You Took My Heart (12 page)

Mrs. Perros’ eyes filled with quick tears. “I know, my dear. It’s
all
so odd and so disturbing! isn’t it?” Her hand was warm on the girl’s arm. “We’re so disappointed, Dad and I.
You
know I think, Joan—we had other plans for Garth! But somehow these days—young people seem so different—things happen—” She blundered on, kindly, distractedly. “Vera is a sweet girl,” she concluded. “I like her. In any other circumstances I might have welcomed her very warmly indeed, and as it is I cannot do less than accept her. She is, after all, my son’s wife.” The old lady’s voice was proud suddenly. “And there’s Ivan,” she said, her face lighting up. “He’s the most wonderful boy, Joan, and so intelligent. Do you know what he said to me when we were coming along the Marylebone Road just now? There was an electric crane at work and Ivan pointed to it—”

For a quarter of an hour they talked of Ivan’s sayings and doings. There never
had
been such a clever child, Mrs. Perros hinted. He was so strong, so beautiful, so altogether everything a small boy ought to be.

Joan listened with a queer contraction of the heart. Ivan had won here too, she was thinking. Ivan had won all along the line. He would always win. It was right that he should. And already his existence had more than made up to the older Mrs. Perros for the muddle and disappointment of Garth’s strange marriage. Ivan had justified everything.

When he came back a little later, a ruffled, curly headed cherub in a bright woolly bathrobe, the old lady fell into an enraptured silence, watching him settling on the rug by the electric fire with his Mr. Dippy, his new model speed-boat, seeing in his thin, earnest little face and absorbed grey-eyes her own Garth, her baby of long ago come to fresh life before her. There were tears in her eyes once more. But happy tears this time.

Joan slid from her chair to share the hearth-rug and admire the treasures. The speed-boat was shining and wonderful, but it was the shabby bear Ivan held in his arms. “You sewed in his eyes for him at the hospital. ’Member?” he reminded Joan with a look of special affection for her.

It was thus Garth found them when he got home, the small boy with his toys, the three women grouped around him in adoration; Vera with her golden, madonna-like head, her lovely face soft and thoughtful; Joan, slim and young in her plain black frock, her brown-gold curls glinting with firelight and lamplight. Her blue eyes raised to him in greeting held a look that tore at his heart. But he greeted her calmly, casually, dropped a dutiful kiss on his mother’s cheek and seated himself in one of the hard leather armchairs. He had not, Joan observed, kissed Vera.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Fresh
tea was brought. Talk flowed drowsily. It was a homely, pleasant moment. The best there had been, Joan felt, since her arrival at the flat.

And it was the luck of the world surely that had postponed Miss Darley’s wholly unexpected entry until now. If she had come when the vodka-drinking, noisy theatrical folk had been present! If she had come then! The thought persisted to Joan in horror above the rising tide of her sheer astonishment. Miss Darley, here in this house, tall and dignified in her dark coat and winter furs, her proud, autocratic face softened with the most charming of smiles as she held out her hand to Vera, It was a miracle of miracles!

Did the others realize that? Joan wondered, her blue eyes sweeping the group. Garth did. Garth, with that look of amazement and relief on his tanned face, welcoming the Matron of St. Angela’s, the most influential woman in the whole important world of hospital, introducing her to his wife.

The firmly modulated voice was apologizing: “It is too bad of me to call so late, Mrs. Perros. I must beg your forgiveness. But I was visiting in the neighborhood and thought I would run in on the chance of finding you. I have wanted so much to know you.”

And Vera. Vera was doing her part most beautifully, waving aside the apologies with her slow, easy smile, offering the new guest tea or cocktails.

It was a cocktail Miss Darley chose. They all had cocktails. The atmosphere grew more and more friendly and easy. Joan, with the sense of wonder growing in her heart added to it now a sense of deepest thankfulness. Miss Darley’s visit was no chance gesture. It was a deliberate acceptance of Garth Perros’ wife. It was an alliance of the most powerful kind against the forces of malice. It was a declaration in effect that Miss Darley, at all events, was entirely unaffected by the foolish newspaper publicity. And if Miss Darley took that attitude it was certain the Committee would follow in her wake. This slender, elderly woman with her greying hair and fine, thoughtful face was a power to be reckoned with in the places of authority.

And now the most wonderful thing of all was happening! Miss Darley was speaking of Christmas, so rapidly approaching. It would be a busy time at the hospital. Plans were already afoot for festivities, decorations, amusements for the patients. Would Mrs. Perros, if she could spare the time, take over the rehearsals of the Nurse’s annual pantomime? It was quite a simple affair, short and light-hearted. It took place every Boxing Day in the main observation ward on the ground floor where a stage was erected. Mrs. Perros’ theatrical experience would be of immense value. They would be so grateful to her for her help ...

Vera smiled, her delightful smile. Of course she would do anything she could to help, she promised.

“Then that’s settled,” Miss Darley said with satisfaction, gathering up her furs, her gloves. “I’m putting my plans before the Committee tomorrow and they will be pleased to know you are giving us your services. They will indeed be
most
grateful.”

They’d jolly well have to be, Joan thought, with an inward chuckle, with Miss Darley on the warpath!

She was leaving now, making her farewells. In a few days she hoped to arrange a small tea-party in her rooms at which various members of the Board of Directors would be present. Would Garth and Vera come? What day would suit them? Garth was jubilant fixing the date.

Then Miss Darley’s kindly glance took in her humble probationer, including her in the good-byes. “And you too, Nurse Langden,” she was saying. “You’ll help with our pantomime, won’t you? Do you sing? Do you dance?”

“Neither with very great success I’m afraid, Matron,” Joan found herself stammering. “But of course I’ll do my best to fit in somewhere.” She would have given the world to refuse this honor, but refusal was out of the question. Miss Darley’s lightest expressed wish to a St. Angela nurse was in the nature of a royal command!

She nodded, smiling. “Mrs. Perros will put you through your paces, and find you a suitable part, I’ve no doubt,” she concluded happily.

Then she was gone. Ivan from the hearth rug said, “She’s a nice lady. I like her. She ses she once saw Malcolm Campbell’s real speed boat racing!”

The grown-ups stared at one another in blank silence for a moment, then Garth burst out laughing. “She’s a grand old girl, isn’t she?” he exploded. “Coming round here—heartening us like this. Taking the whole Committee by the nose and leading it where it should go!”

“It means—we’re saved? That they won’t ask you to resign?” Vera asked breathlessly.

“Of course it means that!” Garth told her elatedly.

“Miss Darley has always liked you,” Joan put in stoutly. “She’s a woman of good sense if ever there was one.”

Old Mrs. Perros just sat and beamed. Miss Darley in the nature of things couldn’t be quite so important to her as she was to the others, and she refused to join in their raptures. “I never thought for one moment they would ask Garth to resign,” she said proudly. “Why, whatever would the hospital do without him? I never heard of such a silly idea!”

“An idea, nevertheless, that has lost me two or three perfectly good nights’ sleep,” Garth commented drily.

* * * *

Then Vera was taking Ivan away to supper and bed. Joan slipped on her grey fur coat and said she too must go.

“I’ll drive you wherever you’re going,” Garth put in just a fraction too quickly, too eagerly, jumping up to hold her coat for her. “The car is at the door,” he assured her.

Her blue eyes clouded. “No, Garth, it’s all right. You mustn’t come out again. You’ve only just got in—you’re tired.” Ineffectually she fumbled for excuses. She didn’t want him to drive her back to the hospital. She didn’t want to be alone with him. She had most carefully avoided any possibility of a
tete-a-tete
with him since their strange conversation on the telephone the other day. And now the very thought of a few moments’ drive with him left her panic-stricken.

“I’d rather walk back to hospital, really, Garth,” she murmured, going out on to the landing with him, hearing his repeated protests. It was a wide, bright landing, all the doors of the flat opening out upon it. Vera appeared on the threshold of Ivan’s room, a gingham apron over her party frock.

“Ivan says you promised to read him a chapter of
Tom Sawyer
tonight, Garth,” she reminded her husband.

Garth murmured remorsefully, “Oh, yes, so I did! Let’s go and say good-night to the young man, Joan.”

They followed Vera into the small, pleasant room with its white painted bed, its aeroplane pictures, its thick soft carpet. There was nothing unhome-like in here.

Ivan, sitting up with Mr. Dippy beside him, greeted them rapturously. Any diversion that postponed the moment of putting out the lights and going to sleep was to be welcomed.

“You said you’d read to me, Daddy,” he reminded his parent with some severity.

Garth looked abashed. “I’m just taking Joan back to hospital, old man,” he apologized. The little boy’s face fell, and Joan put in quickly, “You’re
not
taking me back to hospital, Garth. This settles it. I’d really much, much rather walk.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind—” began Garth lamely.

She went away with the picture of him sitting on the rumpled dow
n
quilt, one arm around his son, the
Adventures of Tom Sawyer
in his hand. In a dazed abstraction she walked along the quiet professional street with its rows of brass plates. It had been a tempestuous afternoon one way and another. So much had happened—Mrs. Perros’ appearance, Miss Darley’s. Vera and that queer man Stefan, the shrieking friends, the vodka, the rather horrible way Vera had spoken of her husband before them all. Joan’s thoughts whirled. Was it going to be all right now that they were together again, Garth and his wife? Were they happy or unhappy now that the step had been taken? Was Ivan all-important to Garth, too, as well as Vera? ... it seemed that he was. She thought again of the contented expression on Garth’s face as she had just left him. A swift mental picture of the flat returned to her—the bright large hall outside the drawing room. All those doors with their rooms behind them, Vera’s room—Garth’s. Were they side by side? Were Garth and Vera really living as strangers ... or...?

Pain caught at her heart. Vera was so lovely, so golden, so desirable! Wouldn’t the years be bound to bring contentment to this strange marriage in spite of its tragic beginning?

With lagging footsteps she walked on. Mounting the steps of the Nurses’ Home she felt curiously, utterly weary. In the floating scent of roasting mutton the dreary promise of supper came to her.
She would go in and sit down in her black frock among the lively probationers. She would listen to ward gossip. At ten o’clock she would go up to bed clutching her hot-water bottle. Tomorrow there would be work again and the cold scamper across the square for meals and off-duty times. Life would go on.

The days that followed were busy ones with Christmas preparations in addition to the usual ward work. Off-duty time was curtailed. Voluntary helpers for the decorations, the carol practising, the concerts, were begged for. Joan threw herself into the rush of events with an avid kind of eagerness. Life was simpler when you kept going madly all day long, when you were never alone with your thoughts, not even for a moment.

There was the nine days’ wonder of Mrs. Garth Perros taking pantomime rehearsals. Then everyone accepted it calmly. The sensation concerning Garth Perros’ affairs faded as such sensations always do, pushed into the background by fresh interests. Vera came and went almost unnoticed.

In the lecture room she drilled her awkward squad of enthusiastic amateurs. The customary bungled tap-dancing she refused to countenance, and evolved pleasant, easy harmonious steps to the cheerful pantomime music instead. Joan had a small part with a song to sing. Her voice was sweet and rich. Vera was charmingly encouraging about it.

One early December day she rang Joan up and begged her to come round to Welbeck Street for her small private rehearsal as she was too desperately busy that moment to get to the hospital. Joan could do nothing but acquiesce, and as soon as she was off-duty after lunch she set off. Garth was away in the country on a consultation, she knew; that gave her courage. She had avoided him assiduously since the night of Vera’s birthday, and it was easier now to go to his home once more knowing he would not be there.

She was a little early for her appointment. Mrs. Perros, the maid said, had gone out to lunch and was not yet back. Would Miss Langden like to be trying on her pantomime costume which had just come from the dressmaker’s. She led the way to a dressing-room opening off a larger bedroom, obviously Vera’s.

Left to herself Joan surveyed rather doubtfully the tinselled dress she must wear. It had been altered to fit her after several years of hospital pantomime. It looked shabby and tawdry. But probably, she consoled herself, it would be
b
etter by artificial light. There were pointed, mediaeval shoes to go with it, and a ridiculous long golden wig. Gingerly Joan arrayed herself in all these props. She would feel an almighty fool on Boxing Day, she told herself, and laughed at her reflection in the long mirror.

It was while she was wrestling with the wig, hot and heavy over her ears, that she became aware of the voices in the adjoining room. Vera had come in, then ... and somebody else. It was a man’s voice speaking.

The door of the dressing-room was almost closed so that Joan could neither see nor be seen, but she knew that faintly foreign intonation. It was Stefan, the Russian, and he was saying half angrily, “But we can’t go on like this, darling. It’s impossible. I hate to see you so miserable.”

Joan’s cheeks grew scarlet. For one wild moment she contemplated the possibility of climbing out of the window and crawling along the parapet! She couldn’t stay here and listen. It was awful!

And now it was Vera talking in a voice between laughter and tears. “Oh, Stefan, you’ve no idea! It’s simply ghastly. We go to tea-parties with prim hospital matrons. We have middle-aged doctors and their wives to dinner. The wives get me into a corner after dinner and talk servant problems while Garth and the men prattle about tumours and deep
X-ray
and carbuncles—yes, carbuncles! Last night they talked carbuncles for hours!” She laughed miserably.

“Well, you know what to do about it, Angel,” Stefan pointed out dispassionately. “I’ve been trying to get it into your head—for how long—five years is it?—that the only thing you can do is to divorce Perros. You ought to have done it long ago.”

“And I,” replied Vera shrilly and nervously, “have been trying to get it into
your
thick head, Stefan, for five years that I won’t even consider divorce. It would mean that awful business of shared guardianship. Ivan going to Garth for all his holidays—for six months of the year, perhaps. I couldn’t stand it. Ivan has never been away from me for one night in his life except that hospital time. He’d
die!—
so should I!” She was weeping openly now, and in her unhappy hiding place Joan could imagine the tall sombre young Russian comforting her, holding her in his arms.

Her voice was muffled, saying presently, “You’re so sweet, Stefan darling. And so stupid. Can’t you see it would be worse than ever now that Garth has had Ivan for a while—had time to get fond of him? It might even be that he would refuse to let him come to me at all. The law would give him full control, you see, if I were the one to be divorced.”

Stefan was silent. Joan’s cheeks throbbed and burned. This was getting worse and worse. In desperation she looked round once more for some means of escape, and saw that there was a second door to the dressing room, half hidden by a curtain. She made for it, moving cautiously.

Stefan was saying. “It is you who is the stupid one, my angel child. I’ve just thought of a marvellous plan for you. What is it that this good husband of yours dreads more than anything else—unsavoury publicity. Very well, then. There’s your solution. It’s as clear as daylight. All you have to do—”