Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 12

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IN prosperous childhood days, Clare and her sisters had been guardianed by a devoted nurse. When “her children” were grown, Nurse Janet married, but her first family was never deposed from its place in her affections. Now her tiny home was Clare’s temporary harbor.

It was while she and Janet were at tea that same evening that Clare had an inspiration. She jumped up from the table excitedly.

“Janet—I’ve an idea! I must go out and phone at once. I shan’t be long.”

“But my dear, you’ve been running about all day. You’ll be tired out!”

“You don’t know my reserves! I want to go and talk to Mr. Hillier.”

“Mr. Hillier,” Janet echoed, following Clare into the narrow passage. “I always used to hope you’d marry him.”

“You old dear! So did lots of people—only not ourselves. That’s why we’re such friends now.... I’ll be back soon.”

She dashed out of the house and along the road to the post office. She found the telephone number and rang up excitedly.

“Has Mr. Hillier gone yet?... Then may I speak to him?... Miss Chalmers.”

A long pause.

“Hullo! Is that you Morton?... Oh, I thought it was Mr. Hillier. Isn’t he there?... Tell him I want him please.... Sure it’s you this time?... Say it again.... Yes, now I know your laugh. Well—you’re a real faithful friend, aren’t you? You don’t want to go back on it?... Then I want your help.... Financial? Oh, no thanks—you don’t need to bring anything along—though it’s sweet of you. Can you come and see me at once?... Yes, at once! I’m lodging with Janet—you remember? We’ll find a corner where no one will intrude.... Do I sound happy? Well, I am!... I’ve just come back from Paradise—a little place on the West coast.... You don’t know it? You old duffer!... Come along at once—at once.... Good-bye.”

Clare had lost many precious things from her life—she had found many unvalued ones. She had walked lonely in the darkness with bereavement, treachery, sickness and pain. Friends whom she had trusted had failed her—others she might have trusted had asked more than she could give. But still there had remained a few elect—ever loyal. The woman who—though she lose a lover—can always boast a friend, can never be wholly poor.

When Morton Hillier came into the little parlor which Janet had hurriedly tried to beautify, Clare felt grateful for him—her best friend.

“You’re a dear to come right away!” she said directly. “I wanted some help and I thought of you. After I’d phoned I remembered it might be no good at all—but anyway it’s nice to see you!”

“You don’t mind if I smoke? Thanks.... Now, what is it?”

Hillier lit his cigarette, and through the curtain of the smoke-cloud, studied her attentively.

When he had last seen her, her vitality had been very low. Now she was brimming over with life. The sharp lines of the thin face had given place to soft curves; the thick hair which had lost its lustre was burnished once more, and held a few stray sunbeams imprisoned in its waves. The mouth which he had seen set in unacknowledged pain, was tender with smiles; the face which had been so pale was softly tanned by sun and sea; and, more than all, the eyes—which he remembered dark with suffering—were full of light and color and a wonderful joy. She rested her elbows on the head of the red plush sofa—her cheek on her clasped hands.

“I want work, I’ve been hunting for it all day—but it isn’t easy to get. I’m tired of telling my age, and what I can’t do, and where I’ve been. Suddenly I thought of you. Now Morton, you’re not to make work, mind; but do you remember you wanted a lot of stuff typed some time ago and I couldn’t do it? I wondered if you had any now. I may as well say at once—I’m an expert! And I’ve got my own machine.”

Hillier hesitated. He wanted to know what lay behind.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Anyway, I’m afraid I haven’t very much.” He smoked thoughtfully.... “But I expect I could get you some.”

“Could you really? At the ordinary rates, mind!”

He laughed. “How long do you propose to live on typing ‘at the ordinary rates,’ may I ask?”

“Well, I don’t exactly want to live on it. I should have to take some of it to live on, I’m afraid—unless I’m quick. But I want to—to—get some things that I want to work on while I’m living on the money that I have. I’ve no time to lose, or ...” she laughed light-heartedly and her laugh was music—“or there won’t be any left to live on,” she concluded, without fear.

“And afterwards?”

Hillier saw the color flood her cheeks and her bright eyes grow brighter. He had never thought her beautiful before.

“Afterwards,” she echoed with a catch in her voice. “Afterwards—I shall be fixed up.”

He studied the end of his cigarette.

“You want some money in the meantime?”

“Yes—it’s absolutely essential. I must earn some.”

“I say, Clare—why not let me help? We’ve been friends long enough, and you know I’ve heaps. We’re all so foolish over money. Pretend we’re back in Apostolic times—when they had all things in common!”

“But I’m afraid I can’t make my riches common, so I mustn’t let you share yours with me! But I shan’t forget.... Can you get me the work?”

“I should like to know what you’ve got to live on,” he suggested.

Clare blushed again.

“It’ll last a few weeks. It’s so cheap here. But I want to earn some more at once.”

“I had been thinking of asking you for something,” and he took out another cigarette.

“Ask anything!” she said rashly.

“Well—Pam’s keen on having a little place in Sussex—chiefly for the children. I’ve seen just the right thing, and I’m furnishing it. I’d been wondering whether you could let me have some of those things of yours that I always coveted. The grandfather clock, and that old chest....”

Clare jumped up suddenly—then sat down again on the rug.

“What a silly!” she exclaimed. “I forgot all about them!”

“I always knew you were practical,” Hillier observed appreciatively.

“So did I,” she agreed. “But do you really want them? Honestly?”

“Honestly. Where are they now?”

“Stored.”

“You’ll not be wanting them?”

She hesitated—but there were things that she wanted more.

“No,” she said decidedly. “But, Morton, if you really want to buy them, you must get someone else to price them. I won’t trust you.”

He smiled. “You’re horribly suspicious!”

“I was born that way. I won’t have cheating!”

“Anyway, the things I want—even without cheating—will bring you more than you could earn by typing ‘at ordinary rates’ in a good many weeks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Will you have something in advance?”

“Oh no.... When will you look at the things, Morton? You’re to be sure and not have them unless they are exactly what you want!”

“I promise that if my memory has deceived me I’ll have none of them.” He threw away the end of his cigarette. “Are you going to tell me his name?”

She looked at him blankly.

“But—” she began.

“Is it a secret?”

She held out her bare sunburnt hands.

“You see—” she hedged, smiling.

“Will it be diamonds?”

“No—one large pearl.” She blushed again. “Oh, Morton, how did you know?”

“If you want to keep it to yourself, you must hide those eyes of yours,” he said, looking at her keenly. “Even that won’t do it, unless you wear a veil!”

“Is it really as obvious as all that?” she asked softly.

“It is,” he said very quietly, for there seemed to him something wonderful about her radiance.

She looked up, and for a moment he wondered fiercely if any man were worthy of her.

“It is Martyn Royce,” she said, in a tone that was new to him. She clasped her hands round her knee as she sat on the rug.

For a moment Morton looked at her in astonishment.

“Martyn Royce!” he echoed. “The novelist? Surely not!”

Clare smiled happily. “But surely,” she said—“Why not?”

“You are engaged to him?” incredulously.

Clare nodded. “Say something, Morton,” she pleaded, as Hillier remained silent.

He roused himself. “You took my breath away. But of course I wish you everything good. You deserve it!” He continued to study her face. “Martyn Royce! And you’ve been looking for work!”

“Don’t you understand, Morton—I know I shan’t be able to get many things, but what I get must be beautiful.”

“You meant to stay on here until you married Mr. Royce?”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Does it harmonize?”

“It’s all harmony inside!”

“But it’s the outside that shows.”

“I don’t look at that!”

Morton pondered again.

“Look here, Clare, you’ll just have to come to us till you’re married! You’re no good at all at looking after yourself. Pam’ll love having you. So will the kiddies. They’re getting such jolly little youngsters.”

“You take my breath away now!”

“What does Mr. Royce think of your being here?”

“He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m still by the sea. I couldn’t tell him that I was going to look for work.”

“I should think not! Well, Pam’ll be along tomorrow to fetch you. But when he wants you we’ll just get out of the way.”

“How lovely you are!”

“I’ve been called many things, but never lovely before,” he said laughing.

“Do you know him?” she asked shyly.

“I met him some years ago, but not since he’s made his name. We’ve conducted one or two law cases for him, but I didn’t happen to meet him personally. One hears a good deal about him. He seems to be rather a wonderful man.”

“He is,” she agreed. “But—do you know, Morton—I was slow in finding that out.... Must you go? You have been good. Thank you a thousand times!”

Janet came along the passage as Morton opened the door. Clare took the redirected letter from her hand with a bright “Thank-you”; then her cheeks flushed.

“How dared they!” she exclaimed. Then, catching Morton’s eyes, she laughed. “I wish they hadn’t crossed out his writing,” she explained.

His hearty responsive laugh made Janet wonder what was happening.

“You’ve got it even worse than I thought! I think it’s quite time for me to be going.”

They gripped hands, and a moment later he was in the street.

“How brilliantly happy she looks,” he thought, as he strode along the lamp-lit pavements. “But I wish—I wish—it had been anyone else.”

But Clare had no wish left. She was curled up on the foot of her little bed, reading and re-reading her first love-letter; the prose-poem that was more eloquent than any of the books by which Martyn Royce had made his name—his first letter to the woman he loved.