With All My Worldly Goods Page 9

  “Oh, no!” Leonora was a little shocked.

  “Perhaps I ought to, with such a very young wife in my care.” He was not entirely serious, she knew, but there was a quality of tenderness in the way he said that which made her bite her lip quickly.

  “But you’re used to having me in your care already,” she pointed out rather gently. “I don’t think I shall be any more of a responsibility as a wife than I was as a ward. Do you?”

  “Infinitely more,” he told her.

  “Oh—” Leonora was silent for a moment. Then—“But it has its compensations, Bruce?”

  She was a little afraid of saying that, but the radiant smile he flashed at her took her breath away.

  “Oh yes, my darling. It has its compensations,” he agreed.

  He might not mean any of this, of course, but instinctively she drew slightly against his arm.

  “I suppose,” she said very thoughtfully. “I suppose you didn’t really ever intend to marry, did you?”

  “No,” Bruce admitted flatly. “But how did you know?”

  “Well—I don’t think you’re the marrying sort. That’s all.”

  “Perhaps we’re none of us the marrying sort until we meet our Loras,” Bruce suggested.

  She didn’t say anything to that. She didn’t have to because, although he was smiling again, he was looking straight ahead and could not see how grave she had suddenly become.

  Because, of course, it was not Leonora who had made him have that sudden impulse to marry. It was Leonora’s seventy thousand pounds.

  For some while they had been following the line of the coast, and when they came to a small, compact hotel, built on a windy promontory, Bruce said: “Shall we stop here for the night? It’s quiet without being melancholy. And there are the downs behind and the sea in front”

  “Yes. We’ll stop here.”

  It was a pleasant place and the people were very kind. As it was out of the season there were only a few other guests, and they, too, glanced at the newcomers with friendly eyes.

  Leonora heard one woman whisper to her husband: “I’m sure they’re a honeymoon couple. You can tell from the way he looks at her. Aren’t they sweet?”

  And Leonora wondered if it were a sign that she was becoming cynical when she found herself thinking: “Perhaps he feels he is paid well to do it, and must give good value for money.”

  But there was no sign of anything like that in his manner. He was attentive, but not overwhelmingly so, and afterwards, when they went walking along the windy seashore, he was rather his old, abrupt self—with long pauses in the conversation and curt comments when she disturbed his thoughts.

  It was still early when they returned, but he had suggested that they should start fairly early the next day and, saying she was tired, she went to her room almost at once.

  She didn’t get into bed, however, when she was undressed. She put out the light, slipped on a warm wrap, and sat at the window looking out at the sea.

  By and by she smelt the faint scent of cigarette smoke drifting upwards, and then she became aware that someone was on the terrace just below her window. She drew back sharply, for she had been leaning rather far out. But Bruce’s voice said softly from the darkness:

  “Is that you, Lora?”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then she said: “Yes.”

  “I can see you just faintly in the light from the sea. You look like Melisande, leaning from the window with your golden hair round you.”

  “Oh—do I?” Leonora said helplessly, and for a moment she yielded to the persuasive tenderness in his voice. “Bruce—I can’t see you at all. You’re right in the shadows.”

  He came forward then, immediately under her window, and in the dim light she could see that compelling smile of his.

  “Oh, now I can see you.” She smiled in her turn—slowly, like a pleased little girl.

  “And I can see you quite well now, Lora. You’re so beautiful,” he said very quietly.

  She remembered then that there was nothing serious in all this, and she said confusedly:

  “Bruce, you’ll catch cold, out there without a coat.”

  “And you’ll catch cold, you silly baby, sitting at an open window like that.”

  “But I’m just going in. I’m going to bed now.”

  “And I’m just coming in,” he mimicked gently. “I’m coming to bed now.”

  There was silence, and he moved into the shadow again. “Lora?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait for me, darling.”

  She leant from the window then—and saw that he was gone.

  Leonora drew back, trembling a little, but not with cold.

  She closed the window—and suddenly the spell was broken. He had been “playing the great lover” again, because she was an heiress. Those were his own words.

  She could hear him now, moving about in the next room, and the sound made her feel she Was choking. He could even stand under her window like some hero of romance, making love to her—because it was in his part. He would even come to her room in a few minutes and pretend to be her lover—because it was in his part.

  “No!” Leonora said aloud.

  And suddenly she was herself again. The fatal inertia that had made the last week like a dream was slowly clearing. She could think for herself again, act for herself again. She belonged to herself again.

  With a quick movement she swung the heavy curtains across the window and put on the light. No more moonlight and madness and mock love-making. Cold electric light was what was needed in this duel for her self-respect.

  She heard the door open behind her, and she turned to face him.

  “Lora!”

  She saw from his face that he had no idea what to make of her. He stood there, absolutely still for a moment, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing-gown. Then, without attempting to move, he said very quietly:

  “What is it, my dear? Have I frightened you?”

  “No—I’m not frightened.” She scarcely recognized the hard voice as her own. “It’s simply that—I don’t want you here with me.”

  He whitened a little, she saw, but still he didn’t move. “Why not, Lora?” was all he said.

  And then she found the words—words that cut the situation for them in clear outlines.

  “Because, though you may have married me for my money, no man shall be paid to spend the night with me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Leonora heard him draw in his breath in a sharp hiss, and she fell back at the expression on his face. He looked exactly as though she had struck him—white and incredulous, and still wincing from the blow.

  She couldn’t believe it was she who had made him look like that—stripped him of his magnificent self-possession and left him naked and bewildered. She was panting slightly, as though she had been running, and it seemed to her that her nerves must crack under the strain of waiting for his answer.

  “Well—why don’t you speak?” she got out at last, in a high little voice quite unlike her own.

  He did move then—put up his hand and passed it over his eyes.

  “What do you want me to say?” he said, and his voice was expressionless and slightly hoarse.

  “Why don’t you deny it?” She felt her composure breaking up, and she wanted this frightful scene to end before that happened.

  He raised his heavy dark eyes and looked at her.

  “Was that why you said it? Just for the pleasure of hearing me deny it?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, Bruce.” And she felt she would have given five years of her life to recall what she had said. “Only you must say something in reply.”

  “There’s nothing to say, if that’s how you feel,” he told her very quietly. And he turned and went back into his room.

  She stared after him, through the still open doorway, and then, on an impulse she could not check, she went after him.

  “Bruce.”

  He was sitting there
, slumped rather far forward in a low chair, and he didn’t look up when she spoke his name.

  “Bruce!” She was beside him, kneeing there with her arms round him and her face pressed imploringly against him. “Listen to me! Don’t look like that! I take it all back—all of it. Do you hear me? I didn’t know what I was saying. It’s because I’m not used to money. I think wild, idiotic things about it. But I won’t think it any more. Oh, forgive me—please forgive me.”

  “God, child, don’t keep on using that word to me,” he said, and held her close and put his cheek down against her hair.

  She was still then, absolutely still, except that she could feel her heart beating in the same slow, terrible thuds as his.

  “Bruce,” she whispered at last “Bruce, have I ruined everything?”

  “No.” He was whispering too. “Stop abasing yourself, my darling. I can’t bear it.”

  “But I had to say something.”

  “Well, you’ve said enough,” he told her a little roughly. “There is something I have to say now—”

  “Oh no.”

  “Yes. It’s got to be said.” He took her face quite gently in his hands and looked at her. “I don’t want your money, Lora. There’s my solemn word on it, here and now.”

  It was so utterly different from what she had expected that she gave a great sob of surprise and grief. He didn’t appear to notice that her tears were running down over his hands. He just looked at her steadily and said slowly:

  “I will never touch a penny of your money—not a penny, so long as you’re alive.”

  “Please—please—” Leonora couldn’t get out what she wanted to say.

  And then he seemed to notice her tears at last “Oh, don’t, my darling! Don’t cry like that.” He caught her in his arms and held her so that he hurt her. Then he kissed her wet face over and over again, until she thought she must die of pain and happiness.”

  “It’s all right, Bruce,” she gasped. “It’s all right” But she held him almost as tightly in her turn.

  She didn’t care what was the truth at that moment. She was ready to believe her own senses had lied when she had thought she heard him say those things to Agatha. Nothing mattered except that he was holding her and kissing her, and never again, by word or thought, must she break this heavenly spell.

  He was quiet at last, holding her so that her head drooped wearily against his arm, and her golden hair tumbled down over his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said unsteadily. “I’ve frightened and wearied you. You look almost as though I had broken you in half.”

  She smiled faintly at that.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered.

  “Shall I take you back to your room now?”

  “No.”

  It was quiet but absolutely distinct.

  “What do you mean?” She saw him bite his lip sharply, and at that she put her arms up round his neck.

  “You know what I mean,” she said, and leant her cheek against his.

  He didn’t say anything. He just gave that wordless little exclamation which she had heard from him once before, and got up with her still in his arms.

  And she thought absurdly: “He can put out the electric light now. It was moonlight I wanted, after all. Just moonlight and this heavenly madness.”

  When Leonora woke next morning she was alone. Bruce had already dressed and gone downstairs. They must have slept much later than they had intended, she supposed sleepily—or, at least, she had—because the light was certainly not the light of early morning.

  Oh well, it didn’t matter. They could do as they pleased. They were on their honeymoon.

  She stirred contentedly. It was good to be so happy after such storm. She winced a little even now when she thought of that scene last night.

  But why think of it? It was over now, and to-day there was only happiness.

  She got up too and dressed, after that, and if once or twice her commonsense suggested that there was something of the fool’s paradise about her happiness, it was not very difficult to silence it.

  He came in just as she was ready.

  “Hallo. Slept well?”

  “Yes, thanks. And you?”

  “Oh yes. I slept wonderfully.”

  They were elaborately casual to each other, faintly embarrassed, hardly knowing how to bridge the gap between ecstasy and everyday life.

  “Well, suppose we have breakfast now,” he said, and Leonora thought:

  “Thank heaven for meals. They are the most blessedly humdrum things under the sun. You can’t have emotional storms over food.”

  They sat in the sunlight by the window, lingering over a late breakfast. And they looked, Leonora supposed, just like any other honeymoon couple.

  Afterwards they went on driving rather more leisurely now, and not minding very much where they went. On the whole, they talked little, but the silences were contented. He was gentler with her than he had been before, but very slightly withdrawn in his manner, as though, for the very first time, it were he who scarcely knew what to make of her.

  At last he said to her:

  “I’m not specially interested in this part of the country, are you? Shall we work round gradually until we come to the East Coast?”

  Leonora smiled.

  “You mean you want to spend part of your honeymoon in Norfolk?” she suggested.

  “Oh—” There was a pause. “Agatha told you we used to live there, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to go back, Lora. I’ve never been back since—since I was a boy.”

  “Then let’s go. I’d like to see your home, too.”

  “It isn’t my home any longer,” he said, with an indescribably dark look.

  Leonora was dismayed at the intensity of his expression, and presently she said:

  “Bruce, couldn’t we have a place—you know, a small country house or something—near there?”

  “What! Near Farron and watch other people living there?” He laughed shortly. “Oh no.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that was rather clumsy of me,” she said gently. But at that he drew the car to a standstill and put his arm round her.

  “No. I’m sorry, Lora. You meant it very sweetly.” He kissed her. “But I don’t think we’ll choose just there. We can find something we both like, I am sure. But if I can’t have Farron, I would rather we were miles away.”

  She returned his kiss silently and thought: “Agatha was right. He is quite resigned about it now.”

  And then, as they drove on, she was almost certain she heard him say under his breath: “I can’t have Farron.”

  It was late one afternoon, during the second week of their honeymoon, that they finally came to Farron. All day the sun had been shining, and now it was sinking reluctantly behind a thick band of cloud, edging it with almost insolently bright gold.

  They had been driving in silence for some while quite slowly. And then Bruce stopped the car altogether.

  “There is Farron, Lora,” he said quietly. And, turning her head, she was able to look across a low stone wall and down a long avenue of trees to the house at the end, standing against the sunset.

  Half mansion, half farm-house, it spread itself a little luxuriously. Here and there it stretched out a gracious arm of mellow brick, as though the land around it were too ample to necessitate any cramping, and on every side sloped green lawns edged with trees, and beyond them again were fields and orchards.

  Leonora was absolutely silent. In the faint hush of the early evening it was possible to hear birds chirping sleepily quite far away, and she thought suddenly that for the first time she understood what was meant by the phrase “lovely peace with plenty crowned.”

  At last she drew a long sigh, and turned to look at her husband. He was gazing at the house which should have been his home, and his face was so quiet and expressionless that for a moment Leonora thought that the peace of the place had conquered even his feverish longing.


  “What are you thinking of, Bruce?” she said gently, and put her hand on his arm.

  He didn’t look at her.

  “I was thinking how bitter it is to hate the dead as I do,” was what he said.

  It was so utterly unexpected, so harshly incongruous as it clashed with her own thoughts, that Leonora almost snatched her hand away. Shocked and more than a little scared, she couldn’t think of a word to say.

  She thought: “My dear, what can I say to you? What can I say?” And yet she could not let him go on feeling like this. Suddenly she put her arms round his neck.

  “Bruce, don’t feel like that, look at me—don’t look at Farron.”

  “You.” He gave a very faint laugh. But he looked at her, with a sort of scornful tenderness. “What are you—against that?” And he touched her cheek with his fingers.

  She could not tell if he were teasing her gently or speaking in all seriousness, and she scarcely knew whether to be dismayed or touched. She put up her hand and pressed his fingers hard against her cheek.

  And she thought: “I don’t really know any more about him than I did that very first evening, when he touched my cheek and my heart like this.”

  Presently she said: “Do you want to go in and see the place properly? I expect we could, if you explained you used to live here.”

  But he shook his head, and looked very grim again.

  “No. When I come back to Farron, I’ll come as the owner, not as a sightseer.”

  He drew his hand away from her, and started up the car once more. Then, without even glancing at the house again, he drove on.

  They didn’t mention Farron again.

  They idled away a few days longer, motoring just where the fancy took them, and then, as the weather showed signs of breaking up badly, they decided to return to London.

  They arrived on a stormy evening, after a day of wind and rain. Agatha was delighted to see them and welcomed them both warmly. “You look so Well, Lora, dear,” she exclaimed. “What a pretty child you are.”

  Leonora laughed and then Millicent Dymster, who was also there, said:

  “There is no need to ask her if her honeymoon has been a success.” And it seemed to Leonora that they all three smiled kindly at her, and the world was a very bright place.