MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
was moved, thrown off her usual calculating balance, by the strength of his sincerity, and also made afraid.
“What d’you mean?” she faltered.
“It’s true that I love you—I didn’t know there could be such love in the world as that which I feel for you, Ivy. If it would do you any good for me to jump into that harbour out there and be drowned, I’d do it! But I’m going to keep my love for you sacred, and I’m going not only to save myself, but I’m going to save you, my darling, darling love.”
He took her hand again, and this time he kissed it.
Ivy burst into bitter tears, and Rushworth put his arm around her.
“I know how you’re feeling,” he whispered brokenly. “My poor little darling! But for God’s sake don’t cry. I can’t bear it. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of—it’s been all my fault.”
“Can’t we go on being friends? It’s been so wonderful having you for a friend!” she sobbed.
“Of course we’ll go on being friends—dear, dear friends. But lovers—no! I’m going right away—it’s the only thing to do.”
He was telling himself that of course she did not understand—how could she, gentle and pure if yet passionate creature that she was?—the strength of his temptation. She would never know, indeed, he must never allow her to know, what she meant to him, and all he was about to give up for her sake. A sweet, loving wife, children, in a word, a happy, normal life—all that Bella Dale had stood for in the secret places of his heart.
He was brought back to the present by her agitated, agonised, “Going away? Surely you’re not going away, now?”
He waited a moment without answering her. A frightful struggle was going on in his heart, his conscience. Then, at last, he answered the, to him, piteous question.
“Do you remember my once telling you of my sister? Of how I longed for you to know her—but that she was too ill for me to take you to her.”
“Yes,” she murmured, trying to remember.
She had not been really interested, only secretly glad that Rushworth’s widowed sister was not well enough to see her. Ivy Lexton did not care to be brought in contact with her men friends’ mothers or sisters. They never liked her, and she never liked them.
“My sister saw a new specialist this week, and he says she ought to winter in South Africa. She’s horribly lonely—her husband was killed in the war, and—and now I’ve made up my mind to go with her. You do agree that it’s the best thing—indeed, the only thing for me to do?”
There was something in his tone as he uttered the question that made her feel that, for the moment, at any rate, no plea would move him.
“I hate your going so far away,” she moaned.
“It’s the only thing to do,” he repeated in a hard tone.
“I’m afraid you despise me,” she said very low.
“Despise you? Good God! I honour you——”
And then all at once she was again in his arms.
Moved out of her false selfish self by the strength and reality of his emotion, “I love you,” she murmured, clinging to him between their kisses. “I shall always love you,” and believed she spoke the truth.
Surely, surely, he wouldn’t go away now?
The door opened, and in the darkness they sprang apart.
“The hotel has sent the car for you, sir. It is now on the quay.”
“The car?”
A feeling of surprise and despondency swept over Ivy.
Rushworth got up. For a moment or two, it seemed like eternity to him, he found he could not speak.
Then he said, “I’m afraid I must go now, Mrs. Lexton. I’m sleeping at the Hotel Royal to-night. A business friend of mine is staying there, and we are going to have a talk before turning in. He is going to Paris tomorrow morning.”
Addressing his servant: “I’ll be coming in a minute. The storm’s over, isn’t it?” he added.
“I think it is, sir.”
“Then put on the light again, and take the despatch-box that’s over there on my writing-table to the car.”
Rushworth waited till the sounds of footsteps on the deck outside had grown faint. Then he came back to Ivy, but he had once more regained possession of himself.
“I want to tell you, now, what I didn’t mean to tell you till the last day of our trip. Some cousins of mine have a charming flat in the Duke of Kent Mansion, close to Kensington Gardens. They want to let it for six months, and I’ve just taken it in the hope that you and your husband will live there till you have found something you like better.”
“You’re too good to me.”
She looked crushed, defeated, humiliated.
“Ivy! My precious darling——” the yearning cry escaped him.
Slowly she lifted her head, and her eyes, swimming in tears, her trembling mouth, longing for his kisses, beckoned.
He leapt forward, and she fell upon his breast. “Must you go away? I don’t know how I shall live without you,” she sobbed.
As at last he tore himself from her arms, “Oh God,” he exclaimed. “If only you were free!”
Chapter five
“Look at lucky Olive Larnoch. A month ago she didn’t know where to turn for sixpence!”
Ivy Lexton, and one of her young married women friends, Janet Horley, were lunching together at the Embassy Club.
Every place in the great room was occupied. At the next table an American diplomat was being lunched by one of the younger Ministers of the Crown; and close by a popular actor-manager was entertaining a pretty young duchess. Two sisters, who had just leapt into musical comedy fame, were laughing at the top of their voices, while being gaily chaffed by their host, an elderly peer who had entertained two generations of charming women by the daring quality of his wit.
Olive Larnoch? Ivy gazed eagerly across at a couple sitting at right angles from where she sat herself.
“Look at her string of pearls studded with huge diamonds! They’re all real!” went on Mrs. Horley excitedly. “As for the emerald Jock Larnoch gave her the day they became engaged, it’s worth five thousand pounds——”
“I’m sure I’ve seen her before,” exclaimed Ivy.
“Of course you must have often seen her, in the old days, when she was Olive Ryde, a war widow without a bob——”
“—and a stocking-shop in North Bolton Street?”
“You’ve got it in one! And her stockings always laddered, too. Well, one evening, she met a Scotch man of business here at the Embassy, named Jock Larnoch. He’d never been in a night-club before, so I suppose it went to his head! I happen to know the people who brought him here, and the funny thing is that they hadn’t an idea he was made of money. They just thought him comfortably off. Yet his first love-gift to Olive was a Baby Rolls—she didn’t know what to do with it, poor dear!”
Ivy gazed with absorbed interest at the fortunate bride of the Scotch millionaire. How marvellous it must be to have everything one wants, including an adoring husband! She sighed a quick, bitter little secret sigh. The sight of this fortunate young woman had brought back to her poignant memories and a sudden realisation of what her life might be now,