Who Pays the Piper? (8 page)

“I can't marry you, Bill. I'm going to marry Lucas Dale.”

She looked at the words, and it seemed to her that they were nonsense. Bill wouldn't believe them. She would have to write something that would make him believe. She wrote again, adding word to word like a child writing from a copy:

“It doesn't matter what you think about me, but you mustn't let it spoil your work.”

She wrote her name, and folded the sheet quickly without reading it through. When she had addressed and stamped the envelope she walked down the street and posted it at Mrs. Gill's general shop, which was also the post office. Then she came home and told Mrs. O'Hara that she had broken off her engagement. Aunt Milly had a great deal to say about it and Susan had to listen.

“Of course, my dear, I wouldn't interfere for the world. And no one could say he was any sort of a match for you, though his father being so much respected and such an old friend did make a difference, as I told poor James at the time. And no one can be fonder of Bill than I am, but if you don't feel quite sure about marrying him, it is really much better to break it off—I have always said so. Because, after all, an engagement isn't a marriage, and divorce is a thing we haven't ever had in our family, and I hope we never shall. So don't marry him on any account unless you feel perfectly sure of yourself, though I'd like to see you happy and in a home of your own.”

“I'm going to marry Mr. Dale,” said Susan, and went out of the room.

Lucas Dale left her alone. He rang up once to inquire about Cathy, and said,

“I'm writing to you. I won't come and see you for a day or two. That's what you'd like, isn't it?”

There was a faint relief in her voice as she said “Yes”.

She got his letter an hour later. He wrote:

“I will make everything as easy for you as I can. I know that I shall have all my courting to do after we are married. Please don't be afraid of me. Please don't think that I shall try and rush you. Once we are married you shall have all the time you want. I will go into Ledlington and make arrangements tomorrow morning. I won't bother you till everything is settled. I thought perhaps Thursday——”

Susan felt a piercing stab. Bill had said Thursday—if Gilbert Garnish gave him the job. But she wasn't marrying Bill on Thursday, she was marrying Lucas Dale. Something in her said
“I can't”
. Something that was stronger than that said “I must”.

At two o'clock on the Monday Lucas Dale rang up. He said,

“I've got everything fixed for ten o'clock on Thursday morning. Is Cathy any better?”

“She hasn't spoken yet. She sleeps a great deal.”

“Is that how she was before?”

“Yes.”

“May I send you some flowers—grapes—any other fruit?”

“No, thank you.”

He went on speaking because he could not bring himself to ring off with that “No” in his ears.

“I made a new will this morning—just in case the bottom drops out of things between this and Thursday. As a matter of fact it will hold good afterwards, so Duckett says. You used to have to sign a will on your wedding day, but nowadays a will made in contemplation of marriage holds water all right. This is one of the good old-fashioned everything-to-my-wife sort. There, that's all—I just wanted you to know.”

As the day wore on Cathy seemed better. She turned on her side and slept. She had a little more colour.

Susan left the door open and went and lay down on her bed. She had not thought that she would sleep, but she fell at once into deep unconsciousness beyond the reach of dreams. She did not know that Mrs. O'Hara came in and stood there looking at her in a good deal more trouble than she had expressed for Cathy. Because Cathy had never been strong, but Susan had never had a day's illness in her life, and what was the matter with her now? Cathy was always pale, but if Susan lost her colour, there must be something dreadfully wrong, and if she didn't want to marry Bill Garrick, and did want to marry Mr. Dale, then why should she lose her colour and go about the house saying “Yes, Aunt Milly”, and “No, Aunt Milly”, and looking a great deal more like a ghost than a girl? It was very uncomfortable indeed. Something would have to be done about it—perhaps a friendly, tactful talk with Mr. Dale. “After all, I
am
in the position of Susan's mother.”

Mrs. O'Hara returned to her sofa and considered the line to be adopted by a tactful mother.

Susan waked to the sound of the telephone bell. She came back out of blank and distant places and was aware of it first as an insistent sound, and then as a summons. She went down into the dining-room and shut the door. Fear went with her. Her heart beat suffocatingly as she lifted the receiver and heard Bill's voice.

“Susan
——”

The one word told her that he had had her letter. She had wondered how he would take it, and the word told her that too. He was taking it fighting.

She must have made some sound. He said,

“I've only just had your letter. I've been out all day. What's all this infernal nonsense?” There was an effect of pure rage controlled to words.

Susan said, “It's no use—I can't talk about it.”

“I haven't the slightest desire to talk about it. I rang you up to tell you I was coming down. It's a quarter to four now. I shall be down by six.”

He must have flung the receiver back. The line shocked and went dead. Susan hung up and stood a long time staring at the wall. She ought to have tried to stop him—she hadn't tried—it wouldn't have been any good—you couldn't stop Bill when he had made up his mind to do a thing. A numbness came over her. It was nearly four o'clock.

She began to make Mrs. O'Hara's tea.

CHAPTER XII

Bill Carrick stopped the car which he had borrowed from Ted Walters and got out. There were no lights on this side of the Little House, and no Susan at the gate. It hit him, but he didn't stop to think about it. He walked straight into the unlighted hall, where he stood and listened. There was no sound of any kind. He went through the dining-room to the kitchen and saw Susan standing there as white as paper. He shut the door behind him and stood against it. Neither of them spoke, until at last he said in the same rough tone which he had used over the telephone,

“What's all this nonsense?”

Susan went back till she could lean against the dresser.

“You shouldn't have come,” she said in a desolate tone.

“I have come. And you've got to explain. On Wednesday when I was down here everything was all right—I was going to get Garnish's job, and you were going to marry me. Now I've got the job, and you're going to marry Dale. I suppose you don't think that needs any explanation. I'm sorry, but I don't agree. I've come here to get an explanation, and I'm not going away till I've got one. If you haven't got a story ready, you'd better do some quick thinking.”

Bill had never spoken to her like that in his life before. They had disagreed and argued, they had quarrelled and made it up again, but he had never looked as if he hated her before, never used that rough, cold voice of sarcasm. It hurt unbelievably, but it steadied her. She said,

“It's no use trying to explain. It was no use your coming down. We mustn't see each other, we mustn't talk. It's no use——”

He left the door and came towards her.

“Look here, Susan, if you think you can come that sort of thing over me, you can't! We're engaged. If you want to break the engagement you can, but you must tell me why.” He dropped his hands on her shoulders and let them lie there heavy and strong. “Look at me!”

Susan looked at him. She did not know how wretched a look it was. The hands that held her tightened.

“What's the matter? What's happened? You've got to tell me.”

“Bill, it's no use. Oh, Bill—please go!”

“What's the good of saying things like that? There's something behind this, and I'm going to know what it is. Are you going to look me in the face and say that you care for this fellow?”

She went on looking, but she did not speak.

“Come along—say it! You wouldn't marry a man you didn't care for. Don't mind my feelings—they don't matter to you any more. Go on—tell me you love him—a little—much—passionately—not at all! Which of them is it? Or shall I tell you that you don't care a snap of your fingers about him? Susan, you don't—you
can't!”

She put up her hands and took him by the wrists to push him away.

“Stop! It's no good, Bill.”

“Then you've got to tell me why.”

She freed herself.

“I can't tell you why—I can't tell you anything. We're not engaged any more. I can't marry you—I'm going to marry him. That's all there is to say.” Her colour had risen, her breath came quickly. There was a desperate sound in her voice.

Bill's manner changed suddenly. The roughness went out of it. He said,

“Look here, Susan, this is no good. You were all right on Wednesday. Something has happened since then, and you're going to tell me what it is. If you've fallen out of love with me you've only got to say so. If you've fallen in love with him you've only got to tell me. But if you love me and I love you, do you suppose for a moment that anything you say or do is going to make me stand on one side whilst you marry him? I don't know what's happened, but you're not using your brain. Get on and use it. You're no fool, but you're behaving like the village idiot. Drop it, and tell me what's been happening.”

Susan leaned back against the dresser.

“It won't do any good.”

“It won't do any harm.”

“I don't know—it might. There's Cathy——”

His face changed.

“Oh, Cathy's in it, is she? How?”

“He said—she took—his pearls——”

“
What?”

Susan looked at him in a lost sort of way.

“He said so.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He had them out on Wednesday. The Veres were there, and the Micklehams, and Lydia. Cathy brought the pearls.”

“
What?”

“The pearls—from his safe—in a tray. They are worth a lot of money. There were some loose ones. Everyone said wasn't he afraid to keep them in the house, and he said no, he liked to have them there, even though sometimes he didn't look at them for months. Lydia and I got up to go. He gave Cathy his keys and told her to put the pearls away. Lydia said he had better count them——” Her voice went down into a whisper and stopped.

“Go on.”

“On Saturday morning he rang up and said there was something wrong. I went up. Cathy was there—you know how she is when she's frightened. He said she had taken some of the pearls—twenty loose ones and a string of twenty-five that he had got to lengthen one of the other necklaces. He said if she would give them hack he wouldn't prosecute. She was all to bits. He said would I look for the pearls. I turned out Cathy's bag—and they were in the lining. Cathy fainted.”

“Susan!”

It was an extraordinary relief to speak—to tell Bill. She went on telling him.

“He said it was a very bad case. He said anyone else in the house might have been suspected. He said he must ring up the police. I told him Cathy would die. He said it was his duty, but——”

“Go on,” said Bill.

She looked away.

“He said he wouldn't prosecute his wife's cousin——”

There was a pause. Susan felt herself gripped and held.

“Look at me!”

She looked, and saw a stranger. Bill would look like this in thirty years time perhaps—features sharpened, lines bitten in, youth gone. It frightened her, and the hard anger in his eyes set her heart beating.

“Blackmail! And you knuckled down to it!”

She said, “Cathy—the police—I couldn't let him. That time the tramp frightened her your father said it was touch and go. She's upstairs now, just lying there. She hasn't spoken. It
would
have killed her.”

“If she did it she's better dead,” said Bill Carrick.

Susan cried out.

“She didn't—she couldn't!”

“Then who did? Dale—Dale himself? Had he made love to you—before this happened?”

“Yes—he asked me to marry him—on Thursday.”

“And you said?”

Susan's head came up.

“What do you think?”

“And then Cathy takes the pearls and they are found in her bag. That's damned convenient! And you walked right into the trap!”

“What could I do? I couldn't kill Cathy.”

“You could have called his bluff. It was bluff all right. You don't imagine he would really have rung up the police, do you?”

“Oh, he would.”

“He wouldn't. If he thought he'd a hold on you he wouldn't have been in a hurry to give it up. You've been a damned fool!” He caught her suddenly in a hard clasp. “You can imagine a lot, can't you? All right, imagine that I'll let you go to that swine! Go on—try hard! Oh, Susan, you fool—you fool! You blasted
darling
fool!”

Just for a moment Susan let herself go. The frightful strain and tension eased. She had a flashing sense of relief. Right in the midst of unimaginable darkness, thirst, and terror there was light—spring water—comfort. The moment came and went, the flash died, the comfort was gone. She lifted her head.

“Bill—I've promised——”

“You can't keep that sort of promise.”

“He said, ‘Is that your word of honour? '—and I said ‘Yes '.”

Bill let go of her. She thought, “He's letting me go.” And then she saw his face set in hard, obstinate lines. His eyes, angry and determined, held hers.

“Suppose you promised to murder someone—would you do it?”