Such is love (3 page)

Fears! Yes, fear was the overwhelming impression from that night she was remembering now. Fear of the future, fear of the raging storm outside which delayed the doctor, fear of the pain which came in sickening, paralysing waves —fear of death which, she knew with certainty, stood very near.

Frowning slightly, Gv^^neth stared ahead down the dusty road, not seeing the fields or the hedges or the sunlight, but only the little cottage bedroom where her child had been born. It seemed a strange, far-off delirious kind of dream now. And at the time, it had scarcely been any more real. She could hardly believe that the central figure had been herself. The whole thing had been just the culmination of the impossible unrealities which had happened to her over a period of a year. The climax of a ghastly

nightmare from which it was quite impossible to wake up —until suddenly the baby—her baby—was in the world and a real being at last.

Until the moment when she heard it crying she had never thought of it as a person at all. She had accepted her mother's and Aunt Eleanor's view that, along with all the other circumstances of this unhappy business, the child must be firmly ruled out of any future she might try to build.

A great many things had been said about the imperative need for secrecy, the impossibility of Canon Vilner's daughter appearing before the world as an unmarried mother, the excellent and immediate arrangements that could and would be made.

Gwyneth had silently acquiesced in all this when they talked things over before the baby came. They were right, of course, Mother and Aunt Eleanor. For her father's sake, for her own future's sake, even for the child's sake, it was better that this terrible episode should be finally and irrevocably closed. The arguments had all seemed so good at the time. In an orphanage the child would grow up just like all the other children round it, unaware of any difference. In any other circumstances it could only be an unhappy little outcast.

She had quite seen the common sense of it all—^in theory. The only difficulty was that everything altered completely when she first heard that rather weak little wail, and saw the small fluffy head of the baby she had borne.

To this day, Gwyneth supposed. Mother and AUnt Eleanor considered that some madness of delirium had descended on her immediately after the baby's birth. There had been the most terrible scene—Gwyneth insisting with the violence of despair that she must keep her child after all, that she didn't believe in the force of their arguments any more, and Mother and Aunt Eleanor holding to their first decision.

It had ended, as it was almost bound to end, with terrifying collapse on Gwyneth's part, and a few days of illness so severe that she knew nothing at all of what was going on round her.

The car turned into the small station yard. She was five minutes too early after all and, pulling up, she leaned her

arms on the wheel and sat gazing along the winding railway track where Aunt Eleanor's train would come.

The outlines of the scene seemed to quiver a little in the afternoon heat, and Gwyneth closed her eyes.

She remembered that afternoon when she had slowly come back to life again. She had lain there in bed, watching the grey sky through the window, and planning how she would persuade her mother and Aunt Eleanor instead of forcing them, as she had tried to do in her hysterical despair. She would explain that she was willing to go away somewhere and live very quietly for the rest of her life, if only she might keep the baby. No scandal should invade her father's world. She would even go abroad if necessary—

She had had her case almost complete by the time her mother had come in to see her. But it had all been quite unnecessary, after all. With a brusqueness which perhaps was kinder than evasion, her mother had explained that the problem had solved itself. During the days when Gwyneth had been so ill, her weakly little baby had died.

And there the terrible episode with Terry had finally ended. A great blankness and emptiness had seemed to succeed that tragic year, and then a very different Gwyneth had emerged from the fire of experience—the sophisticated, cool, slightly hard Gwyneth whom Evander Onslie had met, much later, and asked to marry him.

The local train puffed slowly into the station, as though rather pleased with itself that once more it had negotiated that slope successfully. Aunt Eleanor and two other passengers descended. One was a large, hot, gaitered farmer, and the other a scrawny little woman weighed down by innumerable parcels.

But, in any case, neither of them counted for anything beside Aunt Eleanor. She was not very fashionably dressed and there was nothing about her to suggest vulgar prosperity, but she was such a perfect, perfect lady that it was only with the greatest diffidence that the stationmaster (now ticket-collector) ventured to ask her for her ticket.

By that time she had already pecked conventionally at her niece's cheek and said:

"Well, Gwyneth, how d'you do? You certainly look better than last time I saw you"—quite as though 'last

time' had not been five years ago and the circumstances such as one might have preferred to forget.

Gwyneth assured her aunt coolly that her health was now excellent and inquired dutifully after her own.

"Nothing to complain of," retorted Aunt Eleanor, a little as though she was graciously absolving the Almighty from any blame. "Some rheumatism sometimes, but at sixty-five one must expect that." And she climbed into the car with an agility out of keeping with her statement about her age.

The stationmaster (now in his capacity as porter) put her luggage in the back of the car, Gwyneth gave him a slight smile and a nod of thanks, and then drove the car away from the station at the decorous twenty-five miles an hour which Aunt Eleanor considered a sufficiently dashing speed.

"Thank you very much for the silver candlesticks, Aunt Eleanor," Gwyneth began, mindful perhaps of her mother's remark that wedding presents made a safe topic of conversation. "They are really beautiful."

"Genuine Georgian. Exquisite things," said Aunt Eleanor, who saw no reason whatever to disparage her own generosity.

"Yes, I could see they were. Van admired them very much, too. He is very fond of old silver."

There was silence for a moment, • then Aunt Eleanor said:

"So you're going to marry Evander Onslie. He is rather old for you, but an excellent match."

"Van is only thirty-five," Gwyneth informed her curtly.

"Quite. Eleven and a half years older than you," Aunt Eleanor insisted. "A little old for you, as I remarked." And conversation languished once more.

Presently Gwyneth tried again.

"We have had some very lovely presents. You'll have to come and see them in the library after dinner."

"I should like to. Are there many guests coming to the wedding?"

"About a hundred."

Aunt Eleanor gave a sigh of satisfaction.

"And the Bishop is marrying you, of course?"

"Oh yes."

"And to think that once " Aunt Eleanor broke off,

and then added pointedly: "You have great reason to be thankful to your mother and me, Gwyneth."

"I hope I am not ungrateful," Gwyneth said so dryly that her aunt observed a little stiffly:

"I find something of a change in you."

"One must change a good deal between eighteen and twenty-three, I suppose." Gwyneth made that sound light and careless, and a puzzled look flickered over Aunt Eleanor's face.

"What sort of man is Evander Onslie?" was her next inquiry.

"To look at, do you mean?"

"Good gracious, no!" Personal appearance was of less than no importance to Aunt Eleanor. "Is he grave or gay —frivolous or responsible, a decent, God-fearing man or a scoundrel like ?"

"He is not a scoundrel," Gwyneth interrupted coldly, "And he is not in the least frivolous. I don't know whether he's afraid of God, but I shouldn't think so. I can't iniagine Van at all afraid of anything."

"Then he ought to be!" retorted Aunt Eleanor. "A decent fear of God is what keeps most people straight."

"I don't think religious terrorism would appeal to Van as either decent or sensible," Gwyneth said coolly, "but I imagine his general principles would satisfy you, Aunt Eleanor. He has a certain sense of humour but is stern about what you would call The Things That Matter."

A faint, harsh flush crept into Aunt Eleanor's cheeks.

"I think, as your only aunt, Gwyneth, I am entitled to tell you that you have not at all improved with the years," she said sharply. "Hard flippancy and callous disregard of serious matters are revolting in a girl of your age. Very fashionable, perhaps—but revolting."

"I'm sorry. Aunt Eleanor." Gv^neth was conscious of regret that she had shocked her aunt quite so far, but it was difficult to remember the degree of docility and meekness which she had been able to produce in the old days. "Perhaps I don't mean quite all I say," she offered placa-torily.

"Then why say it?" snapped Aunt Eleanor unanswerably.

"That in itself indicates an irresponsible, unbalanced attitude of mind."

Gwyneth didn't offer to explain further. For one thing, she felt faintly ashamed of herself, and for another, they were nearing the house now and she didn't want to prolong the argument.

Canon VUner had already returned home when they arrived, and as the car drove up, he opened the door him-self and came down the steps to greet his sister.

Although nearly sixty, he was still tall and straight and an exceedingly handsome man—his completely white hair only adding to that distinguished bearing which still made elderly, susceptible ladies refer to 'his fine head*.

"My dear Eleanor"—he kissed his sister rather impressively on both cheeks—"I am very glad indeed to see you. I hope you will forgive me for urging you to come so far, but I should not have liked my little girl to have this important day of her hfe without her aunt being present to see her happiness."

His little girl stood by, smiling slightly. So it was her father who had urged Aunt Eleanor to change her first politic decision not to come. Well, of course, that was understandable, since he was completely in the dark about the real state of affairs.

"Well, my dear, this is a very pleasant surprise for you. We hardly dared to hope your Aunt Eleanor would come all the way from the north of Scotland, did we?"

"No. It's very kind of her indeed," Gwyneth agreed, with what she hoped was an adequate appearance of having shared her father's ardent hopes that Aunt Eleanor would come.

Then they went into the house, to be greeted by Mrs. Vilner, and the little comedy was repeated, only much more convincingly this time because Mother was rather better at these things than Gwyneth.

Fortunately, Gwyneth was considered to have *a great many things still to do,' and so she was able to make her escape soon after this, leaving Canon Vilner to enjoy the society of his sister quite sincerely, and his wife to conceal her dislike under a pleasantly smiling mask.

In her bedroom once more, Gwyneth wrote one or two last-minute letters and then began to dress leisurely for

dinner. She put on the cream wool with the great cornflower-blue flowers splashed over it. It was not a new dress, but Van hked it. He said the blue was the colour of her eyes, and the cream the colour of her throat. Van didn't often make such remarks, and she treasured this one all the more for that.

In her ears she put small pearl drop earrings. She had not worn earrings in the days when Aunt Eleanor had known her before, and she hoped, with half-humorous regret, that they would not evoke any disapproval. In any case, they were in keeping with her older, more sophisticated style now, and gave her a touch of authority and dignity which one might reasonably expect to find in Evander Onslie's wife.

With little of the misgiving which would have assailed her once, Gwyneth hoped that she was going to fit well into that rather responsible position. To be the wife of one of the biggest industrialists in the country was a responsibility, she supposed. But if Van, at thirty-five, was not overwhelmed by his position as head of the great Onslie Steel Works, she, at twenty-three, must not fear her position as his wife.

Van's wife! The very phrase gave her an exquisite sense of happiness, and slowly the last shadows of the past seemed to give way before the sunshine of the future. Van's wife —she was marrying him in two days' time—and there hung her wedding dress as tangible proof of the fact.

It was hard to believe that six months ago she had not even met him. When she had seen him at the Courtenays' New Year party that first week-end, he had seemed familiar to her, probably from some half-remembered newspaper photograph. But until he was introduced, she had not been able to identify him. Then, when she had heard his name, she had thought.:

"Evander Onslie! One of those big businessmen. Not my sort at all. Much too grim and serious."

But if Van were serious and—^yes, even quite often grim, he certainly had his own way of unbending at times.

He unbent for her. There was no question about it, No one else in the room seemed to interest him after he had bowed over her hand.

Sceptical and a little cynical now where masculine admiration was concerned, Gwyneth had not been encouraging. She had resolutely kept things on a light and careless basis.

He was puzzled, she saw, and not a little angry, but quite undismayed. He invited himself down to the Court-enays' place the next week-end—and again, the next. Then he proposed to her—and she refused him.

She had supposed he would accept that, but she was much mistaken. He took a week-end cottage of his own in the neighbourhood, and proposed again.

"I've told you 'no'," Gwyneth pointed out with her cool smile. "Perhaps you've never met the word before?"

"At any rate, I don't know its meaning in connection with you." He brushed her protest aside without even a smile. "Any man who takes 'no' from the woman he loves doesn't deserve to win her. In any case, I never take 'no' when I'm determined."

"Really? Well, I'm not a steel contract, you know." Gwyneth had told him. "I don't know that business methods are going to assist here."