MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
They sat down in silence. Rushworth was smoking a cigar, Ivy a cigarette. Suddenly he threw away his cigar, for there had come over him a wild, mad impulse to put his arms round her. But, instead, he moved a little farther away.
She, too, suddenly flung away her cigarette, and turned to him, “I sometimes wonder, Mr. Rushworth, if you know how awfully grateful I am to you for all you’ve done for me—and for Jervis.”
He saw that tears were in her eyes, and he took her hand and clasped it closely. He was saying to himself, “Poor little darling, it would be the act of a cad, of a cur, to take advantage of her gratitude and—and loneliness.”
“You’ve nothing to be grateful for,” he said quietly, and then he released the soft hand he held. “It’s a great privilege to meet someone who really deserves a little help. A man who is known to have money is there to be shot at,” he smiled a little grimly. “Any number of what are called deserving objects are presented to his view. The real problem is to find the people who want helping, and who won’t ask for help.”
He sincerely believed that the woman to whom he was addressing those words fell within that rare category.
Suddenly he got up. “I see the Actons,” he exclaimed. “I told them three o’clock in front of the Casino—they’re a little before their time.”
It was a wonderful drive to Tréport, and Ivy, rather to her own surprise, enjoyed it. Partly, perhaps, because Rushworth’s old friend, James Acton, “fell for” her at once, to the amusement of his good-humoured, clever, middle-aged wife. They stopped at the Trianon Hotel on their way back and had some early tea; but even so it was only five o’clock when they returned to Dieppe and dropped the Actons.
Dismissing the car, they began walking towards the harbour. At last—at last they were alone.
In the Grande Rue Ivy stopped, instinctively, before a minute shop, a branch of a famous house of the same name at Cannes and Deauville.
The window contained but one object, to Rushworth’s masculine eyes a rather absurd-looking trifle, for it consisted of a lady’s vanity bag which looked like a tiny bolster of mother-of-pearl. The clasp consisted of a large emerald set with pearls.
“What a lovely little bag!’ exclaimed Ivy ecstatically.
“D’you like it?” Rushworth was filled with a kind of tender amusement. What a baby she was, after all!
“Like it? I adore it!”
“Then I’ll give it you—for next Christmas!”
“You mustn’t! It must be fearfully expensive,” she cried.
But he had already gone into the shop. With something like awe, she watched him from the pavement shovelling out bundles of thousand franc notes on to the narrow counter behind which stood a white-haired woman.
How rich, how enormously rich Miles Rushworth must be!
As he joined her, Ivy saw that the precious bag was now enclosed in a soft leather case which had evidently been made for its protection. He put his delightful gift into her eager hands, and said, smiling:
“The elegant old dame in there—she looked like a marquise herself—declares that the clasp of this bag was once a brooch belonging to the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s friend.”
“How wonderful!”
He looked at her quizzically, “I said I hoped it wouldn’t bring you bad luck! She quite understood the allusion,” which was more than Ivy did.
“It was made, it seems, to the order of a lady who supplied the jewel for the clasp. She’s suddenly gone into mourning, and as they had made it they consented to try and sell it for her. It was being sent on to their Deauville branch this very afternoon. It’s been here a week, and the old lady admitted that she hadn’t had a single inquiry for it!”
Ivy had now opened, the case and taken out the wonderful little bag, her eyes dancing with pleasure and gratitude. She told herself with satisfaction, that, given the right kind of frock, she could use it by day as well as by night.
There was a very practical, shrewd side to Mrs. Jervis Lexton. But it was a side of her nature which she was slow to reveal to her men friends.
As they went on board the yacht a telegram was handed to Rushworth. Carelessly he tore it open, read it through, and then handed it to his guest:
Tremendous affair taking place here tomorrow midday. French President unveiling monument to fallen. We propose staying the night in excellent hotel. Shall be back by tea-time.
Charlotte Chattle.
Ivy looked up. There was joy in Rushworth’s face—and more than joy, for the eager, half-shamed look Ivy had so often seen on a man’s face was there also. But all he said was:
“This means that we shall have a quiet little dinner alone together, you and I.”
“That will be very nice,” she answered quietly.
“I’ve a good deal more work to get through so shall we say half-past eight? We might have dinner in what I call my sea-study. I always dine there, when I’m alone on the yacht.”
Just as she was leaving him, she turned and said gently:
“Don’t you think you ought to have a little rest after all the work you did this morning? Why not wait till tomorrow?”
There was such a sweet solicitude in the tone in which she uttered those words that Rushworth felt touched.
“Work’s the only thing that makes time go by quickly,” he answered, and then, in a low, ardent tone, he added, “When I’m not with you, I’d far rather be working than idling——”
A sensation of intense, secret triumph swept over Ivy Lexton. She felt that the gateless barrier Miles Rushworth had thrown up between them was giving way at last. To-night would surely come her opportunity of lifting their ambiguous relationship from the dull plane of friendship to the exciting plane of what she called love.
She turned away, and then, a moment later, she stayed her steps, and looked back to where he was still standing . . . .
Small wonder that during the three hours that followed that informal parting, Rushworth, while mechanically dictating business letters, was gazing inwardly at a lovely vision—an exquisite flower-like face and beseeching, beckoning eyes.
Chapter four
When Ivy came out of her state-room at half-past eight, the great heat of the day had gone, and old Dieppe harbour was bathed in a mysterious, enchanting twilight. She had put on to-night a white chiffon frock which made her look childishly young, and, as she floated wraithlike down the deck towards him, Rushworth caught his breath.
He had been waiting for her—he would have been ashamed to acknowledge to himself for how long, though he knew that she was never late. Jervis had no sense of time, but punctuality was one of Ivy’s virtues.
“I’m afraid you’ll think my sea-study rather austere!”
“Austere?”
His lovely friend hardly knew the meaning of this, to her unusual, word. Eagerly she walked through into what was the floating workshop of a very busy man, though something had been done this evening to disguise its real character. Two great bowls of variously coloured roses stood on the writing-table; and in the centre of the state-room was a small table set for two. On an Italian plate in the centre of the table was heaped up some fine fruit.
“How delicious!” She clapped her hands. “Who would ever think we were on board a ship?”
“You are the first guest of mine who has ever