Away Went Love Page 12

  She gradually found herself taking part quite easily in the ordinary routine discussions and arrangements of the household and—most extraordinary of all—when she finally went to bed, she fell almost immediately into a dreamless and refreshing sleep, regardless of the fact that she now had full opportunity to fret and worry in miserable solitude to her heart’s content.

  The next day was beautifully fine and sunny. Hope woke to a feeling of vague depression, which was immediately succeeded by a sharp realization of all that had happened yesterday, and then by the pleasant consciousness that it was a fine day and that she was ready for her breakfast.

  She felt faintly ashamed that such mundane and normal matters could displace the feeling of near-tragedy which had assailed her. Then she decided that the most sensible thing was to go down and enjoy her breakfast. Which she did.

  After breakfast, she and the twins had just begun to discuss plans for the day, when Errol, who had gone to answer the telephone, came back into the room to say:

  “It’s for you, Hope. A call from London.”

  “From London!” Immediately her thoughts flew to Richard, and some of the color left her cheeks.

  She hoped Errol had not noticed, but she thought from the glance he gave her as she went out of the room that he had not only noticed her loss of color but drawn the right conclusion with regard to her thoughts.

  It was not, however, Richard’s voice which answered her nervous “Hello.” It was Enid’s voice, rendered slightly squeaky by distance and excitement.

  “Darling Hope! I just had to ring up to congratulate you!”

  “Congratulate me?” For a moment Hope wondered if Enid were gifted with clairvoyant powers. “But how on earth did you know?”

  “Why, darling, it’s in the papers. At least, in all the gossipy kind of Sunday papers that go in for that sort of thing.”

  “In the papers? It’s impossible.”

  “No, no, it isn’t. There’s a photograph of him and everything, and I must agree he’s very nice-looking.”

  “A photograph?—of Errol?”

  “No, no, Hope. Richard Fander of course. And a picture of the aunt who left him all the money. Taken fifty years ago, quite obviously, but never mind.”

  “What are you saying?” Hope’s voice was suddenly sharp with anxiety and eagerness. “Did you say someone had left Richard some money?”

  “But don’t you know, Hope? It’s the most romantic thing! Quarter of a million. An old aunt. No—great-aunt, or something. You’ll be able to have the finest wedding in London, and—”

  “No,” Hope said in a flat, cold little voice. “No, you’re wrong. Richard and I won’t be having any wedding, grand or otherwise.”

  “But the money—” began Enid all over again. “It simplifies everything. I mean, even I can’t see the slightest objection to your marrying now. So much money—”

  “Yes,” Hope said slowly, “so much money. And all of it a week too late.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOR what seemed to Hope like several minutes Enid’s excited and incredulous voice kept on chattering at her out of the receiver. She was not paying much attention to the words. Only the tone conveyed to her that Enid thought she had gone mad—had misunderstood—positively must let her explain all over again. But the very first time Enid paused to take breath, Hope said:

  “Don’t, Enid dear. There’s no need to go on talking and explaining. I’m not going to marry Richard and that’s flat.”

  “But why, Hope? It’s only a few days since you were telling me all about him. It’s the same man, isn’t it?”

  Hope had an impulse to no, it wasn’t the same man, that the Richard she had talked about didn’t exist. But instead she exclaimed rather wildly:

  “I can’t talk about it now. I’ll explain another time. Good-bye, Enid.” And she rang off.

  That was one blessed thing about the telephone. You could put an end to a conversation when it became unbearable.

  But the moment Hope had done so she realized there were a dozen things she wanted to ask Enid, and that, if only she herself could have done the questioning, she would gladly have prolonged the conversation.

  It was too late now, however, and Hope could only sit there staring at the silent telephone, wondering why fate had elected to play this unfair and disastrous trick upon her.

  So someone—someone she had never heard of, thought of, or even imagined—had left Richard a lot of money. Such a lot, or in such dramatic circumstances, that it was the sort of thing which happened in the nick of time in films or romances. If it had happened last week, when she was wondering so desperately how they could raise five hundred pounds to save Richard from prison, then it would have been in the highest tradition of romance. Now—it was just too late.

  Not only had it come too late to save her from having to marry Errol. It had come too late to keep her from knowing the sort of man Richard was.

  The faintest voice of common sense told her that it was better to know the truth about him—that the experience, however bitter, was not without its value.

  “But it’s not all so black and white and simple as that,” Hope exclaimed in angry grief. If only Richard had not been put to the test—a test which might well have found out many apparently worthy people—he might easily have remained the man she loved, and the man who loved her.

  She twisted Errol’s ring on her finger, and for the first time since he had placed it there, it seemed heavy and unfair and an imposition. For the last twenty-four hours she had felt better towards him. One or two little things which had happened had warmed her heart, made her feel more resigned and less unhappy about the position in which she found herself. Now that was changed, and she began to wonder all over again if she had been caught by a trick and shamefully imposed upon.

  It was so absurd and so unfair to think that if all this strange business about the money had happened a week ago, she would have refused any offer of marriage from Errol with speed and possibly with scorn. That made one feel that there could be nothing really binding about it.

  ‘Nothing but the fact that I’ve given my word, and he stood by his part of the bargain,’ thought Hope rather bitterly.

  She heard Bridget’s voice calling to her to come out into the garden and see for herself what remarkable progress Bridget’s own plants had made since last night, and slowly Hope got to her feet, feeling that half the brightness and charm of the day had gone.

  But she must somehow manage to conceal her thoughts. To be questioned just now would be unbearable. Besides, owing to her impetuous ending of the telephone call, she knew less than half the facts. She must somehow get through the rest of this day with all the appearance proper to a newly engaged and happy girl. And, above all, one who had received no disturbing messages from London which threatened to turn her world upside down.

  Errol was with the children when she came out into the garden to join them, and he gave her another of those quick, half-disturbed glances.

  By a supreme effort, however, Hope managed to return his look quite calmly, and to make some smiling comment on Bridget’s earnest efforts with the spade.

  Resolutely she told herself that this was how she would have to act all day. Not involve herself in any emotional scenes and preserve an outward calm rivalling Mrs. Tamberly’s own.

  But it was a course much easier to decide upon than to follow.

  Later that morning she managed to make a surreptitious examination of Errol’s Sunday newspaper. But, alas, it was of the dignified and sober sort which did not concern itself with romantic stories of young men whose aunts left them unexpected fortunes. And then Errol came into the room and, seeing her turn over the pages with an anxious and examining air, asked, in all innocence:

  “Are you looking for something special?”

  “No—oh, no,” Hope answered him casually, and rather guiltily put aside the paper without really seeing the last couple of pages. Then later, of course, she felt convinced
that the whole story was there if only she had had time to find it.

  “Do you have to go back to London this evening?” Bridget asked her at lunch. “Can’t you go up with Uncle Errol in the morning?”

  “No,” Hope said hastily. “Oh, no, I really must go today.”

  “Why?” Errol asked coolly.

  She wanted to say, “Because I simply couldn’t bear this strain a moment longer than I have to.” But instead she said something a little confused about having several things she wanted to do that evening which she would be too busy to do during the coming week.

  He made no protest. Perhaps he thought that she was suffering some reaction from having committed herself so far and that it would be wiser to let her feel she was still completely her own mistress.

  “Well, you’ll be down again very soon, anyway, won’t you?” Bridget said. “And before very long you’ll be down here for good. The more I think about it, the better I like it, Hope.”

  Hope managed to smile faintly and somehow convey the pleasing impression that this was her opinion too.

  An expression of slightly cynical scepticism passed over Errol’s face, and Hope thought angrily, ‘He knows how little my heart is in this, and yet he’s willing to make me go on with it.’

  When the time came at last for her to go he was ready to drive her to the station. To her relief, Bridget asked if she could come too, and Hope accepted with such a thankful “Oh, yes, I do!” that Errol raised his eyebrows in his most disagreeable manner.

  Bridget, who was not usually observant, said:

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not if Hope doesn’t,” Errol assured her dryly, and Hope knew that she had made it all too clear that she had no wish to be left alone with him.

  “Oh, Hope likes me to come,” Bridget asserted with confidence.

  In the knowledge that the present ordeal was very nearly over, Hope was able to exert herself to be friendly and eager on the drive to the station. Errol was rather silent, but Bridget, bouncing about in the back seat of the car, helped to relieve the tension which that silence might have induced.

  When they reached the station the train was not yet signalled, and Bridget went off to speak to the solitary porter, with whom she was on excellent terms.

  Errol took Hope lightly by the arm and they strolled along the narrow country platform together. It was hard to think of something to say to him. Something sufficiently light to avoid any discussion and yet not so frivolous that it should be obvious that she was avoiding any real issue. In the end it was he who spoke first. And, characteristically, he went straight to the point.

  “This is about the most difficult part for you, Hope, isn’t it?—for us both, I suppose. You’ve just got over the dramatic decision to stand by your word, and now you’ve got to translate it into terms of everyday life. It’s not—”

  “Why do you put it into words?” Hope said, in a voice that shook slightly. “Isn’t it better not to talk about these things?”

  He was silent, and the silence lengthened until Hope wondered unhappily if she had snubbed him into utter wordlessness.

  “Errol—I’m sorry—”

  “No—I’m sorry,” he interrupted, with a sort of unhappy eagerness which made her feel for a moment that he was someone quite different from the Dr. Tamberly she had always known. “I only wanted to say—”

  “The train’s coming,” shouted Bridget, rushing along the platform to join them. “And Peter says it’ll only be waiting half a minute because it’s behind time.”

  “Oh, Errol—” Hope turned to him quickly, “What were you going to say?”

  “Only that I know it’s difficult for you and I don’t expect miracles. I want to make it as easy for you as possible. I’ll try to be patient, and”—he took her in his arms suddenly—“I love you so much.”

  It was not at all what she had expected, and in the surprise of the moment and the sense of urgency created by the arrival of the train and Bridget’s hopping from one foot to another, Hope found herself returning his kiss with eagerness.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered quickly, and then, for no reason whatever, “Don’t worry, Errol.”

  Then he put her into the train, and the door was shut. The engine gave an hysterical shriek, preparatory to puffing off again, and Hope found herself waving to the two figures on the platform as though it grieved her to leave them and all her thoughts were on their meeting again.

  On the journey to London she had ample opportunity to review her impulsive and peculiar behaviour and decide exactly what she should have said and done instead.

  ‘That’s the worst of being rushed,’ Hope thought disconsolately. ‘It’s so easy to think how to handle a situation, so long as it’s theory. But when it really happens, some small thing like the way a person speaks, or a few words that move you, or the consciousness that time is going fast, just governs the whole thing.’

  Well, it was too late to worry now. She could only hope that Errol had not taken her softened mood too literally. Though, of course, that brought her round to the fact that if she were going to marry Errol in the next month or two, softened moods would have to be often in evidence.

  If she were going to marry Errol.

  Hope wondered with a sort of dismayed excitement, how that ‘if’ had managed to creep into a mind which she had imagined was already made up.

  She was tired—certainly more tired than the day’s mild exertions warranted—by the time she arrived at her flat. But the moment she entered the building, all thought of that was banished, for the figure of Enid almost literally bounced up from the settee in the entrance hall and rushed towards her.

  “My dear, I was only going to wait five minutes longer!” she cried. “I guessed you’d be coming home this evening, and I came round here on the chance. There was no answer when I rang your bell, so I knew you couldn’t have come back yet, but I’ve been waiting here hours—well, twenty minutes at least—hardly able to contain myself, and I thought I’d give you just five minutes more and then give it up.”

  “Come along up,” Hope said in her most matter-of-fact tone, because Enid’s air of drama always had that effect upon her. But actually she was trembling slightly—not so much with the thought of the explanations she would have to make herself as of the information which she would now be able to extract from her excited friend.

  She managed to ward off Enid’s questions until they were both comfortably settled in armchairs with tea on a table between them.

  “Now!” Enid cried. “I absolutely insist on hearing the explanation of the mystery. Here I ring you up to congratulate you on a stupendous piece of luck, and you start telling me you’re not going to marry the man you were mad about three days ago—and then I find you wearing his ring after all,” she added, pointing accusingly to Hope’s left hand.

  “Oh—” Hope instinctively put her other hand over her ring. “That—that isn’t Richard’s ring.”

  Enid emitted a shriek of astonishment.

  “Whose is it, then?”

  “Well, you see—”

  “No. Just tell me whose that ring is,” Enid insisted.

  “Errol Tamberly’s. I agreed to marry him yesterday.”

  “You—didn’t!” Enid regarded her with large, surprised eyes which held—Hope thought most unreasonably—an expression of reproach. “Hope you are doing what I warned you not to. You’re sacrificing yourself for those children, and letting that wretched Doctor Tamberly buy you up so that they shall have a home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hope retorted briskly. “I’m doing nothing of the sort. If it were only a question of money—

  “But what else can it be?” Enid exclaimed. “Though, don’t you see, there’s no need to worry about the money now. Your Richard’s got plenty after all, and he can provide a home for the twins and everything. You don’t have to marry this Tamberly man at all. And even if you’ve been all noble and given Richard Fander his conge, y
ou can take that back now and explain everything. Just take that ring off, Hope Arning, and start all over again.”

  There was nothing, Hope thought angrily, which would have given her greater pleasure, but unfortunately the issue was not so simple—or, to tell the truth, so melodramatic—as Enid imagined.

  “It’s not a bit as you think, Enid,” she began patiently. “I’m not going to marry Richard—”

  “But you told me you were, only last Tuesday.”

  “Well, that was wrong.”

  “Do you mean you were telling picturesque lies or that you’ve altered your mind?” Enid enquired with more interest than rancour.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “It didn’t take you long,” Enid observed.

  “N-no. I—I suppose these things always are very quick when they happen,” Hope said, feeling that she was not carrying this off very well.

  “Do you mean that last Tuesday you thought you were in love with Richard Fander, and by Sunday you’d decided you were in love with Errol Tamberly?”

  “I know it sounds impossible—”

  “It does rather,” Enid agreed.

  “But that—that’s how it is.”

  “You must be simply mad about Errol Tamberly to change so quickly and so thoroughly,’ Enid remarked.

  Hope didn’t answer that, so Enid enquired earnestly, “Are you?”

  Hope drew a deep breath and then said, “Yes,” with an assurance which surprised her as much as Enid.

  There was a slight pause. Then Enid said:

  “Of course, in a way, it’s terribly romantic. I mean, you were always so sure you disliked him and all that. You were quite hot about it sometimes, Hope. And now you find you’re in love with him after all. I suppose he’s one of these terrific personalities who sweep you off your feet.”

  “He—he’s a very strong personality,” Hope admitted, wondering why it made her faintly uncomfortable to discuss Errol in this heart-to-heart manner.