Gone Away (21 page)

“I did want to ask you something,” Miss Hanny admitted, then, bracing herself, she came to the point. “Is it true ... I mean what Maimie told me, that she found she didn’t care for Mr. Warinder? There wasn’t any other reason for her marrying this man ... no reason that she dared not tell me? I’ve got to know. I can’t bear to be kept in the dark.”

“It
’
s true
...
Maimie could never really have cared for Seymour.
I
believe she and Claud loved one another from the first moment of meeting.”

“I’m glad.” Miss Hanny’s words were brief but deeply sincere. “Now I mustn’t detain you.”

Patricia rose thankfully and gripped the older woman’s hand. To her surprise, she felt herself pulle
d
down, and for a brief instant Miss Hanny’s lips rested on her cheek.

“Thank you, my dear ... for all you’ve done. I know I’m not an easy person to please, but you’ve been very patient, and I’m grateful.”

A warm feeling of pleasure filled Patricia at the unexpected words, little enough in themselves, but from Miss Hanny she recognized their worth. “It’s quite all right. I have been happy with you,
”
she murmured with some embarrassment.

“I know it was difficult for you, staying on here after my accident, when all your arrangements were made. It was very unselfish of you. I realize it must have been a sacrifice. Now be off, my dear, an
d
I wish you happiness.”

Patricia turned and left the room. The maid had already placed her luggage on the waiting taxi, and with a friendly farewell Patricia hurried down the steps.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

A dreary vista of a rain-soaked landscape flashed by in the fading light, as Patricia, from her corner seat in an empty compartment, stared through the window. It seemed incredible that summer could fade so completely and quickly. Only a few weeks ago she had gathered dew-washed roses from the garden, and today sweeping mists of rain beat against half-bare trees and descended on a Darren and fruitless earth.

Patricia turned her attention to the chequered puzzle in the newspaper on her lap. What a waste of time these things were, and yet they served to pass the time, and divert one’s mind from more serious matters.

“Anyone for Pentham? Due in four minutes,” the attendant announced from the corridor.

“Goodness, are we?” Patricia quickly folded her paper and placed it on the empty seat beside her. “Yes, I’m getting off there.” It was not long before the grinding and jarring of brakes heralded the train’s arrival at the station, and Patricia, somewhat hampered by her suitcase, edged her way along the narrow corridor to the exit.

There were very few people on the platform. Patricia had changed trains at Rugby, an
d
there were never many passengers for this scattered district. While awaiting her porter, Patricia gazed round the familiar station. As if the intervening months had receded, memories engulfed her.

“Your luggage, miss.” The porter’s prosaic words shattered Patricia’s reverie. The imaginary figures vanished, and in their place was stark, cold darkness.

“Please get me a taxi,” Patricia asked, following the porter through the barrier gates to the station yard. She watched him ease her trunk on to a taxi and, tipping him, she turned to the driver. “The Vicarage, please.”

It did not seem long before the driver descended from his seat and flung open the door, “
’ere we are, miss. Wot about the luggage?
”
His expression denoted more clearly than his words that he had no intention of dealing with Patricia’s cumbersome trunk single-handed.

“Oh, leave the luggage. I’ll get someone to help you.” Patricia pushed open the gate or the Vicarage and ran lightly up the steps. The old-fashioned bell-pull clanged through the house and Patricia waited expectantly. Her stepmother’s presence would undoubtedly spoil things, but she longed to see her father.

Patricia was mildly surprised to hear the bolts pulled back and the unmistakable sound of a chain being withdrawn. Surely they hadn’t gone to bed. She hadn’t said the time she’d arrive, only the day, but it wasn’t so very late, only just after ten.

A rosy-cheeked woman, clad in cap and apron, half opened the door, and, peering through the aperture, spoke. “Who is it? Why—why—” She opened the door to its full extent and stood gaping on the threshold. “Well, if it ain’t Miss Patricia!” Her face beamed. “It isn’t often we sees you up ’ere, miss.” Her kindly expression changed to one of concern. “You ain’t come to stay, ’as yo
u
? The missus
...
she wrote you, didn’t she?”

“My stepmother? No, I haven’t heard from her.” A feeling of apprehension seized Patricia. “Why, isn’t she here?”

‘No, miss, that she ain’t, nor the master neither. They’ve gone up to Edinburgh ... a conference or something.” The dim light from the globe hanging from the hall ceiling showed the expression of annoyance on her face. “You don’t mean to say she never wrote you? Why, I ’eard the master meself, he told ’er. ‘Emily,’ ’e says—I ’eard ’im meself—‘Emily, don’t forget to write Patricia; tell ’er as ’ow I’ve bin called away. Fix up’ ’e says, ‘for ’er to come later!”

“Then they’re away
...
both of them.” There was a note of bewilderment in her voice.

“Yes, miss, that they are, and just fancy the missus not as much as dropping a line, and you all the way from London too. Of course miss, you could stop ’ere just the same.”

“It’s awfully kind of you,” Patricia bit her lips, “but no, I don’t think I will. I can easily go along to the ‘George’.” She forced a smile. “It would be a shame to trouble you.”

“It’s very late, miss.” There was a note of doubt in the maid’s voice. “I shouldn’t wonder your father wouldn’t like to feel you was stopping there,” she added doubtfully.

“
Oh, but it’s all right,” Patricia asserted, gaining confidence with her decision. She held out her hand. “Goodnight and thanks awfully.”

Wiping her hands hastily on her apron, the older woman took Patricia’s extended hand. “Just as you wish, miss.” The maid stood in the doorway watching Patricia as she retraced her steps down the path to the waiting taxi, then, with a despondent shake of the head, she closed the door and readjusted the bolts.

“My people are away. I made a mistake in not warning them of my arrival.
”
Patricia addressed the waiting taxi-driver. “I don’t think I’ll stay here. Could you take me back to the ‘George’?”

“It ain’t much of a place, miss, but ’op in and I’ll soon run you there.”

Patricia stood for a moment, hesitant, one foot on the step of the car. The driver’s words conjured up her memories of the “George,” the only hotel of which the village boasted. It certainly wasn’t a very attractive picture that recurred to her mind. A slovenly landlord and an equally slovenly house, a drinking place for the village. Patricia’s lips were pursed in despair. Suddenly she remembered, and it was as if a sudden light had penetrated the darkness. “The Load of Mischief
”
—the inn on the London road! Tense with repressed excitement, Patricia turned again to the driver. “Have you time
...
have you enough petrol? I’ve just remembered there’s an inn, a small hotel, about ten miles from here. It’s a straight run on the London road. Could you—could you possibly take me there?”

Patricia’s eagerness conveyed itself in some inexplicable way to the driver. “I can easy fill up and I’ve plenty of time.” He paused for a moment, and a suspicion of doubt crept into his voice. “But I’ll expect me return fare paid ... that’s only fair, now, ain’t it?”

“I quite understand. Naturally I’ll pay ... for your time as well.”

Patricia sat back in the jolting taxi; it was as if a load had been lifted from her mind. It was disappointing not seeing her father, but all she wanted was repose, a haven where for the next week or two she could rest and seek a certain degree of comfort and solitude. Suddenly it was clear to her that, in this somewhat roundabout way, she had achieved the very thing she most desired: a return to the place which, because of its precious memories, would always hold a sacred corner in her mind.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

Th
e rain was still falling with dismal persistence and splashing noisily into the gutter above Patricia’s bedroom window at the inn, as she put the finishing touches to her toilet. Although the weather had been unkind, her first day had been full of a quiet enjoyment. Long hours tramping the rain-soaked countryside had fitted in with her mood and afforded her infinite contentment. Now, tired but happy after her day’s exertion, she tidied herself for dinner. The first thing she had done upon arrival had been to phone Ian and acquaint him of her change of plans, and she had to smile when she recalled his indignation at the manner in which her stepmother had treated her. It had been difficult to assure him over the telephone that really everything had happened for the best, and that in actual fact she was experiencing a greater sense of happiness than she had known for months. How could she convey that to anyone? Even Ian, completely sympathetic as he was, imagined it to be a tragedy that she should be forced to stay at a derelict country inn by herself!

Finally she turned away from her mirror and crossed to the door. It was silly to waste time in idle thought when she was hungry, and it was already past the dinner hour. If she lingered much longer, perhaps she wouldn’t get a meal at all! She ran lightly down the stairs and made her way to the dining room, where she was seated at a corner table and surprised at the appetite her unaccustomed exercise had given her. The dining room was empty, for the few other guests in the hotel apparently dined early an
d
retired to bed.

Having finished her dinner, Patricia crossed the passage and pushed open the heavy swing doors leading to the lounge, which she was thankful to find empty too. The pleasant tang of burning peat assailed her nostrils as she drew up an armchair before the blazing log fire that burned in the old-fashioned open grate. There had been just such a fire on her first visit. Kay had sat on a low stool at her feet
...
the orange flames had cast weird shadows on his clean-cut features, delineating the lines of his profile. Patricia stretched out her hand for a newspaper that lay discarded on a nearby chair. She must—she simply must, she chided herself—forget Kay, put him completely out of her mind, if she was to enjoy the peace and tranquility of her surroundings. With but little regret she visualized the evenings as they might have been spent in the company of her father and stepmother. Her father’s company, dear as it was to her, would
h
ave been utterly spoiled by her stepmother’s presence; her high-pitched voice, querulous and interfering, would have broken in persistently upon their conversation. This was heavenly, blessed quiet, which she had not known for weeks. As if to deny her thoughts, she was suddenly aware of voices in the passage outside; the hall porter’s voice, loud and genial, and another man’s, broke unexpectedly across the silence. That must be a new arrival. Patricia frowned. She hoped that he wouldn’t come into the lounge to spoil her solitude. With a feeling almost of indignation she became aware of the lounge door being opened. Patricia looked up with a sense of irritation. She didn’t want to be disturbed, and she only hoped that the newcomer would not try to engage her in trivial conversation. Still, this was a public lounge, and she couldn’t expect to have everything her own way
...
and then she suddenly felt that she must be dreaming. Perhaps the heat of the fire had made her drowsy
...
she couldn’t, no, she couldn’t possibly be fully awake! She sat forward, her fingers tightening on the arms of her chair. This was Kay ... it couldn’t be a mistake. What had happened? Had she suddenly gone back over the months? Patricia rubbed her eyes with a childish gesture. Now the tall figure was standing close in front of her, had taken her two hands in his and was slowly drawing her to her feet until her eyes stared into his. Kay’s eyes, and in their sea-blue depths was that expression she knew so well—strengthening, reassuring. It was true, then; the incredible had happened.

“Patricia!” Kay’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Patricia, is it really you? I can scarcely believe it.” Patricia was too stunned to speak; she could only nod her head dumbly while she stared at her companion as if he were some disembodied spirit.

“Pat, just say that I’m forgiven. I know I hardly deserve it, but if you’ll let me try to explain ... to offer some sort of apology.” Seymour paused, suddenly aware of the strained expression on his listener’s face. With gentle hands he drew Patricia down on to a settee beside him. “W
h
at a brute I am!” he murmured. “I ought to have appreciated what a shock this must be to you. Darling ... I’m sorry for having misjudged you.”

As if the word “darling had broken the spell which enveloped her, Patricia spoke. “Of course you’re forgiven. What have I to forgive? It was all my own fault. I should have explained to you at the time
...”
She broke off, then added, “But, Kay, I don’t understand. Why are you here? What are you doing in England?”

“Nothing
...
now. I’ve found you, and that’s what I came over for,” Seymour replied promptly. “Did you imagine that I could stay quietly in Singapore, knowing that you were here?” He smiled whimsically. “There was something that I’ve wanted to ask you ever since our first meeting. I’ve always been frustrated. I’ve got to ask you now. Sweetheart, will you marry me?” There was a note of ill-concealed anxiety in his tone, then his voice softened. “I love you. I’ve always loved you
...
from the very first day we met!”

“I knew,” she interrupted him. “I mean, ages ago I knew you cared. I ought to have told you that I found this.” Patricia stretched out her hand for her bag where it lay discarded on her chair, and searched in its depths. “I found this letter among your things when we were clearing your room. I ought not to have taken it
...
I
...
meant to tell you, but I couldn’t. You
—
you understand, don’t you?” she asked anxiously.

Seymour looked in wonderment at the crumpled letter in Patricia’s hand, then his expression suddenly cleared. “You knew
...
even before I confessed my love, that night at the bungalow? Pat, darling, it nearly broke my heart when that letter came back just scrawled with those heartless words, ‘Gone away.’
” He leaned anxiously toward her. “Maimie had more courage than I; she followed the dictates of her heart and took the path that promised her happiness. I’m glad she’s so happy. She wrote to me, you know, and I thanked God for the pluck s
h
e had shown which I myself so lacked. It’s not too late now ... if you’ll help me. Can’t we find happiness too? Can’t we forget the months since that letter was written and count it as but a day?” There was an eager inflection in his voice as he spoke. Stretching out his hand, he took the letter which Patricia still held. “I mean all I said in this letter and a thousand times more. Time has only served to increase my love for you. What would your answer have been then
...
what will it be now?” He lifted Patricia’s hand to his lips and softly kissed it. “Dearest, answer me—please.”

A wild surge of exquisite joy flooded Patricia’s whole being at the touch of his lips, and her heart leapt within her breast at his words, words which it seemed she must have been waiting all her life to hear. Each syllable was like sweet music, and she seemed submerged in a delirium of sheer ecstasy.

“You can’t answer me
...
you mean you don’t care
...
your answer to my letter is ‘no’?” Seymour set his lips in a grim line. “I dare say I deserve it. Heaven knows, I treated you badly enough. It wasn’t until Maimie had actually eloped with Claud that I came to my senses and realized what a vile mistake I’d made, and how abominably I’d treated you. Kitty explained the whole thing to me, too. That made me feel even worse, if possible.” There was a break in his voice as he finished speaking.

Patricia shook her head mutely. Now that Kay was actually avowing his love, now that there was nothing in the world to keep them apart, she was so profoundly overcome with emotion that her lips would not frame the words she was longing to utter. She turned a pair of anguished eyes to her companion, and in a whisper at last she found voice to murmur, “It isn’t that. Naturally you misunderstood about Claud. I don’t blame you at all. I love you
...
you must know I do. I think I’ve always loved you. If only I’d received that letter, how different everything would have been!” Tears welled up in her eyes until Kay’s features became misty and unreal.

Those unshed tears appeared to break down Kay’s last reserves; in a moment he had taken her in his arms and was raining passionate kisses on her hair, her eyes, her lips. “My darling
...
”
Seymour whispered tender words of love as Patricia lay unresistingly in his embrace. Then at long last she drew away and murmured, “But, Kay, how did you find me here
...
however did you know?” There was a note of bewilderment in Patricia’s voice.

“It’s Ian
...
Ian
Alastar
we have to thank for this. I saw him today; he gave me your address.” Seymour smiled. “And believe me, I was out of his house and rushing to catch the next train north before he had finished giving me directions!”

“Poor Ian.” Patricia again drew close to her companion and nestled lovingly against his shoulder. “He’s been such a good friend to me. I don’t know what I should have done all these months without his friendship.” A tender smile played round her lips as she recalled Ian’s protective attitude. “There was never anything he would not have done to help me. If only things could come right for him too!”

“Darling Pat. Still concerned with other people’s happiness? I wonder, will you ever be able to think only of yourself?
”
Seymour stroked her hair with caressing fingers.
“
I can put your mind at ease concerning Ian. Kitty travelled on the same ship with me. It was when I handed her over to Ian’s care that I learned of your
whereabouts. Bob Wane died last month; that was really the cause of my delayed return. I had to help Kitty settle up his affairs. She is free now, and there is nothing that can come between Ian and the woman he wants.”

“Kay ... you mean that? Is it really true? I can scarcely believe it. Everything coming right. I feel that it must all be a dream. Tell me again you love me. Tell me over and over again until I know your words by heart.”

Seymour tilted Patricia’s face up to his, and his eyes smiled into hers until her whole being felt encompassed in the radiance of his love. “Sweetheart, tell me you love me, over and over again. That would be much nicer!”

“I love you, I love you,” Patricia exclaimed breathlessly. “But it’s almost too good to be true.”

“Yes ... too good to be true,” Seymour echoed, drawing Patricia once more into a close embrace. As he laid his lips on hers, the well-fingered letter fell unheeded to the ground. It lay, with its burnt corner clearly visible, as if that scrap of paper had proved to be a symbol of the invincibility of their love.