Such is love (4 page)

He had taken her in his arms then, whether she liked it or not, and said:

"No, you're not a steel contract. You're a golden dream. But I don't take 'no' all the same. I've moved too quickly —I see that now. But I'U wait. There is such a thing as siege as well as attack."

That hadn't been the end, of course, but it had been the beginning of the end, and a month later she had been wearing Van's diamond on her engagement finger.

Only then had she wondered how much of the past she ought to tell him. And, after a night of tormenting uncertainty and self-questioning, she had decided definitely— nothing, nothing, nothing.

Perhaps it was difficult to say now how much or how little she had been to blame in that horrible episode of her youth. But one thing was quite certain— nothing^ could make it sound anything but sordid and dreadful, once one put it into words. One could not expect Van, with his uncompromising outlook, to regard it as anything else.

Her past was her past. She had no need to lie—only to keep silent. And the two people in the world who knew

her story would keep silent, too. Of that she was certain. Nowadays she was strong enough to keep her own counsel, strong enough even to forget—almost. And perhaps, in the new and happy life with Van, she would learn to forget altogether.

She was glad he was coming to dinner tonight. She realized, with some amusement for her own ingenuousness, that she was so proud of him that she wanted to show him off even to Aunt Eleanor.

Gwyneth glanced at the silver clock on her table.

Twenty past seven. He would be here any moment now. She had better go down.

And then she remembered—he was going to have a talk with her father. Then, perhaps, she had better do her duty as a niece and go and make herself pleasant to Aunt Eleanor. She could show her the presents in the library and let her see for herself how handsome her own offering looked.

But when Gwyneth knocked on the door of her aunt*s room, she found she had already gone downstairs, presumably to the library.

The door of the house stood open and there was a beautiful glimpse of the garden, gracious and sleepy in the warm evening light. From her father's study came the sound of voices. That would be Van and he talking.

Gwyneth felt very happy and curiously tranquil. Afterwards, she used to think of it as the quiet before the storm, but at that moment she only thought that perhaps the searching of past memories had really laid some ghosts and given her peace of mind.

More slowly she went through to the back of the house where the library was. Here, too, there was a murmur of voices. Evidently Mother was before her and she was dutifully showing the presents to Aunt Eleanor.

Gwyneth was tempted to leave her mother to it, and snatch a quiet ten minutes alone in the garden. But that would be rather a shame. She paused just outside the slightly open door, and as she did so, her aunt's voice drifted to her.

"Sandra," (that was Mother's absurdly melodramatic name, but it suited her), "either you are utterly insensitive or you have no appreciation of danger."

"Oh," thought Gwyneth amusedly, "so Mother is going through it now. Had I better go in or ?"

"I am not aware of any danger," Mother's beautiful voice stated coolly and positively.

"But don't you understand that it's the very same orphanage? The very same. Evander Onslie is one of the head trustees of Greystones."

For some reason she couldn't define, Gwyneth suddenly found her heart beating high up in her throat. She was frightened at the noise it seemed to be making—frightened, in case she should not hear mother's next words. But they came quite clearly to her.

"Very well. Van is a trustee of Greystones. What about it? For what earthly reason should Gwyneth suppose that Greystones has any significance for her?"

With a hand that shook slightly, Gwyneth pushed open the door and went into the library. Aunt Eleanor was standing by one of the long tables where the presents had been laid out, her expression angry and agitated. Mrs. Vilner was leaning back in an armchair regarding her with an air of tolerant amusement.

At the sound of Gwyneth's entrance, they both turned their eyes on her, and while her mother's face became quite blank. Aunt Eleanor's paled slightly.

Gwyneth shut the door and leant against it—partly because she felt she needed some support.

"Aunt Eleanor," she said very quickly, "will you tell me why Greystones Orphanage should have any significance for me?"

CHAPTER TWO

Aunt Eleanor opened her mouth, gasped slightly, and closed it again.

"My dear," Gwyneth's mother said smoothly, "what are you talking about? The place has no significance for you at all, apart from the fact that Eleanor was just telling me she understands Van is a trustee of it."

"And that fact agitated Aunt Eleanor very much. Why? And you were reassuring her with the statement that I was ignorant of any significance it had for me. Why?"

"You are imagining things," Mrs. Vilner said coldly.

"And you are lying," Gwyneth retorted brutally, "Aunt Eleanor, will you speak to me? I am asking you. You're more afraid of lying than Mother is. You must tell me the truth."

"Gwyneth—^reaUy, my dear—it's quite absurd—and you're being extremely rude to your mother."

"Rude!" Gwyneth laughed rather harshly. "Rude! What does that matter at a moment like this?" She came slowly forward into the room, her eyes never leaving her aunt's agitated face. "Never mind about the orphanage, then. I want you. to answer another question instead. It's simpler and it's much more vital. Did my baby really—die, or was that just another of Mother's lies?"

"Really, Gwyneth, I never heard such—Sandra "

Aunt Eleanor^s eyes sought those of her sister-in-law almost imploringly.

"No, don't ask Mother's " assistance. Just answer my question. Yes or no?" Gwyneth knew that her aunt could keep a secret so long as she was not questioned, but she genuinely quailed before a flat lie.

Behind her, she could almost feel her mother's cold anger, but she refused to be intimidated. She simply stared at her aujnt and repeated quite gently:

"Did my baby die—or is he still alive?—at Greystones, perhaps?"

"Gwyneth—it's most terribly unfortunate—so much better that you should never know—all over years ago

really. You must just think of him as dead, child "

Aunt Eleanor's voice stammered into silence.

Gwyneth took no more notice of her. She swung round to face her mother, who still leant back in her chair, regarding the scene with a slight smile which concealed her lury.

"You hateful, wicked woman," Gwyneth said slowly. "So you settled all that, and then covered your tracks by lying to me when I was too ill to do anything but beUeve you."

Her mother remained unmoved, though Aunt Eleanor's gasp showed the measure of her horrors at such words being addressed to a parent.

"Don't be absurd, my dear." Mrs. Vilner kept her voice quite low, just as Gwyneth herself did. "Why behave like

someone in East Lynn? And still more, why blame me? I did what was much the best thing for us all, at a time when you were certainly not in a fit state to make your own decisions."

"You lied to me." Again Gwyneth's voice sounded almost harsh.

"And why not? Would you have been any happier during the last five years if you had known the truth?"

"I had a right to know the truth and judge for myself."

"You had judged, Gwyneth. You had consented to what I did, in the months before the child was born. Do you suppose I was going to have all our careful arrangements shattered for the sake of an hysterical outburst of sentiment? You were too ill to reason clearly. You simply didn't know at that time what was best, or what was absolutely impossible."

"The—the baby's coming changed that."

"Oh no. I'm no beUever in these last-minute miracles of mother-love," Mrs. Vilner retorted with a slight curl of her lip. "The baby's coming changed nothing. Exposure would still have ruined your future, put your father in an unbearable position, meant endless unpleasantness for me, and done very little—if anything—for the child. None of that was changed at all. The only thing which had changed was your attitude. Sentiment got the better of common sense. So, for your own sake, if nothing else, I had to make this decision for you. And I maintain you have been happier for it. You have been able to build your life again because of it."

"How plausible you make it all sound," Gwyneth exclaimed bitterly. "But it doesn't really alter anything."

She looked at her mother with an expression of baffled dislike that was naked in its frankness. Most women would have quailed before such a glance from a daughter, but Mrs. Vilner never flinched.

"Well, my dear, the justification of my choice is that the day after tomorrow, with your—past, shall we say?— satisfactorily buried, you are going to marry Van Onslie. How do you suppose the presence of an illegitimate child would have affected that?

Gwyneth started.

She had forgotten Van for the moment. Indeed, she had

forgotten everything but this overwhelming disclosure. As though shutting out something she had not the courage to face, she pressed her hands over her eyes.

There was silence in the room, while Mrs. Vilner and Aunt Eleanor exchanged a glance. Then Aunt Eleanor spoke.

"You must see it has all been for the best, G^neth.'*

A convulsive little movement from her niece was the only protest against this, but at least there were not the fierce reproaches there had been at first.

Gwyneth's thoughts were working in quick, panic-stricken flashes. What was she going to do? Drag everything into the open? Announce, two days before her wedding, that she had an illegitimate child? Wreck Van's happiness—her father's position—her. own happiness? Set about finding her child? While the wedding guests were put off and sordid explanations made to the Bishop—presumably by her unfortunate father—she was to go to this orphanage and make inquiries about a child who had always been brought up as an orphan anyway? It was incredible.

These were arguments that Mother would have used, of course—cold, clear-cut, ruthless. But they had the terrible ring of common sense.

Then the moment of dramatic silence was broken by the sound of the dinner gong.

"What are you going to do, Gwyneth?" Mrs. Vilner asked very quietly.

Gwyneth passed the tip of her tongue over her dry lips.

"I don't know," she said rather heavily. "I simply don't know."

"Well, please do nothing rash or hurried." The sharpness of her mother's voice showed suddenly that her nerves, too, were over-strained. "Remember that a word can ruin everything—and nothing can build the future a second time."

"I'll remember," Gwyneth said. And on that they went in to dinner.

It was a terrible meal.

Van was almost unaware of an3rthing wrong—^the Canon completely so, but neither Gwyneth nor Aunt Eleanor played her role particularly well. Mother was much better

at it, and engaged Van most of the time in light conversation which did not, however, entirely distract his attention from his silent fiancee.

Once or twice Gwyneth knew that Van's dark eyes rested on her with a rather thoughtful expression, but she was powerless to look at him in return and give him the reassuring smile he expected.

She was not surprised that, immediately after dinner, when they moved into the big drawing-room overlooking the garden, he came over to her and said abruptly:

"Let's go into the garden for a while, Gwyneth. It's much too lovely to spend the whole evening indoors."

She went—aware that both her aunt and her mother hid their deep anxiety with difficulty. Mother no doubt was thinking: "This will be too much for the little fool. She'll make some sort of confession now." While Aunt Eleanor was probably already almost resigned to the exposure of the whole miserable business, and was wondering—as she wondered about everything—how it would affect her brother.

As they stepped out of the french window and turned along the path which bordered the shrubbery. Van drew her arm lightly through his.

"What is wrong, my dear?" His tone was quiet but quite determined.

"Nothing, Van."

He evidently didn't accept that, because he simply waited calmly for her to add something else.

After a moment she tried again.

"Do you mean—why am I cross and silent?"

He smiled slightly.

"No. Why are you unhappy and silent?"

"Aunt Eleanor ruffled me rather," Gwyneth said with an effort.

"Did she?" For a moment those dark eyes were on her again in silently disconcerting surprise. "It isn't like you to let anyone annoy you so much. Was it something definite or ?"

"No. I don't like her much, you know—nor what she says, and the—the way she reminds me of things I'd rather forget.'*

Van gave a short laugh which most women would have found frightening rather than reassuring, but he drew her into the circle of his arm, and, in spite of everything, she felt better when she was close against him like that. "What does she remind you of? Stormy days at school?—or early struggles for independence?" He was evidently not taking the matter very seriously.

"No. She makes me feel—feel unworthy of you."

"How very ridiculous ©f her," Van said coolly. "And how very ridiculous of you to take any notice. Is that all the trouble?"

"Perhaps—^perhaps there's something in what she says."

"I think not."

There was a silence, still quite calm on his part. Then Gwyneth sighed.

"You're not at all a suspicious man, are you, Van?" She spoke a little as though she couldn't help it.

"Not at all," he agreed. "At least, not where the people I love are concerned. I don't think love is worth much without trust. But why do you ask? Do you want me to prove the depth of my devotion by being jealous and suspicious?"

"No, of course noti'*

She smiled faintly and pressed against him. It was somehow an almost childlike gesture and oddly pathetic. Van looked down at her and his mouth softened.