Run! (6 page)

“Bicycles don't have numbers,” said Sally.

“And you'd left your shoes in the hall—and a torch upstairs.”

“Yes, that's much worse than the bicycle—much, much worse, because—” She stopped short, and said quickly, “‘The Compromising Crocodiles, or Aspidistra's Adventure. Another thrilling instalment tomorrow.' I retrieved the torch, but let's do some good strong hoping that no one tumbled to the crocodiles. They
were
round the corner, so perhaps … I don't really want that thrilling instalment, you know. I've got a feeling it might be too thrilling.”

James said on a deep growl, “I can't help you when you don't tell me anything.”

“I know,” said Sally a little breathlessly. “I'm trying to make up my mind. I haven't made it up. You see, if I tell you things, I'm bringing you into it, and that doesn't seem fair to you. But then, on the other hand, I don't know that you're not in already, and if you are, it might be—safer—if you knew where you were. And then—” She stopped. It was as if the word had been cut off. A long, slow minute went by.

James said, “And then?”

Sally looked at him. She was leaning forward again. He could see her face.

“There's Jocko—”

“Yes—and what about Jocko? He's in India, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“He's coming home.”

“When?”

“At once. I expect he's started. He's coming by air. Aunt Clementa's affairs, you know. She left him quite a lot of money.”

“And that worries you?”

She gave him a strange look. He thought it was a frightened look. She didn't answer.

James persisted, frowning.

“I do wish you'd tell me what it's all about. What's the matter with J.J. coming home? Are you afraid he's going to make an ass of himself in some way—blow the money—run amuck—something like that?”

She shook her head.

“Then you're afraid he'll butt in on this mystery business. Is that it?”

“Well, he might.”

“And you think it wouldn't be healthy for him?”

She dropped her voice and said in an almost indistinguishable murmur,

“It might be—very—dangerous.”

“For him?”

“For everyone.” She made a quick movement with her hands. “I tried to stop him, but it's no good. I couldn't tell him why.”

“I think you had better tell me—I do really, Sally.”

Sally jumped up.

“Not now—not here—I can't—I haven't made up my mind—I've got to think about it. I'm going home now.”

“And when you've thought about it?”

“I'll ring you up.”

She began to go down the few steps to the drawing-room floor. James followed. Of an observant habit of mind, he could hardly avoid seeing how white the nape of her neck was under the double row of little black curls. Some dark girls had napes as stubbly as a man's chin, but Sally's skin ran white and smooth all the way up to the edge of her hair.

She checked in front of him so suddenly that he could not stop himself from taking the next step and bumping into her. He had to put his arm about her to steady himself and her, but even as he touched her she twisted free and passed him, and was up the stair and round the bend before he had time to draw an astonished breath. He went after her, and found her half way up the next flight, leaning against the wall with her hand at her throat and her eyes afraid.

He said, “What's the matter?”

She took her hand from her throat and caught at his arm, leaning close and saying under her breath.

“There's someone I don't want to see. I didn't know they were coming—I thought they were somewhere else—Daphne didn't tell me. Why didn't she tell me?”

He could feel that she was shaking all over. He put his arm round her for the second time. It seemed quite a natural thing to do.

“It's all right. Sit down here for a minute. Where were these people—coming up the stairs? Because if they were, you've only to let them get into the drawing-room, and then you can slip past and get away. Tell me what they're like, and I'll let you know when the coast is clear.”

She had both hands locked about his arm. She said, “Thank you,” and then, “Will you do just what I say?”

“I don't know,” said James.

“
Please,
James Elliot—
please.
”

“What do you want me to do?”

Her clasp relaxed a little.

“I want you to go straight downstairs and out of the house.”

“You want me to go?”

“At once.
Please,
James Elliot.”

“What about you?”

“I'll slip away like you said. Please,
please
go.”

“Oh, all right.”

He felt her fingers unclasp. He dropped his arm from about her. There was a curious reluctance about this parting. He waited a moment without quite knowing why, while the sound of voices came up to them from below. He heard Daphne's laugh. Then Sally drew back, and he turned from her and went slowly down the stairs.

On the drawing-room landing he paused. Sally had said, “Go straight downstairs and out of the house.” That was all very well, but he couldn't just fade away without saying good-night to Daphne. He looked in through the drawing-room door and saw her not more than a couple of yards away, laughing and sparkling up at a tall man who had his back to James.

James edged into the room and advanced a step or two, not without difficulty, because the room was now a good deal fuller than it had ever been meant to be. He heard Daphne say, “So good of you both to come on,” and looking over the head of a bony girl in black, he saw that Daphne's left hand rested affectionately on the arm of a very striking lady who obviously belonged to the tall man. He also saw that the tall man was Ambrose Sylvester. Now that the famous profile was on view, it was quite impossible to mistake it. What he had not realized from the press photographs was that the tossed mass of hair which framed the profile was of the most picturesque shade of coppery gold. A hawk-like nose and eyes of a cold and brilliant blue preserved the virility of the face, but James considered with disgust that a man who didn't aim at being a popular idol would get himself a hair-cut. He had nothing against good looks, but there were decencies to be observed, and hair six inches long was a quite obvious breach of these decencies.

He supposed the lady to be Mrs. Sylvester. She was a head taller than Daphne, dark-haired, and incredibly slim in a gold dress so tight and shiny that it reminded James of a mermaid's tail. She was as ugly as her husband was handsome, but she carried her ugliness as if it were beauty—lips a miracle of scarlet paint, eyes lazily disdainful between long mascaraed lashes, teeth very white, hands and shoulders used as only a Latin uses them.

“Queer people,” was James's judgment. He wondered whether it was the Sylvesters whom Sally had wished to avoid, and he wondered why. He said over the lady's shoulder,

“Goodbye, Daph—I'm just off. Thanks for asking me.”

And Daphne said, “Oh, darling, must you?” And he thought she was going to say, “Where's Sally?” and he wondered if Sally would mind, because if it was the Sylvesters she wanted to avoid—But Daphne only blew him a kiss.

As he turned away, he heard Mrs. Sylvester say in a deep, husky voice,

“Jocko is coming home. Did you know? I
adore
Jocko.”

VIII

Sally stayed where she was, and heard James go down the stair. She would give him time to get away before she made her escape. She found him a very disturbing person, and she couldn't do with being any more disturbed than she was. What she wanted at the moment was Somebody's Soothing Syrup, oil on the troubled waters, Daphne's light inconsequent chatter, or the ramblings of one of life's bigger bores. Not any more James Elliot, and not—oh, certainly not—any Ambrose Sylvester.

She ran up to the next floor and into Daphne's bedroom. The modern girl is provided against the ravages of emotion. Sally did her mouth again, did her eyebrows, tried Daphne's powder, thought that it must cost about a pound a box, and approved the result.

These proceedings took some time. She decided that James must have gone, and that this was the moment for her to slip away.

At the head of the stair she listened, and heard the ebb and flow of the laughter and the talk from below. It would be perfectly safe. She must walk quietly down without appearing to hurry and the minute she got downstairs just grab her cloak and be off.

She got as far as the half-landing and stopped, because there was someone there. Ambrose Sylvester rose from the chair in which James had sat and came to meet her.

A deathly panic invaded Sally. She was to rage at herself afterwards and wonder how much or how little her face had shown, but at the moment she couldn't think at all, only fight to push the panic out and bolt and bar her house against it. She heard Ambrose say in his beautiful voice,

“Daphne said you were upstairs, so I came here to wait for you.”

“Why?” said Sally with her hand on the newel-post at the turn. She managed the one word very creditably, and this heartened her.

He put a hand on her arm.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Sally pushed her last bolt home.

“All right, here I am,” she said.

He drew her towards the chairs, and they sat down. Sally was herself again, but she was glad enough to sit, because her knees were shaking. She managed a small laugh.

“What is it all about? You know, you said that as if you hadn't seen me for a year.”

He looked at her with an air of romantic sadness.

“It is a long time since we have really talked, and tonight I felt that if we could have one of our old talks again—if we could put the clock back for an hour—”

“No one can ever put the clock back,” said Sally.

“We could if we tried—together. We might for an hour forget the years, the estrangement—”

“And Hildegarde?”

Her heart was beating a little faster. Ambrose and his ridiculous heroics—But because they had once rung passionately true they could still set her heart knocking against her side, even after all that had happened since then.

He gave a kind of groan at Hildegarde's name.

“Do you think she has ever taken your place? Do you think I don't know what she has done to me? Do you think I am happy?”

“No—I don't think you are very happy, Ambrose.”

He caught at her hand.

“I live on her money. She never lets me forget it. She never stops watching me. When I am starved for a word with you, I must have it here in a public place. Oh, Sally, why did I do it? Why didn't I wait? You were such an enchanting little girl! I might have known!”

Sally pulled her hand away and jumped up.

“Good gracious, Ambrose! I was seventeen, and I had a schoolgirl
schwärm
for you, but if you think I want to put back the clock to that and go all damp and miserable over you again, you'd better wake up—to say nothing of Hildegarde probably trying to poison us both.”

She was watching him through her lashes, and he put his head in his hands and groaned again.

“You can laugh at me! You don't know how damned unhappy I am.”

Sally hesitated. Was it all make-believe—the sound of his own fine voice, the desire for the limelight and the centre of the stage? Or was there a struggling, unhappy Ambrose behind the actor? She sat down again and said in a new, gentle voice,

“What is it?”

“Hell,” said Ambrose Sylvester. “Sally, if you ever know what it's been, don't—don't think too hardly of me. You see”—he lifted his head and looked at her with bright, wild eyes—“you take the first step and you have to go on. The ground slides under you and you can't stop. Yesterday in that damned fog I thought—Hildegarde was driving—and I thought if we could have a smash now and get out of it all, it would be the best thing.”

Sally looked at him steadily. The fog—why did he mention the fog? And what was it all about, this unbelievable scene? A quick, wary thought watched for a meaning behind its unreality. She said,

“I don't know what this is all about.”

“Do you know what has stopped me making an end of it, not once but many times? It was the thought of you, Sally. You see, when I think of you I am different. I think of what you may be doing. You won't laugh, will you, Sally? I think, ‘Now she is reading—now she is writing to Jocko—now she is walking,' and it is a sort of companionship. Now you see how lonely I am when I have to be satisfied with that kind of companionship. And yesterday in that horrible fog I was thinking, ‘Sally won't be out in this. She will be at home by the fire with a book.'”

Sally's thought spoke sharply and insistently—“That's what he wants. He wants to know what you were doing yesterday afternoon. What are you going to say? Be careful!” Her heart stood still. Had anyone seen her go, or come back, or take Gladys's bicycle? “Be careful, be careful, be careful!”

She said in a cool little voice, “You know, Ambrose, this is all rather embarrassing.”

“Is that all you think about?”

“Well, someone's got to think about it, and I'd rather it wasn't Hildegarde.” She got up. “Honestly, Ambrose, this sort of thing's no good. It won't make you any happier, and it doesn't get us anywhere.”

“Sally!”

“It's not
going
to get us anywhere,” said Sally, and ran down the stair.

IX

James usually walked to his job in the morning. It was one of the things Jackson despised him for. To Jackson the human leg was an obsolete form of conveyance. To use it betokened extreme penury or a barbaric devotion to exercise. James liked a spot of exercise, and was despised accordingly. Today, however, there was no Jackson to give him a lofty good-morning. Mr. Parkinson, the manager, had not arrived and would not arrive for another half hour. James and Miss Callender had the place to themselves.