It was in this frame of mind that we came to the jewellers, and we stopped a long time there. First it was a pendant that attracted her, and then a brooch; in my preoccupation I was amused to study her and to notice that her taste was by no means bad. We stayed there so long that I became aware that it was here that I must do my stuff. I don’t suppose there was a thing in that window worth much more than twenty pounds.
It was a brooch, a single bar of platinum with an emerald in the middle, that she was admiring at the time. I smiled, thinking it was like giving toys to a child to make it be good. “You can have that, if you like,” I said. “Or any of these other things.”
As soon as I had spoken I knew that I had done it wrong. She stared up at me, wrinkling her brows. “Do you mean you’d give it me?” she demanded.
I didn’t quite know what to say to that. “If you’d like it,” I replied. “Either that or anything else in there that you’d like.”
She stood there staring up at me. “Do you mean I can have anything I like out of that window? Anything I like to ask you for?”
I nodded. “If you’d like anything there.”
There was a silence. She stood looking in at the window without speaking for a minute, and I knew that things had gone most desperately wrong. In an endeavour to retrieve the situation I said awkwardly: “Would you like to go inside and have a look round?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I want anything now. They’re not very nice.”
I was humbled and amazed. We went on looking at shops in a desultory manner, but all her pleasure in the walk was gone. She seemed listless and depressed, and after a decent interval she suggested that perhaps it was time we got on the road again. So we went back to the car. By that time I knew what was wrong. I had hurt her very deeply by the way in which I had offered her the whole contents of the shop; I could imagine that in her parlance that was not the way a gentleman would give a present to his girl friend. The worst of it was that I could see no way in which to put things right.
We slid out of the town into the suburbs and up the hill upon the Axbridge road. It was a lovely evening on the road, but that didn’t do us any good. Before, she had been chattering to me all the way, pointing out things by the roadside and lighting cigarettes for me, but now she sat quiet by my side and even the automatic lighter failed to amuse. From time to time she said something with forced gaiety, but there was a constraint between us that the swift passing of the miles did nothing to remove.
We went down through Axbridge and across Sedgemoor, through Bridgwater to Taunton. With the coming of the evening we ran into Devonshire and down to Exeter. It was about half-past seven when we passed through that; I took the Dartmouth road. I was in my own country by this time. Chudleigh was my destination for this stage, and twenty minutes later we pulled up at the Running Hart for supper.
Try as I may, I cannot remember much about that meal. I suppose we ate in silence punctuated by little forced remarks; I know that nothing happened which would make the situation any easier. Only one thing I remember. They know me at the Running Hart, and they gave me to wait at table a boy that I know something of, whose uncle is a shipwright in my yard. This boy is a pretty good golfer in his leisure time; he got into the semi-final of the South Devon Championship that year. I think he must have told us about that as he served the meal, because I cannot think of any other way in which I should have known.
It was nearly dark when we had finished. We had a cup of coffee in the lounge; several times during that I felt that Sixpence wanted to say something, but it didn’t come. At last we went out to the car. I had turned her off the road into the stable yard, and there she was standing on the cobbles by the mounting-block, gleaming a little and enormous in the dusk. Sixpence had followed me, a pace or so behind, but as I opened the door for her to get in she stopped motionless beside the car.
“Mr. Stevenson,” she said, so low that I had to drop my head to catch her words. “Please, I don’t think I want to come on any farther with you. I’m so dreadfully sorry.…”
There was a bat wheeling and darting round the yard against a deep blue sky. I stood there staring absently into the dusk, at the dark shadows in the open stable doors, the tin advertisements of poultry food upon the russet walls, the haystack by the gate. This was the England that I knew; in coming down from Leeds I had come south from a foreign land, and brought with me a foreign girl.
I bent towards her. “It’s exactly as you like,” I said. “You needn’t come with me unless you want to, you know.” That wasn’t true, of course. Now that I had got her so far she would certainly complete her journey to identify the wreck at Newton Abbot, whether with me or with the police.
She hesitated, at a loss for words. “I think I’d better spend the night here,” she said at last, “by myself. And then I’d go up north again by train to-morrow.”
I nodded. “I’m so very sorry this has gone wrong,” I said quietly. “I mean that. If you could tell me what’s the matter—I’d do anything I can to help, you know. Don’t worry if you’d rather not.”
She looked up at me. “I feel so awfully mean telling you,” she muttered, “after all the trouble you’ve taken, and the things you’ve done, and everything. It’s just that I don’t want to go on with it.…”
I smiled at her. “That’s quite all right,” I said. “You don’t want to worry about that.” I knew that sort of scene by heart; it happens to me every eighteen months.
She raised her eyes and looked me straight in the face. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, and I didn’t mean it to end like this when I came away with you—truly I didn’t. I suppose it’s that I’m not really the sort of girl for this. And you’re not the sort of man, either.”
I was staring into the dim expanses of the field beyond the gate; the bat was still sweeping and circling about the eaves. “Why do you say that?” I asked, without looking at her. “Why do you say I’m not the sort of man?”
She hesitated, and then said: “The way you were talking to the waiter.…”
She came a little closer to me in the dusk. “I’d like you to know,” she said simply, “because you’ve been so kind, and perhaps you won’t think so bad of me. Lots of the girls go away for holidays with gentlemen and just don’t seem to mind, but I never did that. Only once, and I didn’t know about things then; I was seventeen, and I didn’t know. And that was ever so long ago—I’m quite old, you know.” She smiled up at me tremulously. “And then you came, and it was all so different. I’d never had a gentleman quite like you before, although I’ve met lots, you know, coming to dance. And then I couldn’t have my holiday, and I was sort of silly about that, although it doesn’t do to be silly about things, does it? And then you came and asked me to come away with you. And I thought it didn’t matter.…”
It seemed to me that this young woman was labouring under a considerable misapprehension as to the nature of her holiday. I stood there resting one foot upon the running-board of the Bentley and I was silent for a minute, considering the position. At last I said:
“You can go home if you like—you know that—and I’ll fix up a room for you here, and go away. But you’re quite wrong about me.”
She looked up at me. “I don’t understand.”
I dropped my foot down from the running-board and stood erect. “I’m thirty-nine years old,” I said, “and I must be a damn fool, because although I’ve got plenty of money I’ve never taken a girl away the way you mean. Not even when I’ve had it chucked at my head. You were right when you said I’m not that sort of man, and I don’t take any credit for that, either, because it’s how you happen to be made.”
I paused. “You think that because I offered to buy you anything you wanted from that shop, that I was trying to buy you. Well, I wasn’t, as a matter of fact. I meant you to come down to my place for an ordinary holiday, like I told you.”
She stood there looking up at me. “I don’t understand,” she said again. “I’ve neve
r met anyone like you a bit.…”
I smiled at her. “We aren’t going on our honeymoon,” I said, “although I know it looks a bit like that. I meant it to be just an ordinary holiday for you—sort of staying with friends. Only there’s only me and the servants in the house.”
“You mean you just wanted me to come and keep you company, sort of?” She paused. “Not anything more than that?”
I nodded. “Nothing more than that.”
There was a little silence then, and then she said, half to herself: “Just because you were lonely, like, living all alone.” I hadn’t anything to say to that.
She raised her face to mine. “I’d like to come on with you,” she said simply, “if you’ll let me now. I didn’t know it was like that. You must think me awful, though.…”
It was very dark and shadowy in the yard. It seemed to me that I had slipped back fifteen years, that I was still a boy with all the glamour of a young man’s life in front of me, that I could mould my life to what I chose and make it good.
“My dear,” I said, “I think you’re simply sweet.”
In the dim light her upturned face was like a flower. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she murmured in the dusk. “I don’t know what to say.”
The bat was still wheeling and flickering above our heads against a deep blue sky, the poultry food advertisements had faded into dim shadows on the russet walls, the night was very still. She stood there very close to me, her face upturned to mine; we were more together then than we had ever been. With a little sigh she came into my arms and rubbed her face against my overcoat.
It was over seven years since I had kissed a girl.
After a little time we came unstuck, and got into the car. I swung her out of the stable yard on to the road, and then we sat quiet for a time in the gloom behind the headlights, very close together, talking in low tones. It is twenty miles from Chudleigh to my house. It seemed like two to me, that night.
We passed through Dartmouth and up the shoulder of the hill. At the top I swung the car in through the gates and up the drive, and we came to rest on the gravel sweep before the house, three hundred miles from Leeds. I switched off the engine, and the silence closed down on us, infinite, complete. We sat there for a moment silent in the dark; then I stirred, and we got out of the car.
The front door opened and Rogers was there with one of the maids; he came forward and busied himself with our luggage. I spoke a word or two to him; from the open door a stream of light poured out into the darkness where we stood. Then I turned to where the girl was standing by the car.
She came up to me: “Is this where you live?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Let’s go indoors.”
She hung back a little by the car. “It’s awfully big,” she breathed. “It’s like the pictures.…” And then she said: “Whatever is that noise?”
I listened for a moment. I could hear nothing beyond the usual small noises of the night, the rustling of branches in the breeze, the low murmur from the beach. I laughed. “That’s the sea you hear,” I said. “On the rocks, just down below that lawn. You’ll see it from your window in the morning when you wake.”
For a little time we stood there listening, sniffing the sea air. “That’s it,” I said. “It’s when the wind’s in the south-east that it makes that noise. Blows straight in.”
“Oh——” she said. “It’s going to be lovely here.”
We went into the house. Mrs. Rogers, my housekeeper, was in the hall; I noticed that she looked at her a little bit askance. I spoke a word or two to Mrs. Rogers on the subject of spare rooms and light refreshments, and by the time I’d finished she had clearly understood that her position would be vacant if she gave me any nonsense of that sort. She went away then, and I had no further trouble with her in that way.
Both Sixpence and I were tired from the drive; there was a fire in the library, and we went in there. She was shy and very quiet, very observant of the house. She refused a drink, but jumped at the proposal of a cup of tea and a piece of cake before the fire; I poured myself out a whisky and put on a few records on the gramophone to allow her to keep quiet. Then we were ready for bed.
I took her up and showed her to her room. There was a bright fire burning in the grate and the room looked very comfortable; her things were all laid out. She hadn’t very much. I looked round and made sure that she had everything she wanted for the night—soap and towels and all the rest of it. I crossed with her to the window and drew back the curtain; two hundred feet below the moon cast dappled shadows on the water at the harbour mouth. “There’s the sea,” I said. “You’ll see it all when you wake up.”
We turned back into the room.
“What’s that door?” she asked.
I crossed the room and opened it, smiling a little; the light shone brightly on white tiles and silver pipes. “That’s your bathroom,” I replied. “Not my bedroom, as you might suppose.”
She rippled into laughter. “Oh, you are funny. I mean, I didn’t mean that when I asked you what the door was.” She sighed. “It’s all so lovely here I don’t know what to say.”
“Better say good-night,” I remarked. “That’s a safe one, anyway.”
She came up to me. “Good-night,” she said simply. “And thank you so much for the lovely day I’ve had.”
“Good-night,” I said, and went down to the library again. There were one or two letters to be opened, and one or two instructions to be given to Rogers about matters of the house. And then I sat smoking for a long time, irresolute, staring into the fire. At last I reached out for the telephone and rang up Fedden at his house.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got the girl down here. What do you want done with her?”
There was a moment’s pause. “One moment. Where is she? Where are you speaking from?”
“Speaking from my house,” I said. “You don’t want her to-night, do you? I’ve sent her up to bed.”
“I can’t do anything with her to-night,” he replied. “We’ll examine her in the morning. You know Norman’s down here? He came down this afternoon. About this girl—has she made any statement to you?”
“None at all. I haven’t tried for one. I brought her down here because I thought she could identify the lorry.”
He paused. “I don’t understand. How did you get her to come down here, then?”
“Personal charm,” I said laconically.
“Oh.…” There was a little silence then, because Fedden is a better sort than I am. “Then she doesn’t know anything at all about this matter—why you’ve brought her down?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” I replied. “Still, I’ve got her here. What do you want me to do with her?”
He considered for a moment. “Bring her to Newton Abbot police station at half-past ten to-morrow morning,” he said at last. “I’m meeting Norman there at ten. In all probability he’ll show her the lorry there.”
“All right. Are you any good at scenes?”
“Did you say scenes?”
“Yes, scenes. You’d better come prepared for one, because we’re pretty sure to have it.”
“Oh.…”
“One thing more,” I said. “I take it that my responsibility ends to-morrow, when I hand her over to you. I’ll arrange to have her clothes packed up and sent along to you later in the day. The position is that I deliver her to you at Newton Abbot, and you take charge of her from then onwards.”
He hesitated. “If you like. I don’t see that we can ask you to do anything further in the matter after that.”
“That’s all I wanted to be sure about,” I said. “Good-night.”
I put up the receiver and moved the decanter over to a table by my chair. The fire was dying in the grate; I threw on more coal and beat it savagely into a blaze.
I sat there till the room grew cold and dark. Then I went up to bed.
CHAPTER VI
I CAN’T have got much sleep that night, because I was awake at da
wn. That was about four o’clock, I should suppose; it must have been about the second or third of June. I lay and watched the light growing in the room till I could see from the glow that there was sunlight out of doors, and a clear sky and an easterly wind for settled weather.
It was no good lying in bed; I gave up the attempt to sleep, got up, and had a bath. Then I went downstairs in my dressing-gown and pyjamas and wandered absently about the house a bit; my chair and glass were as I had left them in the library an hour or two before. I went through into the model room and drew the blinds. The morning sun streamed through into the room and I stood there idly for a little time, studying the hull shapes on my drawing-board. At that time I was working on the design of the small cruising yacht that I laid down last month when I came back to Dartmouth; I think she will turn out a pretty little craft, embodying all that I have ever learnt about the game.* I stood there studying the lines till I became absorbed, moved T-square and curves, and stood there working at the hull until I heard the servants moving round the house.
I went upstairs to shave and dress, and when I came down again Sixpence was before me. I came down into the hall treading quietly on the thick carpet of the stairs, and stood there for a moment sorting through my letters. Then I looked up and through the open door of the library I saw her standing at the entrance to the model room. She had not heard me in the hall.
I watched her for a minute. She stood there very quiet, staring about her, taking it all in. She was dressed in the same grey costume that she had worn the previous day and had taken the same pains over her face; her thick black hair was coiled about her ears. I watched her as she moved slowly forward into the model room, treading very softly as though she was uncertain if she ought to be there at all. She passed into the sunlight by the window; deep colours showed up in the folds of her hair and warm tints on her neck below the powder line; she moved with a quiet grace that was, perhaps, in part an attribute of her profession. She stood there for a time by the window in the sun, looking about her at the models, careful not to touch the cases as she moved. Presently she slipped over to my drawing-board and paused for a long time over that, uncomprehending.