Читать книгу Danger Calling - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 6

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In a play the curtain comes down on a situation. In real life there is no curtain to come down; everything goes on; there is no darkened stage, no retreat to the dressing-room where one may refit for another part. Marian Rayne was not going to marry Lindsay Trevor—but the bath water was running.

It was as much a part of the scheme of things that he should have his bath, shave, dress, and go through the routine of an endless, empty day, as it was that the earth should turn upon its axis. The earth turned because of some compelling force.

It turned in fact because it had to. Lindsay would go on for the same reason. He thought with a kind of bitter resentment that he was not the first man who would have given almost anything to be able to blot out the immediate future, and by many millions he would not be the last. People talk and write about blotting out the past; but after some shattering blow it is the next intolerable minutes—hours—days—weeks which one would give the world and all to blot out.

Lindsay went through his accustomed routine. He bathed, shaved, dressed, and went into his sitting-room, where he put up The Times between himself and Poole and did what he could to make an inordinate amount of bacon look as if some of it had been eaten.

With a perfectly wooden face, Poole presently removed the mangled remains, returning immediately with two boiled eggs. He did not say anything. He put the eggs down and stood there with his eyes fixed on the back sheet of The Times. Lindsay could feel Poole’s determination that he should eat those eggs positively burning a hole in the paper. It was very difficult to deceive Poole. In this case it really was not worth while to try.

He pushed back his chair and got up, speaking abruptly, his voice a little louder than usual because it was an effort to speak at all.

“I’ve had bad news, Poole. I’ll tell you about it presently. Take all this away and clear out. I want to telephone.”

Poole asked no questions. When he was gone, Lindsay went to the telephone and gave the Raynes’ number, turning a singularly obstinate profile to the room as he did so. Everything in him was now bent upon the determination to see Marian. Anger, resentment, and outraged pride clamoured for a hearing. He told himself that he had not any idea of asking her to change her mind. No, he put it more strongly—he had no desire to make her change her mind. A change of mind, a swing of the pendulum—no, thank you! She had smashed their affair, and that was all there was to it. It was smashed, and neither of them could put it together again. The old jingle of Humpty Dumpty ran in his head: “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again;” and on top of that, quite irrelevantly: “You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” The words flickered on the surface of his mind, as such things do when the thoughts below cannot be faced. Lindsay was not ready for those thoughts yet.

Marian had smashed their marriage, and there was no mending it. But he was going to know the reason why. She owed him that. She had got to face the music—she had got to stand up to him and give him a reason for what she had done.

He got a servant at the other end of the line, and, after about two minutes, Mr Rayne, rather breathless. Lindsay wondered if he was breathless because he had been hauled in a hurry from the stables, or because he felt embarrassed at having to talk to him.

He said, “Hullo!” and then, “Is it you, Lindsay?”

Lindsay said, “Yes—Lindsay Trevor. Can I speak to Marian, please?”

“I don’t think you can.”

“I think I must.”

Lindsay could hear him clearing his throat. It seemed curious to hear Rayne clearing his throat thirty-five miles away and yet not to be able to get hold of Marian.

“This is awkward—very awkward indeed.” Rayne was certainly embarrassed.

“I’ve got to see her,” said Lindsay.

Rayne cleared his throat again.

“It’s very awkward. It’s—it’s damned awkward. Had you any suspicion?”

“No,” said Lindsay Trevor.

“You weren’t prepared in any way?”

He said, “No,” again.

“It was an absolute thunderbolt to her aunt and myself—an absolute thunderbolt. It’s—it’s—it’s incredibly awkward.”

“I want to see Marian.”

Rayne cleared his throat.

“She won’t see you.”

The woman at the exchange intervened. She had one of those bright voices.

“Thrrree minutes, please.”

“I’ll have another three,” said Lindsay sharply.

He was afraid Rayne would jump at any opportunity of getting away from his end of the telephone. He made up his mind what he was going to do. He said,

“Are you there? Can you give Marian a message? I think she ought to see me. I shall come down this afternoon. Will you tell her that?”

He rang off quickly. Then he rang up old Hamilton Raeburn and asked him if he need turn up at the office. Raeburn was fatherly and jocose—said they didn’t expect to get any work out of him this week, called him “my boy,” and finished up with, “My respects to Miss Marian.” He was one of the people who would have to be told. He wasn’t going to tell anyone until he had seen Marian, but then they would all have to be told—“The marriage arranged between Mr Lindsay Trevor of the well known publishing firm of Hamilton Raeburn, and Miss Marian Rayne, niece and adopted daughter of Mr William Rayne of Rayneford, Surrey, will not take place.”

Lindsay hung up the receiver. He had spoken on an impulse when he had told Rayne that he would come down that afternoon. He was wondering why he had put off to the afternoon what he might do now. It came to him that if he waited till the afternoon, he might find that he had waited too long. If Marian didn’t want to see him, he had given her plenty of time to pack up and go away. At the thought of arriving at Rayneford only to be told that he had had his journey for nothing, a sort of cold rage took hold of him.

He called Poole, told him he was going out of town for the day, and took a taxi to Waterloo. All the way down to Guildford he was going over things in his mind, going over the last three months with a determination to find some reason for what Marian had done. There must be a reason, and if there was a reason, he meant to know what it was.

He went back to the beginning. Three months before Bertie Raeburn had dragged him to a dance at the Raynes’. He could remember himself asking, “Who are the Raynes?” And Bertie: “Rolling, my dear chap—absolutely. One of the kings of commerce—throne just vacated—rural retreat running to about a thousand acres—pretty niece—chance for you—go in and win!” Lindsay had laughed and retorted, “Go in and win yourself!” It seemed a long time ago. He looked back with some curiosity and some amazement. Three months ago he would have said that he was the last person in the world to take an unconsidered plunge into matrimony; yet within a month of his first meeting with Marian he had proposed to her, and she had accepted him. During that month they had met perhaps half a dozen times. They had danced together in town, and he had spent a week-end at Rayneford. How much does any man really know of a girl whom he has met six times? Nothing—less than nothing. Yet he had asked Marian to marry him. She had clear eyes and a pretty smile. Her voice was sweet—and sweeter when she spoke to him. He discovered that he had been lonely all his life.

During the two months of their engagement they had met continually. Marian was a good deal in town with convenient cousins who were always pleased to put her up—kind, dull, elderly people whom Lindsay hardly knew. Actually he knew very little of either her relations or her friends. Those whom he met at Rayneford were not very much in his line. He knew the Raynes as little as any of them. Rayne bored him. He had made his money in steel, and since his retirement had gone crazy over racing. He had an idea that he was going to win the Derby in 1931, and he talked of very little else. Mrs Rayne was the most colourless woman he had ever met—an amiable, drab woman, with a Pekinese. He had wondered often how Marian came to be Marian. She stood out from her surroundings like bright water in a dull place. It didn’t do to think about that.

He came down to the last week. Marian had been up in town. They had dined and danced together. Everything had been all right. She seemed happy. It felt like a very long time ago.

He came to the week-end. A biggish house-party. Wedding presents pouring in, and endless letters to write. They had had very little time alone. She was pale, but when they said good-bye ...

Lindsay steadied himself. She had come down late. He had had his train to catch. They had a moment in the library, a bare moment. He had kissed her, and she had kissed him back.... He found that he could not think dispassionately of that moment. It came into his mind to wonder whether she had known that she was kissing him good-bye. It came into his mind and stayed there.

The train ran into Guildford station. The fat old man who had shared the compartment with Lindsay began to fidget with his suit-case and fumble at the carriage door. Lindsay let him get out first. There was no hurry. He had the blank feeling that there was no hurry about this errand of his. He had not now to count the lagging minutes until he could see Marian.

It was at that moment that he saw her. He had not quite reached the door. He looked sideways through the window and saw her walking down the platform. She walked as if she were walking in her sleep, her head high, her eyes wide open. She was pale. She wore a fur coat and a small black hat like a cap with wings. A porter walked behind her carrying a couple of suit-cases.

Lindsay drew back quickly and shut the door.

His first feeling was one of bitter anger. She was trying to cheat him. An equally bitter triumph followed the anger. She was going to discover that he was not so very easy to cheat.

The train was a corridor train to Portsmouth. She was doubtless on her way to the Isle of Wight. He knew that the Raynes had relations on the island. He sat back in his corner and waited for the train to move. As they ran out of the tunnel, he got up and walked along the corridor. He had no plan. He had no idea what he should do if he found Marian in a carriage full of people. Travelling first class, the chances were that she would be alone.

She was in the third compartment he came to. It was labelled “Ladies only,” and she was the only lady in it. He opened the door, stepped in, and shut it behind him.

She did not look round. She was sitting by the window looking out. Her hat and the high collar of her coat hid all her face. She did not turn her head.

Lindsay sat down in the opposite corner. He had meant to speak at once, but he could not; something took him by the throat. It was only a little over forty-eight hours since they had said good-bye. He sat there almost touching her, and she was as far away as the other side of the world.

He did not know how long it was before either of them moved. It seemed like a long time. He wondered why she did not turn. He wondered if it was because she had been crying. He felt that he ought to speak, to let her know that he was there, but for the life of him he could not do it. He just sat there.

Then, with a whirr and a rush, a train met and began to pass them. The noise and the impact of the driven air startled Marian Rayne. She drew back from the window, and saw Lindsay Trevor.

It must have been a shock. She had been very far away, and then when she turned, there was Lindsay so close to her that if she had moved her hand in a foolish seeking gesture, it must have touched his. She looked at him, and could not take her eyes away.

If she was shocked, so was he. It was plain that she had not slept; but it was not fatigue that had marked her face like that. The clear creamy skin with its light powdering of golden freckles looked like parchment. The freckles seemed to have darkened on it. Her eyes had wept until they could weep no more. The colour had gone out of them, and the starry look. There were marks under them like bruises. She must have been weeping all through the hours of a long night.

Lindsay was so shocked that he forgot his anger. He said her name—he did not know how. Her face did not change. She looked at him as if she were too tired to speak. Then she said, in a flat, extinguished voice,

“Why did you come?”

The train which had been passing them was gone. A cold, wet, wintry light shone on her. She put her elbow on the sill and screened her face from it with her ungloved left hand. He saw that she had taken off his ring.

That hardened him. It was all very well to say, why had he come; but he had come, and he meant to get what he had come for.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he said.

“I hoped you wouldn’t.” Her voice was so low that he had to guess at the words.

That hardened him still more.

“Naturally,” he said. “But you can’t break off our engagement four days before the wedding without giving me some reason for it.”

He thought she said, “I can’t.” Her lips moved. He thought they made those words. There wasn’t any sound.

He was angry by now. He wanted to hurt her, to make her speak. He said,

“I suppose you realize what will be said?”

There was another faint movement that said “No.”

“Well, people will say that one of us has made some unpleasant discovery. Your friends will believe that you have found out something about me, and I’m afraid that mine——” he stopped. After all, he could not say it. She was so pale.

Yet she spoke at once:

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps not.” Nothing really seemed to matter just then. “I just thought you’d better consider the point. But that’s not what I came down here for. I’m not here to persuade you, or talk you over, or anything of that sort. You needn’t be afraid. You’ve broken our engagement—it’s smashed. All I want is to know why you’ve done it. You’ve got to give me a reason. Do you see?”

She shut her eyes for a moment.

“I can’t.”

“You’ve got to. I’m not disputing your decision, but I’ve got to know why you made it.”

She sat there. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak.

“You’d better tell me. It will save trouble if you tell me at once.”

Her eyelids closed down over her eyes again. She leaned on her hand. That dumb obstinacy of hers was rousing the brute in him.

“Has anyone slandered me? I think I’ve a right to know that.”

She opened her eyes rather suddenly. They were dark and startled.

“Oh—no—no!”

That was something.

“You got engaged to me of your own free will?”

She nodded, still with that startled look in her eyes.

“Then I have offended—disappointed—or—perhaps bored you?”

She said “No” on a breaking whisper, and when she had said it, the tears began to run down her face. They changed his mood.

“Marian—for God’s sake! What is it? You look——” He could not say how she looked. He groped for words, and could not find them.

“For God’s sake!” he said; and then, “Marian—what is it? Some—trouble?”

She said, “Yes,” as if it was a relief, and leaned on her hand and wept.

“Can’t you tell me what it is?”

She shook her head.

“Not now,” she said. “Not—yet——”

He waited until he could steady his voice.

“There’s someone—else?”

She didn’t answer that.

“Marian—is there—someone?”

She lifted her head and pushed back the hair from her wet cheek.

“Oh yes—someone,” she said. There was something wild in her voice. She hid her face again with a sob.

“There’s someone—you care for?”

Her head had dropped on her arm. She spoke in a muffled voice.

“Oh, please go! I’ve told you—there’s someone. I can’t—marry you. Won’t you go away? I can’t—there’s someone I love—that’s why I can’t marry you. Oh, please, please go!”

He leaned across and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her so that she had to look at him.

“You care for this man—really?”

She looked up at him.

“I’ve told you.”

“You might have told me before.”

There was a silence. He could not bear her piteous eyes.

“Does he care for you?” he said sharply.

She said, “Please go!”

“Are you going to marry him?” His voice sounded strangely.

She said, “No—never.” She said it quite gently and quietly. And then, “Please go, Lin.”

Lindsay went.