And—and this seems a specially happy way of doing so,’ she explained reasonably.

  For a moment or two he was silent'. Then he abstracted a letter from the pile on the table beside him, and thoughtfully flipped it to and fro against th
e fingers of his left hand.

  ‘Miss Hemming, I’m particularly anxious to have you back in my office,’ he said deliberately, and was probably quite aware of the fact that she caught her breath on an audible gasp. ‘Changes seem to be in the air. I’ve just had a letter to say that Miss Robinson wishes to leave.’

  ‘Miss Robinson!’

  Incredulously, Anne forced her mind to the consideration of Mr. Jerome’s super-secretary. Miss Robinson—as changeless as the tides, as enduring as Income Tax—proposed to leave. It would be like a major operation on the office staff.

  ‘But why does she want to leave? I mean—I can’t imagine the place without her.’

  ‘Frankly, nor can I,’ David Jerome admitted. ‘And I find it most disagreeable being forced to do so. Her reasons are purely personal ones, and the kind with which I can hardly quarrel. There’s been a good deal of trouble in her family, and now they’ve arrived at a solution which will necessitate her having only part-time work. So, you see, Miss Hemming, I shall soon be without a secretary.’

  ‘Oh—yes. How awful!’ Anne suddenly had a very clear recollection of the cloud which descended on the office when the invaluable Miss Robinson was missing. But that had been, of course, in the days before one realised how dear and different Mr. Jerome could be.

  ‘I thought perhaps you would like the job.’ Mr. Jerome’s cool, incisive voice cut across her nostalgic reflections.

  ‘Me? I, I mean?’

  In one flash, Anne saw both the tremendous temptation and the acute danger. Working with him daily, his constant companion, even to a certain extent, his confidante—she could not fail to fall more hopelessly in love with him than she already was at this moment of his wonderful offer.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, in a very small voice. And there was resignation, rather than conviction, in her tone.

  ‘Of course you could,’ he retorted, rather impatiently. ‘You’re perfectly capable of it, if that’s what you mean.’