Rolling Stone (16 page)

“Uncle Basil says it's frightful of me, but I do love mulligatawny.”

Mr. Roxley roused himself. He took a spoonful of soup and said,

“Why?”

“Why do I love it—or why does Uncle Basil say it's frightful?”

“Uncle Basil,” said Fabian.

Terry laughed.

“Too hot, too strong, too everything. No palate left—all the finer shades destroyed. He says the only excuse for it is being a retired colonel who hasn't got a palate anyhow.”

She was just beginning to feel she was doing rather well, because here they were, talking about colonels and palates and mulligatawny—and could anything be safer than that?—when the situation suddenly slipped. Fabian put down his spoon, and said in one of those purposeful voices,

“Look here, Terry. I want to talk to you.”

Terry clung to her spoon and continued to take soup. She had very nearly finished it, and a most pleasant warm glow made her feel much better able to confront a proposal than when she had come in all cold out of the fog. She finished the last spoonful, gave a thankful sigh, and said,

“I thought we were talking rather nicely.”

Fabian Roxley looked at her.

“I want to talk to you seriously—very seriously.”

“Must you—at lunch? I mean, wouldn't afterwards do?”

“No, because I've go to get back and do some work.” The waiter came to remove their plates. “Are you sure you won't have anything but omelette?”

“I adore mushroom omelette,” said Terry.

“And an ice afterwards?”

“A very large brown-bread ice.”

If they could only go on talking about food. But the omelette would take ten minutes, and the moment the waiter was gone Fabian began again.

“Terry, I must ask you—do you really mean to go to the police tomorrow?”

Terry put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. You are not allowed to do this at school, so you naturally take every opportunity of doing it afterwards.

She looked very directly at Fabian and said,

“What's all this about? Why don't you want me to?”

He had an elbow on the table too. They were so close that cheek came near to touching cheek and words had hardly to be spoken. He said,

“I'm going to tell you. I hate doing it, but I can't let you go to the police. There'll be too much mud stirred up.”

“Go on,” said Terry.

“Look here, I've got to know what you saw. I can't go on until I do.”

“Nothing doing,” said Terry—“absolutely and utterly nothing doing. I'm not telling anyone except the police. And I want to know what all this is about, because I don't like it. You ought to want me to go to the police—not try to keep me back.”

Fabian commanded himself.

“I think you ought to have spoken at once, but since you didn't—well, isn't there something rather cold-blooded about it?”

“I don't mind if there is. I want Mr. Cresswell to get his picture back. You know it's not the money—he really loves it. And I don't want Emily to get hurt. If that's being cold-blooded, then I am.”

“You know what I think about you. But, Terry, don't you see, if it was one of the guests—if it was—Norah Margesson—” He watched her face.

She took her chin out of her hand and sat up. He was too near. His eyes were too near. Her own dazzled. She leaned back.

“Why Norah Margesson?”

“Because I happen to know she is desperately hard up.”

“She always is. So are lots of people. What about you?”

She was smiling, and her eyes sparkled. But Fabian Roxley turned rather white.

“What do you mean by that?”

Terry laughed.

“You said Norah Margesson was hard up, and I said what about you. Aren't you hard up? I know I am.”

His hand had been pressing into his cheek. The pressure relaxed. He said,

“Most people are these days, my sweet. Do you know, I thought you were going to accuse me of pinching the picture. It was a bit of a jar, and I was just wondering what one could say. A little hard on one's lunch, don't you think?”

Terry's eyes continued to sparkle.

“Oh, darling, I've been much too nicely brought up to fling bombs at my host in the middle of lunch—I really have. I should certainly have waited until we had had our coffee.”

Fabian laughed. He had really had a shock. Terry touched his emotions. It was a relief to laugh.

“Why should you be hard up, my child? Don't they give you any of your own money to play with until you're twenty-one?”

“Some. But of course it's not enough—money never is.”

“I've noticed that.”

“And Uncle Basil says it doesn't amount to much anyway, because of things going down, and exchanges—what would the exchanges be doing?”

He laughed again, without strain this time.

“Well, they might be down, or they might be up.”

Terry said, “Something like that,” and the waiter arrived with the mushroom omelette.

Whilst he was serving them, Fabian looked at Terry and thought her fresh and pretty in her blue suit and odd little tilted hat. Fresh and pretty, but no fresher than dozens of girls whom he knew, and not as pretty as half a dozen he could name. But she stirred him as he had not meant to be stirred. The last thing on earth he had ever intended was to fall in love with Terry Clive. A banal expression, a most banal experience. And just when he needed all his wits about him to reach another rung on the difficult ladder he had set himself to climb.

When the waiter had gone away he came back to Norah Margesson.

“You see, my dear, it would make an absolutely crashing scandal. Emily Cresswell wouldn't bless you for that.”

Terry was ruffled. Why was he trying to bounce her? Why couldn't he take a hint? And why wasn't she being allowed to eat her mushrooms in peace? She said with a little warmth,

“You know, darling, this isn't the sort of scandal I really like talking about at lunch. It's not spicy enough.”

“You may not like it, but—”

Terry lost her temper.

“Look here, I just won't go on talking about that horrid picture all through lunch! And I never said it was Norah Margesson, so I don't know why you're going on about her.”

“All right, all right—we'll talk about anything else you like. What shall it be? Ants—bric-à-brac—Cochin China—delicatessen—eels—or the latest factory act? The life-story of the eel is enthralling, but I expect I've forgotten some of the best bits.”

They talked amiably about a great many things for the rest of the meal. Fabian could make himself very agreeable when he chose. Terry's annoyance subsided, but over the coffee she began to feel a little nervous again.

Their table was set in a recess. A small orchestra was playing dance music, syncopated song-hits, and movie melodies. The Sahara could have offered them no greater privacy, and whether it was the singing, swinging rhythms or something more compelling, Fabian had begun to look at her in a quite horribly tendentious manner. It was like suddenly finding the fire too hot and not being able to move away from it. She didn't like it, and she couldn't run away, because there was the coffee, and when you've been properly brought up you can't just leave your coffee and go.

She said quick and light, “And now you can tell me all about ants and bric-à-brac.”

But Fabian shook his head.

“I'm afraid not, Terry, I'm afraid I want to talk about you.” After a pause he added, “And me.”

Nothing is more annoying than to blush when you most particularly want to be cool, calm, and sophisticated. She said,

“I'd much rather you didn't.”

“I'm afraid I've got to. I—I can't just go on like this. I expect you know how I feel about you.”

“I do wish you wouldn't,” said Terry.

“Well, I've got to—I can't help myself. Terry, don't you think—”

Terry hadn't really known what she would think. Fabian was in love with her, and Fabian would propose to her if she let him. She hadn't really got farther than that. She certainly didn't want him to propose to her now, but he seemed to be doing it. And right there Terry knew why she didn't want him to do it. She admired him and she liked him, and they had had a lot of good times together. But marry him—Never, never, never in the world! She felt the most frightful embarrassment, because she ought not to be listening to his voice with that tone in it. And the things he was saying—they were for someone who loved him, and not for Terry Clive who wanted to put her fingers in her ears and run away.

She did actually push her chair back a little way as she said, “Oh,
please
, Fabian—I don't want you to—I told you I didn't.”

“What's the use of saying that? I love you. I've got to tell you that.”

“No, you haven't—not if I don't want you to. And I
don't
.”

Fabian Roxley looked at her. All his lazy calm had fallen away. His feature seemed to have sharpened. The muscles of neck and jaw were taut, and his eyes were fever-bright. He looked at Terry who was out of his reach, and saw some other things withdrawing and withdrawn. Things that make a life—things expected, carelessly welcomed, prized without thought, prized despairingly as they withdrew.

He said, “Terry!” and something in his voice hurt her at the very quick of her heart. It was the first time she had ever heard that note of desperate, utter need. And Terry, who flowed out in comfort to any hurt thing, had no comfort to give. Tears stung her eyes. She said,

“Please, Fabian,
please
. I can't—I really can't.”

There was a brief silence.

Fabian Roxley pulled himself together.

“If you change your mind—” he said. And then, “I can't change mine.”

Terry pushed her chair right back and got up. It was no good trying to be cool and sophisticated. It was the horridest thing in the world to have to hurt someone like this, and the only thing she could do was to go away as quickly as possible.

And of course because they were civilized people Fabian had to get up too, and come downstairs with her, and put her into a taxi. Neither of them spoke. Terry's cheeks were burning and her eyes stung. This was going to be goodbye, and they
had
had good times together.

She got into the taxi and said her thought aloud.

“We
have
had good times—haven't we?”

He said, “Marvellous,” and stood back, lifting his hat. In the cold, foggy light he looked suddenly ten years older.

He gave the address to the driver, and she saw him turn away.

CHAPTER XXIV

Terry felt what a great many other people have felt in their time, a passionate desire to skip the next two days and arrive at Wednesday morning, when either James Cresswell would have got his picture back or she would have been to the police and told them what she had seen. You can always turn over the pages of a book and avoid what is tedious or painful, but the dull and ugly days have to be lived through, one slow minute at a time.

A quarter of an hour after she got home Norah Margesson rang up.

“Is that Terry Clive?”

Terry said it was, and wondered what Norah had got to say to her.

“I wanted to speak to you.” Miss Margesson's voice had an aggressive note.

“Well, I'm here,” said Terry.

“I suppose you didn't really mean what you said yesterday—all that about going to the police?”

“Of course I meant it.”

Norah gave a hard, angry laugh.

“My dear girl, you can't do a thing like that.”

Terry's temper got the better of her. She said,

“Watch me!”

There was a brief pause. Then a changed voice said,

“You can't do a thing like that—you really can't.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to.”

There was another and a longer pause. And then,

“Terry, you're not going to tell them I went out on the terrace! Because it's got nothing—nothing to do—” The voice stopped on a sort of gasp.

Terry thought for a minute.

“I shan't say anything about it unless I have to.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It might come out.”

She heard Norah draw in her breath sharply. Then, with another change of manner,

“My dear, there's nothing to come out. I'm sure I don't know what you thought you saw, but the whole thing is really very simple. A friend of mine wanted to see me rather specially on his way back to town, and I promised to slip out for a moment. And as I had broken the string of my pearls, I thought I would let him take them up to town and get them restrung for me. And when I got to the bottom of the steps, there was a perfectly strange man, and I was so frightened I ran away. And I do wish I hadn't, because of course he must have been waiting there to steal the picture.”

Terry's anger died down and a cold feeling of shame took its place. She said,

“It's no good, Norah—they were Emily's pearls. You came out of her room and went down the stairs. I saw you. And I saw the pearls under the hall light. It's no use saying they were yours. I saw the clasp.”

There was another of those gasps.

“What are you going to do?”

“I told you. I shan't say anything unless I have to—Emily would hate it. It's no use our going on talking about it—is it? Goodbye.”

Well, that was that. She wondered if anyone else would ring her up—Pearla Yorke, or Mr. Applegarth. She put the wireless on rather loud and hoped she wouldn't hear the telephone bell.

Basil Ridgefield got back for tea. He had been to a stamp auction, and for once in her life Terry was glad to talk about stamps. He was very much pleased at having acquired a fifteen-cent American stamp with the Stars and Stripes inverted for £120, which, he told her, was less than half the catalogue price. He had also secured for £50 an unused horizontal pair of twenty-four-cent stamps of a dull purple colour. Terry looked at them, and tried not to show how much the prices shocked her. All that money for three little bits of dirty paper! But Uncle Basil was pleased, and it was a nice change to be with someone who was pleased, after that harrowing lunch—and Norah.