CHAPTER V

CHAPTER V

Just for a moment Marigold allowed the sheer beauty and relief of the situation to engulf her. She hid her face against Paul's shoulder—felt l he rough tweed of his coat against her cheek, and beneath that the hard muscle that indicated such a satisfying strength.

He was not Stephanie's. He was hers. There was no barrier—no friendship which stood in the way of her loving him. No qualm of conscience which must be studied in preference to the simple, almost primitive desire to claim him as hers and to admit that she was his.

It was no longer necessary to pretend to herself or to him that she had nothing but a comfortable, friendly feeling towards another woman's future husband.

In that blissful second or two Marigold knew real happiness, and even Lindley was forgotten in the exquisite enjoyment of that realisation.

And then Paul said, 'What is it, love? Aren't you ever going to speak to me again?'

She looked up then and he kissed her once more. Much more lingeringly this time and with a significance that made her gasp and kiss him in return.

'That's better.' Paul gave a slightly relieved laugh. 'I began to wonder if there were real something wrong.' And when he said that she remembered. Remembered that life, which had seemed so beautifully simple for a few moments, was really more horribly complicated than ever.

She remembered Lindley then, and that Stephanie was going to divorce him—because of that poisonous little girl-friend, who might perhaps remain anonymous, but who in any case was the object of Paul's utter loathing and con tempt. And she was the poisonous little girl friend, and she was here in Paul's arms, in the middle of a deserted street, while a beneficent moon went sailing in and out of the clouds, pro viding all the light which was necessary for this romantic scene.

Marigold moved sharply, as though she would have withdrawn from his embrace.

'What's the matter?' He bent his head down to hers at once, and she could see the tender, possessive way he smiled at her, even in the uncertain moonlight.

'Paul, it's imposs—— I mean, you must give me—some time. I haven't even thought about it.' 'Then think about it now.' 'I can't. There's so much to consider.' 'There's only one thing. Do you love me?'

'That isn't the only thing.'

'Do you love me?'

'Paul, I can't——'

'Do you love me?'

'Yes, of course. But I——'

'Then be quiet about the rest. There's nothing else that matters.' And he kissed her almost roughly.

Again she yielded to the supreme happiness of the moment, and again Lindley and all that he implied was wiped from her mind. She heard Paul give a satisfied little laugh. Then they were walking on again slowly together, he with his arm round her, and he was saying:

'What else is there to talk about except that we love each other? There's a funny little streak of cowardice in you, Marigold. I don't know why. But anyway, it doesn't matter, because I'm never going to let you be afraid about anything again. You're a little bit afraid about life itself, aren't you? That was why you wanted time to think over something you knew the answer to the moment I kissed you. There wasn't any real reason why you shouldn't own that you loved me, was there?'

And Marigold, dazzled and bewitched, said, 'No.'

'You hadn't got used to the idea that it was all right about Stephanie. You'd decided to sacrifice yourself for what you thought was Stephanie's happiness. And then suddenly you found there wasn't any need for that and you could be happy. That was it, wasn't it?'

And because that was at least half the truth, Marigold said, 'Yes,' and hoped he would go on talking for ever about their happiness and the ease with which they could attain it, so that she need never think again of the dangers that lurked round the very next corner, and the fact that one false step on this giddy and glorious tight-rope could mean disaster.

Sometimes she hardly paid any attention to the actual words he was saying. The feel of Inarm around her and the sound of his deep, tender, confident voice were all that were necessary to make her happy. There would come the moment when she had to wake up, of course, but for the present she was wandering through a maze of happiness, where nothing had the sharpness of reality and so nothing had the power to hurt or frighten her.

And then the world of realities touched her once more, because he said coolly -and determinedly:

'When are you going to marry me?'

'Oh, Paul——' He couldn't know of course what a train of terrible and delicious possibilities that started. 'Do I have to decide that right away too?'

'Of course you do.' He laughed, and kissed the lip of her ear teasingly. 'Do you think I'm going to let you believe you've imagined all this tomorrow morning?'

'I shouldn't think that, anyway,' she said soberly.

'Well, then, perhaps I should. I feel half bewitched as it is, and I want to tie my happiness down to dates and times, and then perhaps I'll believe it. Is a fortnight time enough?'

'For—for what?'

'To get ready to marry me, of course.'

'Paul, we can't do things like that!'

'Who's to stop us?'

She felt like saying, 'Lindley,' hysterically, but she choked that back and said instead:

'A fortnight will be plenty of time. A week would do, if you like it best that way.'

And he caught her close and held her without a word. Only she knew he was more deeply moved than he had power to say. And presently he took off his signet ring and put it on her finger, and said huskily:

'I'll get you something better tomorrow, love. But that's just to show you're mine—now and always.'

They walked the last five minutes of their way in silence, but it was the silence of content and understanding. Then he said good-night to her and she went into the house, with the magic of the last hour like a golden shield between her and reality.

The peculiar mood of confidence—almost of exaltation—stayed with her until she was in her own room. Then, perhaps because its familiar features spoke so strongly of other days, the chill of remembered, inescapable facts began to grow upon her.

Marigold sat down on the side of her bed and gazed into the rigid, unanswering brightness of her gas fire. One could not make pictures in a gas fire. One could hardly dream dreams before it. There was something ruthlessly prosaic about it which recalled one to actual fact in a way it was hard to avoid.

There was the fact that Paul loved her, but there was also the fact that she had so nearly belonged to Lindley. There was the fact that she was to marry Paul in a week or two, but there was also the fact that she was to be the correspondent in Stephanie's divorce suit in a month or two. To what did all these facts add up? What was it she really should have done?

Perhaps if she had not been so completely taken by surprise she could have pretended firmly and convincingly that Paul meant nothing to her—that she was terribly sorry, but he must look elsewhere. And then, unhappy though he would have been at her refusal, he would perhaps have got over it fairly soon when he knew there was no hope at all. And he might have been happy with someone else eventually and never known that the girl he first loved was worthless. Wasn't that perhaps what she should have done? Wouldn't that have given Paul his best chance of happiness?

Or should she really have told him the truth? In that moment when he had asked her what was the matter, ought she not to have found the courage to say, 'I'm not a bit as you imagine. I'm the girl who went away with Stephanie's cad of a husband for the weekend. Nothing really happened, but I don't expect you to believe that, and anyway, it hardly matters because I went with the intention of letting it happen.'

Was that what she ought to have said? Only, of course, she could never have found the courage to do so. Paul was right. She was afraid of life. There was a streak of cowardice in her. But he called it 'a little streak of cowardice' and spoke as though it were something endearing instead of contemptible.

And now the moment for doing anything was past. She had said that she loved him. She couldn't take that back. She had said she would marry him. She couldn't take that back. She had to go on. Whatever the consequences to herself or to him, she had to go on.

Something of her earlier recklessness returned to her. As Paul had said, there was so little time for everything. Who knew what might happen from day to day? One fact she had never taken into consideration. Lindley must be on the point of going to America—or perhaps had already gone. The divorce might be delayed beyond any time she had dared to hope for. That meant disappointment for Stephanie, perhaps, but for herself it meant time—precious time—in which to erect some sort of vague and powerful defence which she could not quite define to herself, but which seemed at any rate possible, viewed at a distance.

If she and Paul had been married some while and had already built something of their happy life together, she might even risk telling him the truth some day, and then she need never be afraid of exposure again. What was it he had said about that play they had seen? Something which had struck her as oddly comforting even at the time, when it hardly applied to themselves.

Yes, he said that everyone might think they could never be happy again, but when people were necessary to each other, everyday life reasserted itself and somehow one put things together again. That was it. Once you had become necessary to each other, you could withstand the shock of some disastrous discovery. Besides, if only she could find the courage to tell him herself, that would somehow make it better.

Rather wearily, Marigold dragged herself to her feet. She could sit like this all night, alternatively frightening and reassuring herself, and she would come no nearer any real tranquillity. Well, it didn't matter. She had taken the only decision that mattered. She was going to marry

Paul in a week or a fortnight. And if Fait thought that was a challenge which must be taken up, then Fate could do its worst. At least she would have been Paul's wife, and known what happiness was.

In spite of a short and restless night, Marigold was up in good time in the morning, and she presented herself at the nursery school with a punctuality which made Stephanie exclaim:

'My dear, dear Marigold, even happiness doesn't put you off your stroke, I see. Bless you, darling! Paul rang me early this morning and told me the news. I can't tell you how happy I am about it.'

'Oh!' Marigold laughed and returned the very warm kiss which Stephanie bestowed on her. 'He didn't lose much time in spreading the news, did he?'

'No. But then that's just like Paul. You didn't mind his telling me, did you?'

'Of course not! It's just that I'm trying to get used to the idea myself, and I'm not quite sure whether it makes it more real or unreal to hear someone else talking about it.'

'Well, you've got to get used to it pretty quickly, haven't you? Are you really going to be married in about ten days' time?' Stephanie asked interestedly.

'I think so. At least, Paul said a fortnight and I said a week if he liked, and now he seems to have split the difference,' Marigold laughed, and Stephanie looked extremely pleased.

'Well, that doesn't sound as though he had to use much persuasion,' she remarked approvingly. 'I'm so glad, Marigold. Of course you don't need me to tell you what a dear and splendid person he is, but I'll say it, all the same. I've known him for as far back as I can remember, and he's always been good and decent and straight. That counts a lot in a man. I know that.' And she made a slight face. 'Paul doesn't just tell the truth. He lives the truth. It simplifies married life a lot when two people are like that.'

Marigold murmured something noncommittal and appropriate. She felt ashamed and oddly embarrassed that Stephanie never questioned her own standards of truth being the same as Paul's. And perhaps, thought Marigold wretchedly, they were. Only circumstances had been rather cruelly against her lately. No one could have wanted the truth more passionately than she did. But perhaps wanting was not enough in itself.

It was impossible to feel that this was a day like any other day there had ever been. There was the strangeness of her new work, the fascination of being surrounded by lots of chattering children where before she had been used to loneliness and isolation, there was the ever-present consciousness at the back of her mind that, in spite of everything, she belonged to Paul and he to her, and then finally there was Paul himself, coming to collect her at lunch-time, so that she could lunch with him and go to buy her real engagement ring.

'Don't hurry back,' Stephanie told her. 'We'll be official enough on other days, and I'm not being lenient just because it's you. But one doesn't get engaged every day, and you must have time to choose your own ring.'

Marigold laughed and promised not to be too long, all the same.

'And anyway,' she said to Paul, as they went down the drive together, 'I'd almost as soon have the signet ring as any other. Somehow it means so much. You know—what you said when you put it on my hand.'

'Yes, I know. And I meant it. You can keep that if you like, darling. But I want you to have a real engagement ring too.'

She found that she also wanted one, when she saw the possible choice spread out before her. For the first time she realised that Paul must be at least fairly well off, because he hardly seemed to mind what he spent on her ring. It would be like him, of course, to be carelessly generous about such a thing in any case, but it was something more than that.

As they went out of the shop together, she slipped her arm into his and said with a frank curiosity that had something ingenuous about it:

'Are you quite rich, Paul?'

He laughed very much at that and asked:

'Does it matter if I'm not?'

'No. Of course not,' Marigold said, and she meant it.

'No one is rich in these days, darling. But I think I can promise that my wife won't want for any essentials. Will that do?'

'Yes,' Marigold said contentedly, 'that will do. But very much less would have done quite all right too. In fact, I wouldn't mind a bit if I had to go on earning my own living so as to keep things going.'

'I should,' he told her firmly.

'But I can go on with my job at the nursery school, can't I?' she said anxiously. 'I've only just started and I know I'm going to love it.'

'My darling, you do just what you like,' Paul assured her. 'And yes, I should think that much the best thing is to stay on with Stephanie. She wants you there, it's a proper job of useful work, and if you think you're going to be happy there, that settles it. Do we get any honeymoon, by the way?'

Marigold considered that seriously, though it really made her feel giddy just to think of the word 'honeymoon' in connection with Paul.

'It seems frivolous to ask for a holiday just as soon as I've started my work,' she said doubtfully. 'Do you think we could make do with a long weekend, and have a holiday together later—say, in the spring when the days are longer?'

'I think that's the best way,' he agreed. 'I don't really want to take much leave at the moment either. We'll see if we can stretch our weekend from Friday to Tuesday morning, shall we?'

She laughed and nodded.

'Have you any ideas on where you would like to go?'

'No,' Marigold said, because she thought all places would be equally lovely with him.

Hadn't a bare London street contrived to be Paradise last night?

'May I make a very sentimental suggestion?'

'Why, Paul, of course!' she laughed. 'Are you really rather a sentimental person?'

'I expect so. Anyway, all men are on the day they buy an engagement ring.'

'All right. What's your sentimental suggestion?'

'Let's go back to the place where we first met, shall we?'

'The—place-—where we first met?'

'Yes. Now don't tell me you've forgotten where you first met me. Recollect the hearty thump in the back which you bestowed upon me on the upstairs landing.'

'That hotel! Oh, no, Paul.' Dismay sharpened her protest in a way it was impossible to disguise. The idea of going back to that hated place where Lindley had taken her as his weekend girl!

'Why'—Paul looked as astonished as he felt—'why, we won't go if you feel like that, my dear. I tell you—it was the merest sentimental impulse. But of course, if you don't want to go, we'll find somewhere else.'

'Oh, yes, I—I'd much rather somewhere else.' She made a desperate attempt to recover her composure and, at the same time, think of some explanation for her dismay. 'It's silly, of course. But I—oh, well, I had such a horrid experience there. I—I don't think I want to go back there.'

'With the uncle you mean? I'd forgotten you might feel that way about it.'

'Yes,' she said with great relief. 'Yes. It was that beastly incident with Uncle.'

'And even the recollection of meeting my fascinating self hasn't wiped that out?' he grinned at her.

'Oh, Paul—— Yes, it has. Only—only I'd rather not go back there.'

'All right. Well, think over where you would like to go, and we'll arrange it.'

'Yes, I will. I'll think about it this evening——'

'You're coming out with me this evening.'

'Well then, I'll think about it tonight. Perhaps somewhere quieter, Paul—more on our own. I don't think I want a big hotel, do you?' She was anxious that they should both feel there was every reason why they should not go back to that place where Lindley had taken her.

'Perhaps you're right,' he said thoughtfully. 'What we want, of course, is one of those magic cottages where the work is all done by someone invisible and one has the place to oneself.'

'Well, we'll make something magic of wherever we go,' Marigold declared with a smile.

But it was Stephanie who made the really good suggestion, when Marigold was telling her that afternoon of their tentative plans for a weekend honeymoon.

'Why don't you go to my house—the place where Paul first brought you?'

'Stephanie! It's a wonderful idea. But I thought the place was let furnished after you left.'

'It was going to be, but the arrangement fell through for the moment. The house is there if you want it, Marigold dear, and no one will be more pleased than I if you choose to go there,' Stephanie said earnestly.

In a moment Marigold knew that this was what she would really like. This was the place where she felt Paul and she had come to know each other. Not that hateful hotel. The hotel was like the last chapter of her life with Lindley. Stephanie's charming, friendly house had been a new beginning to life in every sense of the word.

'Oh, Stephanie, I should love it. If only Paul will want it too,' she exclaimed.

'Paul,' declared Stephanie emphatically, 'will want whatever you want, my dear.'

And so it proved to be.

In the full sand exciting ten days which followed, Marigold sometimes wondered what it was like to be engaged for a year and linger happily over all the details of getting married. There must be a leisured charm about it, she thought, and a great deal of pleasure in prolonging the anticipation. But the urgency and speed of her own short engagement had an element of drama and excitement; which she decided was perhaps even more fascinating.

One advantage it certainly had, and that was that there was so little time to indulge in the doubts and fears which would otherwise have assailed her. And if sometimes, at night in bed, she was overcome by a sort of sick panic which set her heart pounding and made her throat constrict, there was no one to know about that, and the sane light morning and the demands of her work were always sufficient to thrust the fears away again into the recesses of her mind, where, if they were not exactly conquered, they were at least temporarily under control.

Marigold's wedding-day turned out to be one of those incredibly bright and exhilarating days which do occasionally force their way into a murky winter, making p_{eople say)} <_Isn'_{t t}hi_s heavenly?' or 'Such unseasonable weather,' according to their dispositions.

Perhaps because of that, Marigold found herself entirely confident and tranquil. She had rather anticipated that she would be a prey to last-minute anguish and doubt. But instead she found herself enjoying the sunshine, the short drive to the church and even the fussy kindliness of her father's old solicitor, who had, with quite touching alacrity, taken on the office of 'giving her away.'

There had been some difficulty about this detail of the wedding until she recalled her father's old friend, because, as she had explained to Paul and Stephanie, 'I simply haven't a relation in the world.' To which Paul had, very naturally, replied, 'Except your poisonous uncle, and I suppose he wouldn't do.' And Marigold had very firmly ruled out her mythical uncle and resorted to making a timid request to the old family solicitor to fill the role.

And so it was his kind and courteous platitudes that filled her ears as she drove to church on her wedding morning.

It is one of life's injustices that, while a woman usually looks her best on her wedding day, a man is very apt to look his worst. But

Paul, with admirable good humour and sangfroid, contrived to rise superior to the occasion —even to the strain of a very quiet wedding m an almost deserted church—and the smile which he gave Marigold, as she came towards him down the unexpectedly sunlit aisle, seemed to her the final brightness in a dazzling and beautiful day.

Afterwards, the family solicitor had to hurry away (to bury another client, as a matter of fact, only he had sufficient tact not to inform the wed ding party of this) and Marigold and Paul, together with Stephanie and David Trevlin, who had acted as best man, repaired to the Savoy Grill to celebrate.

To Marigold it seemed that she was in some gorgeous fantasy. She felt slightly intoxicated —not with champagne, but with happiness—so that she had a spurious courage which appeared to her at this moment to be more than sufficient for coping with any crisis which was likely to arise. If she thought of Lindley at all at this time, she thought of him as on the way to the United States—or even already there. A thousand things might happen before he came back to England, and it seemed not unreasonable to suppose, on this happiest of happy days, that one of those 'things' might solve her problems for her.

With Paul beside her, and Stephanie and David Trevlin, so obviously happy in each other's company, opposite her, it was difficult not to believe that the legendary state of living happy ever after had not come upon them all.

In the early afternoon Marigold and Paul bade the other two good-bye and set off on their brief honeymoon.

By six o'clock they were sitting by the fire in Stephanie's house, having tea together, with the happy consciousness that the house, which was their own little world for the moment, was entirely theirs.

It was after tea that Paul discovered that he had run out of cigarettes. 'I'll run down to the local, darling, and get some. I shan't be more than a quarter of an hour,' he promised.

'All right. And I'll clear away, and pretend to myself that I'm being a capable housewife.'

'You don't mind being left?' he asked anxiously.

'Of course not,' Marigold said, and laughed. 'I feel at home here, anyway.'

And when Paul had gone, she cleared away the tea things, and wandered through the house, examining everything and taking in the full pleasure that—even if it were only for a few day —this was her first home with Paul.

Queer to think that it had been Stephanie'', home—perhaps with Lindley. Or had she come here after they had more or less separated?

Marigold didn't want to think along those lines. All that belonged to the past. It was absurd how one's thoughts could never be entirely detached from something which had happened She was glad no photograph had been left here. Not, for instance, that photograph which had given her such a terrible shock on the first evening she had come. She stood now looking round the same room and, even without the photograph, the events of that evening re-formed themselves in her mind.

She tried quite consciously to reject the memory which forced itself upon her, but for the moment she was powerless to resist it.

And then, to her unspeakable relief, the doorbell rang, and that meant that Paul was back, and the beautiful present immediately overwhelmed the hateful past, and there was nothing to worry about any more.

She ran into the hall, hardly able to contain her relief and joy, and flung open the front door.

Standing outside on the step was Lindley.

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