Choose the One You'll Marry (13 page)

“About two years ago, you say?”

“Yes. About two years ago. I knew she had an immense accumulation of letters and papers of no special value. But it was not until I had to go through them that I found she had kept almost everything that had ever been written to her. Most of it was not of the slightest interest to anyone, but among it was everything one could possibly need to build up a picture of her two relatives at home—and the charming girl that your mother must have been. Not only that. There emerged from the bundles of letters and cuttings a complete picture of Henrietta Curtis, as they must have known her.”

She gave a slight laugh, as though, even now, she could not quite credit the facts she was recalling.

“I don’t really know when the absurd idea first came to me, Ruth. I think at first I was only conscious of being angry with anyone who could so deliberately throw away the close friendship and relationship of such delightful people. I envied her the very thing she had never valued, and I supp
o
se
I
thought—even brooded—over what I would have done in her place.

“I was alone again, of course, and even Henrietta’s colorless presence had been better than fresh isolation. It seemed to me that there were the valued contacts and human relationships, ready to hand, for anyone who was resourceful enough to claim them.”

“But why didn’t you write and tell us you were Aunt
Henrietta’s friend and were coming home to England?” Ruth demanded. “We would have been very pleased to see you, just on your own merits.”

“Oh, no, my dear. Not in the same sense that an old friend and relative would be welcome.
I
never even thought of that,” the older woman admitted. “I thought and thought about the possibility of writing to my supposed sister. But
I
don’t know that, even then, I would have done anything, if it had not been for the money.”

“The money? Oh, yes—the
money.
The prize in the national sweepstake. You won the money just at the right moment!”

“In point of fact,” was the dry reply, “Henrietta won the money. Or rather, the ticket that she had bought a week before her death drew a prize three months later. I claimed the money.”

“You—you claimed it? In her identity? Oh, but Aunt Henrietta, that was cheating.” Ruth looked shocked.

“I suppose it was.” The pretended Aunt Henrietta looked unrepentant. “But she had left me the house and its contents, remember. That included the ticket. Morally, it was mine.”

“But you didn’t claim it on your own account?”

“Oh, no.” The older woman shook her head and laughed dryly. “I wasn’t going to put so much to the test, Ruth. I’d lost often enough in life’s lottery already. I was determined not to take any risk at that point. I took her passport—she’d always kept that, too, ever since she had arrived in Australia—and other means of identifying myself, and I went to Sydney and claimed the money. I was Henrietta Curtis from that moment.”

“I see,” said Ruth, and looked preternaturally solemn.

“You mean—you’re shocked.” The supposed Aunt Henrietta shrugged impatiently.

“I don’t know,” Ruth said candidly. “I don’t know how badly tempted one would be in such circumstances. And it wasn’t, of course, as though you were doing anyone else out of it.
Someone
was entitled to the money on that ticket, and I suppose the obvious person was you. If the real Aunt Henrietta had left you everything—”

“Only the house and its contents.”

“But didn’t that, in fact, amount to everything?”

“Yes. But that was the exact wording of the very informal will. My claim to the money might have been queried if I had admitted the real facts. I was not, as I told you, going to take that risk.”

“Well, perhaps you were right,” Ruth said. “Certainly I wouldn’t presume to judge otherwise. And as I said, it wasn’t as though you were doing someone else out of the money.”

“That isn’t quite accurate, you know.” Aunt Henrietta looked at her, half amused, half defiant. “Suppose the real Henrietta Curtis had lived long enough to claim that money herself. She might well have left it to her nephew—or your mother.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ruth admitted, but without any personal rancor.

“I didn’t think of it for some while, either. And then—particularly after
I
had put that money to work and made a small fortune for myself—I began to feel badly about Henrietta’s contacts back in England. That was when
I
first wrote home—to my supposed sister. And Michael wrote back to tell me she had died some while before. That left only Michael and your mother on my conscience.”

“I’m sure you needn’t have bothered on mother’s behalf,” Ruth assured her earnestly. “She’s quite ungrasping about money, and it would never had occurred to her that she had any sort of claim on Aunt Henrietta’s estate. I don’t think Michael would feel that way, either.”

“No. Having met them both, I’m sure of that, too, now. But it doesn’t really alter the case. Besides, quite apart from the fact that I had a guilty feeling about them, I grew increasingly anxious to come home and see them for myself. They actually seemed to belong to me by that time. I had someone who was
mine
at last, and I wanted to see them.”

“Yes,” Ruth said slowly. “
I
think I do understand that.”

“Michael wrote such kind and amusing and friendly letters. He accepted me so unhesitatingly, on paper, as the aunt who had remained silent for years and then suddenly come to life. Somehow it all seemed so easy—and so attractive. I settled up my very few affairs in Australia and I came home. And ever since then,” she added, with the first quiver of unsteadiness that Ruth had heard in her voice, “ever since then I’ve been happy.”

“Oh, dear Aunt Henrietta, I’m so glad.” Impulsively, Ruth flung her arms around her supposed aunt. “And thank you for telling me the story. It was entirely your own business, really, but I
had
to know before I could undertake to help you.”

“And now that you do know?” inquired Aunt Henrietta, smiling as she kissed Ruth.

“Why, I’ll be as silent as the grave about it all, of course,” Ruth promised. “I’d be glad to be allowed to tell mother, who would completely understand. But if you prefer me not to, I naturally won’t. As for Michael—there isn’t the slightest reason for me to do anything but help to preserve your secret there. After all, to all intents and purposes, you
are
his Aunt Henrietta. I shall continue to think of you that way, and I don’t even want to know your real name—ever.”

“Don’t you, my dear?” Aunt Henrietta seemed both amused and touched by the completeness of this capitulation. “Well, I daresay that’s the best plan. If you think of me as your Aunt Henrietta still, you’ll be less likely to make any slips. And so far as Michael is concerned, I don’t think he will ever have reason to regret the deception. I look on him as my nephew, and he will naturally inherit my money—along with what was possibly his own money—one day.”

“I’m sure he’d be the first to say he hopes that will be a long time hence,” Ruth said warmly.

Aunt Henrietta gave a pleased little laugh.

“And now, Ruth, I think it’s high time you went to bed. You must have had a tiring day.”

“Not really. Only—it seems a long one,” Ruth admitted.

And looking back over the events of the day and evening—beginning with the experiences at the studio and the scene with Charmian, the unexpected teatime with Michael, the evening with Angus, which might or might not have included a tentative proposal, the brief talk with Michael and these final revelations of Aunt Henrietta—Ruth felt that the day had indeed encompassed enough drama and excitement to fill a couple of weeks of her ordinary life.

“I’ll go now.” She bent over to kiss Aunt Henrietta good-night.

“Good night, child. Is Michael in bed yet, do you know?”

“He wasn’t when I came in. He was working. I had a word or two with him before coming in to see you.”

“About me?” For a second a shadow of alarm touched the older woman’s eyes.

“No, of
course
not, Aunt Henrietta. Just about our respective evenings. And—” she recalled her final words to Michael and began to laugh “—I asked him what he would mean if he told a girl he loved her.”

Aunt Henrietta opened her fine eyes wide.

“Apropos of what, Ruth? Had he been telling you that?”

“Oh,
no
!
But someone else had, and—”

“Angus Everton, I suppose?” said Aunt Henrietta, and looked a trifle discontented.

“Well, I won’t actually deny it—but I don’t think it was anything very serious,” Ruth declared, as lightly as she could.

“And what answer did Michael give you?” inquired Aunt Henrietta curiously.

“He said that, in his case, it would mean that the girl was the only one for him and he wanted to marry her. But—” Ruth added, with a smile “—he warned me that that wasn’t what every man would mean.”

“I should think not, indeed!” Aunt Henrietta seemed to speak out of the depths of some experience, and with a certain degree of amused cynicism. Then she bade Ruth goodnight once more, and Ruth went out of the room, a great deal happier in her mind than she had been when she went in.

As she closed the door behind her and started across the hall to her own room, Michael came out of the drawing room, putting out the lights behind him as he came.

“Hello!” He looked at her in some surprise across the dimly lighted hall. “Are you still running around? I thought you were in bed long ago.”

“I’ve been talking to Aunt Henrietta.” Ruth came forward until she stood just in front of him, and she kept her voice low, so that Aunt Henrietta should have no reason to think nervously that she heard them entering on an immediate discussion.

“Talking all this time?” He looked down at her with a smile. “Whatever do you find to talk about at this hour? For so long, I mean?”

“Oh—all sorts of things,” Ruth assured him carelessly, though, glancing at her watch, she saw it was indeed late enough for comment.

“All the things you weren’t prepared to tell me, I suppose?” he said, still with that amused glance.

“I didn’t refuse to tell you anything!” She looked surprised.

“Indeed you did! Asked me one of the most provocative questions I’ve ever been asked, and then refused to tell me what had prompted it.”

“Oh—
that
?” She began to laugh, and colored.

“Yes—that.”

“Did it make you very curious?” She glanced up at him mischievously.

“So curious that I couldn’t get on with my work for quite a while,” he declared.

“You don’t expect me to believe that one!” she scoffed. “Not entirely. But—” suddenly, to her great astonishment, he put his arm around her and drew her lightly against him “—don’t take him too seriously, my charming little cousin, will you?”

“I don’t know—” she began. But he interrupted her. “Now, don’t say you don’t know what I mean. It’s a naughty fib, to begin with, and is an insult to my intelligence. If you want it with all the i’s dotted and all the t’s crossed—don’t listen too trustingly to Angus Everton’s lovemaking. He’s a bit of a lightweight, you know.”

“I don’t think you know anything about him,” Ruth said indignantly. “You’ve probably just been listening to some horrid chitchat from Charmian Deal.”

“No, no. I don’t have to take my views about people from Charmian,” he assured her, with the utmost good humor. “And you needn’t think I’m going to interfere too much in your affairs. Only—you’re much too nice to be hurt, and you’re not going to be, so long as I can prevent it. And now good night.”

And still more to her astonishment, he bent his head and kissed her lightly on the side of her cheek before he released her.

“G-good night,” replied Ruth, slightly dazed. She wondered if she ought to take exception to this, but found that something within her positively forbade her doing so. Then she left him and went to her room, thoughtfully and not at all sure if she were charmed or displeased by this unexpected scene.

As she undressed and got ready for bed, she realized that at last she was really tired. Snatches of her amazing talk with Aunt Henrietta mingled with odd recollections of her evening with Angus. And then, as the two subjects merged in her slightly hazy consciousness, she recalled, with something of a shock, that she was going to have some difficulty in satisfying Angus’s curiosity on the morrow without in any way betraying Aunt Henrietta’s confidence.

I’ll just have to pretend she didn
’t
raise the subject,
Ruth told herself, gazing sleepily into the mirror as she brushed her hair.
I hope I can somehow do it without having to te
l
l a deliberate lie—but it’s going to be difficult. He’s curious and intrigued about the story already. And he isn
’t
entirely discreet. He did make that unfortunate remark in front of Charmian and
—
oh!

She dropped her hairbrush and clapped her hand to her lips in dismay.

Charmian knew about Aunt Henrietta, too!

At least, she knew about Angus’s suspicions. And Charmian was not at all a nice sort of person to know one’s awkward secrets.

For a rather panic-stricken minute or two, Ruth sat there visualizing all sorts of disasters. But then she resolutely called on her common sense.

Charmian was not a girl who took a lasting interest in anyone besides herself, and it was doubtful if she even bothered to remember much of what Angus had told her.
Certainly she would soon forget it, if nothing gave her any hint of the danger value of her information.

Provided I play the whole thing down to Angus, and prevent any further speculation at all, we should get past the danger period all right,
Ruth assured herself.
Besides
—she smiled at the recollection
—
Michael said he didn
’t
take his views from anything Charmian told him.

Somehow this last reflection consoled her immeasurably. She meant to think about it a little longer when she got into bed. But immediately all the recollections of the day and evening began to run together in her mind in a sleepy blur.

The only thing that came back to her clearly was the touch of someone’s lips on her cheek. But whether they were Angus’s lips or Michael’s she was not quite sure. And before she could settle this matter to her satisfaction, she was asleep.