CHAPTER II

CHAPTER II

THE girl whom Paul Irving had called Stephanie went on talking, without appearing to expect much in the way of a reply. Which was just as well, because Marigold was quite unable to pay my close attention to what was being said.

After staring aghast at Lindley's photograph for a couple of seconds, she somehow managed to drag her gaze away, but she glanced back surreptitiously from time to time, wondering distractedly what its significance was, here in this room.

Was this charming, hospitable creature—who was even now anxiously making up the excellent fire on her behalf—another of Lindley's 'weekend girls'? The coincidence would be quite horrid and fantastic enough to be in keeping with this incredible evening. On the other hand, the girl certainly didn't look the kind who would go casually weekending with a man. Nor did she look the sort to be easily deluded. ('Like me,' thought Marigold with a good deal of self- contempt.)

There must be some simple explanation. Life couldn't go on being so melodramatic. After all, the most likely thing was that Lindley was a friend of the family, whose photograph graced the sitting-room because he was something of a celebrity. And, clinging to this blessedly sane explanation, Marigold recovered sufficiently to express some sort of thanks for the trouble that was being taken on her behalf. So that when Paul Irving came into the room a moment later, she managed to summon up a smile.

As he stood there for a moment in the doorway, his dark eyes slightly narrowed against the bright light, and his thick brown hair dishevelled and damp from the mist outside, he looked much younger than he had before. And both the smile and the kiss which he bestowed upon his sister had something engagingly boyish about them, though Marigold—now that she considered him attentively—put his age at not less than thirty.

Stephanie returned the kiss with evident affection.

'Would you like to do some introducing now?' she said. At which he laughed and replied, as though the discovery surprised him:

'I'm afraid I can't. I don't even know what our visitor's name is.'

'Oh, I never thought to tell you.' Marigold looked up quickly. 'It's Turner—Marigold Turner.'

What a pretty name. I've never known a Marigold before. My name is Stephanie, as I expect you heard Paul say. Stephanie Marne, would you like to come upstairs now and I'll show you your room. Then you can have a hot wish while I get you both something to eat. You must be starving.'

Somehow Marigold got to her feet, though the second shock made her feel almost as dazed as the first.

Stephanie Marne! It was impossible—quite, quite impossible!

Fortunately neither was looking directly at her. Paul was lighting a cigarette and was having trouble with the lighter, and Stephanie had already turned to lead the way upstairs.

In silence, Marigold followed her—across the small, cheerful hall and upstairs to a charming bedroom, where a bright little electric fire shed a comforting glow on apple-green chintz and white-painted furniture.

'You can have the room I got ready for Paul. It won't take any time to put him up in my other spare room.'

'Oh, but isn't that rather a shame? I mean —this is so warm and cosy and all ready for him. I can't turn him out!'

'He won't mind,' Stephanie smiled. 'He'll be all right in the other room, and you need it more. I don't think you know how white and fagged you look.'

Marigold gave in. It was impossible to protest against so much kindness. Besides, there was something she had to say before her hostess left her alone. Something much more important than any question of where she was to sleep.

'What did you say your other name was?' she asked, with an abruptness which she immediately felt was ill-judged. 'I—I mean, I thought your brother said his name was Irving, and yet—'

'Oh, as a matter of fact, we never had the same name. I'm not really his sister at all—not even a stepsister. I was an adoptee—or whatever the right word is for someone who is adopted,' Stephanie explained. 'But anyway, Marne is my married name. My husband is Lindley Marne, the writer. That's his photograph downstairs. You may have heard of him.'

'Yes,' Marigold said slowly, 'I've heard of him.'

And then Lindley's wife gave her a pleasant little nod, and went away, after having told her that the bathroom was across the landing and that she was to make herself at home, even to the extent of having a hot bath right away if she felt really chilled.

When she was left alone Marigold sat down slowly in the chintz-covered chair by the fire. She didn't want a bath. She had forgotten now that she had ever felt chilled. She wanted only to sit there quite still and try to take in the incredible facts which had been crowding upon her.

So this was Lindley's wife! This girl—no, perhaps 'woman' was the word—with her warm, rich colouring and her warm and kindly temperament. Could anything be more different from the cold, statuesque, unsympathetic creature which Marigold's imagination had presented to her as the wife of the misunderstood Lindley?

She burnt with shame as she thought of the gross injustice which she had been prepared to do this charming woman. An injustice which, but for a series of accidental happenings, she would have carried through to its bitter and irretrievable conclusion.

A sense of guilt, heavier than anything which had visited her in all her relationship with

Lindley, weighed so terribly upon her at this moment that Marigold felt the only possible thing was to slip away out of the house so that no more coals of fire, in the shape of undeserved kindnesses, could be heaped upon her repentant head.

Common sense demanded something a little less abasing and eccentric, but for a few moments Marigold did really feel that she could not go downstairs and face her hostess—or, for that matter, the man who had come to her rescue almost without question, and who, now that he had her in his sister's house, regarded her with a mixture of kindliness, amusement and puzzlement which she found exceedingly disquieting.

If he could possibly imagine for one moment the situation from which he had really saved her!

Life, Marigold realised, was becoming quite terrifyingly complicated. And then, with an effort, she recalled the fact that she had already idled away an absurd amount of time. She must wash and tidy and hurry downstairs, and put as good a face as possible on the awkward situation in which she found herself.

But, lively though her dread had been of the scene awaiting her, she found as soon as she was downstairs, that it was impossible to maintain that feeling of nervous tension in the company of Stephanie Marne and her brother. There was a directness and simplicity about them which put her at her ease in spite of herself and, over the hastily improvised meal, Marigold found herself calling them by their Christian names (as they did with her) and entering into their gay, inconsequential conversation as though she had known them for years.

If only this had happened, she thought, before she met Lindley! With kind, sane, common-sense friends like these, one would perhaps never have been tempted to embark on that ridiculous and shameful adventure with Lindley.

'Poor child! She's half asleep already.' Stephanie's voice broke in on her thoughts. 'And no wonder. It's a ridiculous hour of the morning. You go to bed now, Marigold, and sleep as late as you like. You're staying with us over tomorrow, of course.'

'Oh, but I couldn't!' Marigold exclaimed, overcome by delicious terror at the prospect.

'Why not? Paul says you'd be going back to an empty flat and no food. You'd much better stay with us.'

'Thank you.' Marigold laughed and flushed. 'But you can't really put up with a perfect stranger for a whole weekend.'

'Why not?' Stephanie wanted to know equably. 'And, anyway, you aren't a stranger.'

'The only excuse to which we will agree to give ear is that you definitely don't want to stay,'! Paul added, still with the same gravity which did not, however, reach his laughing eyes. 'If you wish to cause us both mortal offence by suggesting that—'

'No, no! Of course not. I'd love to stay, but——'

'Then it's settled,' was the very final decision of both Stephanie and her brother. And Marigold, divided between guilty fear and excited joy, had no further objection to make.

Of course it was preposterous to be staying here with Lindley's wife when what she had really intended to do was to spend the weekend with Stephanie's husband. But events had proved too much for her and perhaps the only really sensible thing to do was to take the pleasure of this stolen weekend while she could, although, of course, she would somehow have to sever the connection later.

That final thought did cause Marigold real dismay as she switched out the light and lay back in bed. But there was no escaping from the reluctant conclusion. Too many lines would cross and too many risks be invited if she allowed the friendship with Stephanie and Paul to become 'something more than a temporary delight. Any other time she might have lain awake and worried over the inevitable loss of something which, she knew instinctively, would have meant the end of the loneliness she dreaded so much. But the fears and hopes and excitements of a scaring day had completely exhausted her at fist, and almost immediately Marigold fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep.

She woke the next morning to bright wintry sunshine, the awareness of being perfectly rested and the sadden discovery that Stephanie was standing beside her bed with a breakfast tray. By the strong morning light she could see now what a very striking-looking woman Stephanie was. Probably in her early thirties and, while not strictly beautiful, with a charm of colouring and expression that was extremely arresting. Her beautiful copper-coloured hair grew back from her forehead in deep, shining waves, and her skin was that peculiar warm cream shade, with a natural matt surface, which goes only with that special shade of hair. Like Paul, she had eyes that were dark and exceedingly well set, but, beyond that, they were so little alike that Marigold thought now she must have realised, even without being told, that there was no real relationship between them.

Stephanie came and sat down on the end of the bed, apparently quite willing to talk while Marigold had her breakfast.

'Paul told me about your wretched old uncle. I'm so sorry. It must have been hateful for you.'

'Yes, it—it was.' Marigold carefully spread butter on her toast and contrived not to look at Stephanie. The lie about the apocryphal uncle seemed sillier and more shameful than ever now. 'But it's over. I'm not going to bother to think about it any more,' she added hastily.

And Stephanie said, 'No, I shouldn't,' as though it were quite usual to get involved in questionable situations with horrid uncles and then have to be extricated.

'Anyway, I shouldn't have known you and Paul but for—for that happening.' She wanted somehow to put into words that it had meant a great deal to her, knowing these two.

Stephanie smiled.

'That's true. And it was only just in time.'

'Only just in time?' Marigold was well aware of the truth of that from her own point of view, but she was alarmed—and her tone showed it —that Stephanie should say that.

'Oh, that's not as dramatic as it sounds.' Stephanie laughed. 'Only this is my last weekend here in this house. I'm coming up to London at the end of the week, and I shall be in digs or a flat or something. I'm starting work in a nursery school there and I hope we shall see a lot of you, Marigold.'

Somehow Marigold managed to say that she hoped so too.

It was true, of course. She did hope it with all her heart—only she had no idea where all this could lead in the end. The more she wanted to keep the connection, the more imperative it seemed to become that she should break it.

'Do you like your work?' Marigold asked, because she had to say something.

'Yes. I love it. I'm very fond of children.'

A truly dreadful possibility struck Marigold.

'You—you haven't got any children of your own, have you?'

'Oh, no.' Marigold drew a quick sigh of relief. Somehow her guilt would have, seemed even heavier if there were children involved.

And then, as the silence lengthened a little oppressively, she glanced at Stephanie.

Stephanie gave a quick shrug and sighed slightly in her turn.

'I suppose you're bound to know pretty soon, since you're a friend of ours now,' she said, thoughtfully pinching little humps in the eiderdown. 'My husband and I don't get on at all well. We—well, we don't see much of each other.'

'I'm—sorry.' Marigold said—inadequately, she felt. And then, aware that there was something else which she must add, she said hastily, 'I think I ought to tell you, before you say anything else, that I work for the firm who publish your husband's books. I mean—you —well, you might not want to say more about it, if you knew that.'

'Oh, do you really?' Stephanie looked surprised, perhaps because Marigold had not mentioned the fact last night when she first heard about Lindley Marne being her hostess's husband.

'Yes. But I—I'm probably leaving soon,' Marigold added, suddenly taking that momentous decision in her stride. She didn't allow herself time to think about it. She only sensed, in a moment of confused illumination, that this cutting of the knot would at last remove the dreaded necessity of seeing Lindley again, and, at the same time, might even separate her old life from the new sufficiently to allow her to continue the perilous delight of being friendly with Stephanie and Paul.

'Are you?' Stephanie looked at her doubtfully. 'What are you going to do? You're still going to be in London, I hope.'

'Oh yes, It's just that—there's not much scope in my present job.'

'Can you do accounts and records and things, besides typing?'

'Yes. If they're not dreadfully complicated. Why?'

'We need someone terribly badly in my school. I wondered if there were any chance of your—'

'Stephanie! How marvellous! Do you mean I might have the job—working with you? I'd simply love it.'

'It wouldn't be actually working with me, because I'm with the children all day. But yes, we'd see a good deal of each other, of course, and in a way we should be working together. What are you being paid in this other place?'

'Sixteen pounds a week.'

'Hmm. I think I could get you that. It's pretty hard work. You'd have all the responsibility of the office and records part.'

'I shouldn't mind that.' And Marigold, who had never before grasped eagerly at responsibility, suddenly found that she wouldn't mind it. Something about Stephanie inspired confidence.

'Well, we'll talk about it more presently,' Stephanie said as she stood up to go. 'Would you like to get up now? Or would you rather stay in bed?'

'No, no, I'll get up, of course,' Marigold assured her. 'Can't I come and help you with lunch or something like that?'

'No. Everything's under way all right. But you can come down and talk to Paul, if you feel like it. He's lazing away his morning very comfortably by a big fire and will be glad of your company. He works so hard in the usual way that I like him to have a lazy day when he comes here.'

Marigold wondered what it was that he worked at so hard, but Stephanie had already gone, so she had to keep the question for a later occasion.

When she came downstairs she found Paul —as Stephanie had said she would lounging comfortably in front of a big fire.

He got up as she came in and asked her with a smile how she had slept.

'Marvellously, of course.'

'Of course?'

'Worn out by dramatic adventures,' Marigold said lightly, 'and now safely under the care of a perfect hostess.'

'Don't I play any part in this?' he wanted to know.

'Why, certainly. Without your help, I shouldn't be here at all.'

'No. Nor would you,' he agreed. And she noticed that the reflection appeared to afford him a considerable amount of satisfaction. 'A good day's work on my part. Or rather, a good evening's work.'

Marigold laughed, but she really wanted to get the subject away from her escapade at the hotel, so she said father hastily:

'Stephanie says your day's work is usually a pretty hard one.'

'Meaning that I don't look much like it now?' he suggested with a lazy smile.

'I didn't mean that.'

'You might have with perfect reason,' he assured her. 'I've been doing nothing with the greatest concentration and enjoyment for the last two hours. But, in the ordinary way—yes, I suppose I work fairly hard.'

'What is your work?'

'I'm a research chemist.'

'Oh!' It didn't sound very glamorous, she thought.

'Stephanie tells me you may be going to work at her place,' he went on.

'Oh, yes.' Marigold looked up, her face alight with pleasure. 'I do hope I can.'

'So do I. You'd be good for each other.'

'Should we? At least—Stephanie would be good for anyone, of course. But I don't know how I could be specially good for her.'

'Oh, yes. You're very real and human and warmhearted. Stephanie can do with that. She hasn't had too good a time.'

Marigold looked back into the fire so that he shouldn't see that she was agitated. She knew, of course, what that 'not having had a good time' meant. But she felt too over-whelmingly moved and remorseful that he should so unhesitatingly credit her with kindly understanding and a warm heart.

'I hope I deserve the flattering implication.'

Marigold spoke lightly to cover the fact that she was moved.

'Oh, yes,' he said, as though there could be no two opinions about that.

Marigold smiled and raised her eyebrows.

'Do you always make up your mind about people so quickly?'

He didn't answer that immediately, but gave her a very thoughtful look. Then he said, 'Nearly always.' And somehow she felt reluctant to continue the discussion and was glad that Stephanie came in a few minutes later.

It was a charming day after that. Over lunch Marigold's proposed change of job was discussed at length, and she found the enthusiasm of the other two infectious.

What had seemed at first a reckless undertaking now appeared the only sensible course to take, and she was as eager as Stephanie and Paul to discuss the best means of bringing about.

When she thought about it, she was aware of a sort of astonished wonder at the completeness with which the depression of the last two years had dropped from her. And with it had gone most of the fears and complications of the Lindley episode.

'One can't really change from one day to the next, like this,' she told herself incredulously. But she felt very much like someone recovering from a bad illness which had culminated in fever and delirium. Now all that was over. She saw the final stage of the illness for what it was at last, and so she was free to get well and be happy again in a brightening world.

'It's lucky you live in North London,' Paul remarked as they sat round the fire after lunch, sipping their excellent coffee. 'My flat's that side of Town too, and Stephanie will be looking for something in the same district.'

'And it's convenient for the school too,' Stephanie added. 'We couldn't have arranged it better.'

'Anyway, if it hadn't fitted in well, I should have moved,' Marigold said airily, as though half a dozen alternatives offered—to all of which she could have adapted herself with equal ease. It was almost intoxicating to find that one could be resourceful and confident after all.

'It is comfortable where you are?' Stephanie wanted to know.

And Marigold said, 'Oh, yes.' For, all at once, her flatlet was no longer the scene of lonely solitude, but a place where one could entertain one's friends very pleasantly.

'You must come and see me there,' she added. To which both Stephanie and Paul said, 'Oh, we will,' very promptly and heartily.

Even the necessity of an early departure after tea failed to lower Marigold's triumphantly high spirits. After all, she would be seeing Stephanie again in less than a week—and for immediate comfort she had the prospect of a drive with Paul. A prospect which she found attractive in the extreme.

It was almost like being one of the family to have Paul bringing her case downstairs and Stephanie giving her a friendly hug as she said: 'I'm so glad we've got to know each other.' 'I'm glad too—much more glad than you can imagine,' Marigold returned with fervour.

Paul only smiled at this outburst of feminine feeling, but Marigold had the distinct impression that he was very well satisfied with the new friendship too.

'Stay in the warm while I get out the car,' he said. 'And didn't you say something about sandwiches, Stephanie? She won't want to start scrambling round for a meal when she gets home to a deserted flat.'

'Of course.' Stephanie rushed off into the kitchen. 'They're all ready,' she called in answer to Marigold's protests. 'I've only got to pack them up.'

Paul went out to fetch the car from the garage, and for a moment Marigold was left alone in the pleasant, firelit sitting-room.

For the first time, she could gaze her fill at the photograph on the side-table, and she did so —with the strangest conflicting emotions.

Thirty-six hours ago her whole existence had centred round the original of that photograph. Now he seemed the one element likely to upset the happy pattern of the future.

If only—

But it was no good lingering wistfully over those two futile words which cover so much, but effect so little.

Outside she could hear the sound of the car on the gravel of the drive, and now of Paul going back to close the garage door. There was the clink of china from the kitchen, and then, above those more subdued sounds, the sharp ring of the telephone at her side.

As though she were indeed one of the family, Stephanie called out from the kitchen:

'Answer it, will you, Marigold dear? It's one of my neighbours who was going to ring. Tell her I shan't be a moment.'

Marigold picked up the receiver and said, Hello.'

And quite unmistakably—so near that it seemed to be in her very ear, Lindley's voice said:

'Is that you, Stephanie?'

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