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Authors: Mary Burchell
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he saw her for the first time.
CHAPTER III
“I wish I’d never gone to that wretched ball—or danced with Oliver Mayforth—or, most of all, let him pretend to make love to me! ” muttered Rachel savagely, as she pounded away at her typewriter that afternoon.
It was the most infuriating thing! She had had to pretend, in the end, to be amused, for both Oliver himself and Dr. Denbey would have thought it odd if she had made too heavy weather of it. But she was not really amused at all. For what girl wants to be photographed—much less have that photograph reprinted a hundred thousand times—smiling tenderly at the wrong man?
Not that the term “wrong man” was quite applicable, she reminded herself. For there was no “right man”, as it happened, in her case. But one didn’t want even casual acquaintances to see a photograph like that. What would Sir Everard think?—if anything other than Hester could interest him at the moment. Or her family?—except that no London evening paper was likely to find its way to Loriville. Or Nigel Seton?
She paused an unnecessarily long time over the possibility of Nigel’s reactions. Until it came to her that he would probably hardly be interested. And that it was quite immaterial to her whether he was or not
Rachel was alone in the office now and very nearly at the end of her work The assistant surgeon had told her that he would not be back that afternoon, and a message had also been sent that Sir Everard would not require her either, as he hoped to get some rest, after his broken night and strenuous morning.
“Once you’ve finished that report, you can go and amuse yourself,” Oliver Mayforth had told her, before he went off. And she had an uneasy feeling that the slight touch of indulgence in his manner was his reaction to the unlucky photograph rather than any tribute to the excellence of her work The prospect of being out on her own in London, however, was so attractive that she stifled her uneasy annoyance, finished her work at top speed, and tidied her desk for the day. It was still only three o’clock—and the rest of the afternoon was hers.
As she went out of the Nursing Home, she paused to ask for the latest report on Hester, and as this was satisfactory, she was able to start off on her afternoon’s exploring with a quiet mind.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly she had come to identify herself with the fortunes of her uncle and his family. This time yesterday she had not met any of them Now it was desperately important to her that Hester should recover, that her uncle should not have his domestic happiness ruined, that Nigel should somehow be cleared of a guilt which was not his.
She was very much reminded of him as she walked now along the same street they had traversed together in the early hours of the morning. Now it was quite busy and it was difficult to credit that it had looked deserted and faintly mysterious in the cold ligh t of the waning moon.
“But that was what accounted for my absurd behaviour, of course,” she told herself. “That and the fact that I was dead tired. But fancy crying about it! What a fool he must have thought me. Only he didn’t seem to. He said he understood. I suppose he did And I suppose that was why he kissed me.”
Though why she had kissed him in return she simply could not imagine now. This was the moment when it seemed such an extraordinary thing to have done, and it became impossible to recapture that fugitive mood in which it had seemed quite natural.
“We were none of us quite normal, after the shock of the accident,” Rachel assured herself. And then she came to one of the main shopping streets, and forgot all about her personal affairs ia the delights displayed there.
One is either a window-shopper or one is not. To some people nothing is specially interesting or lovely unless they can themselves hope to possess it. For them there will never be the joyous experience of dawdling along, gazing into
CHAPTER III
“I wish I’d never gone to that wretched ball—or danced with Oliver Mayforth—or, most of all, let him pretend to make love to me! ” muttered Rachel savagely, as she pounded away at her typewriter that afternoon.
It was the most infuriating thing! She had had to pretend, in the end, to be amused, for both Oliver himself and Dr. Denbey would have thought it odd if she had made too heavy weather of it. But she was not really amused at all. For what girl wants to be photographed—much less have that photograph reprinted a hundred thousand times—smiling tenderly at the wrong man?
Not that the term “wrong man” was quite applicable, she reminded herself. For there was no “right man”, as it happened, in her case. But one didn’t want even casual acquaintances to see a photograph like that. What would Sir Everard think?—if anything other than Hester could interest him at the moment. Or her family?—except that no London evening paper was likely to find its way to Loriville. Or Nigel Seton?
She paused an unnecessarily long time over the possibility of Nigel’s reactions. Until it came to her that he would probably hardly be interested. And that it was quite immaterial to her whether he was or not
Rachel was alone in the office now and very nearly at the end of her work The assistant surgeon had told her that he would not be back that afternoon, and a message had also been sent that Sir Everard would not require her either, as he hoped to get some rest, after his broken night and strenuous morning.
“Once you’ve finished that report, you can go and amuse yourself,” Oliver Mayforth had told her, before he went off. And she had an uneasy feeling that the slight touch of indulgence in his manner was his reaction to the unlucky photograph rather than any tribute to the excellence of her work The prospect of being out on her own in London, however, was so attractive that she stifled her uneasy annoyance, finished her work at top speed, and tidied her desk for the day. It was still only three o’clock—and the rest of the afternoon was hers.
As she went out of the Nursing Home, she paused to ask for the latest report on Hester, and as this was satisfactory, she was able to start off on her afternoon’s exploring with a quiet mind.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly she had come to identify herself with the fortunes of her uncle and his family. This time yesterday she had not met any of them Now it was desperately important to her that Hester should recover, that her uncle should not have his domestic happiness ruined, that Nigel should somehow be cleared of a guilt which was not his.
She was very much reminded of him as she walked now along the same street they had traversed together in the early hours of the morning. Now it was quite busy and it was difficult to credit that it had looked deserted and faintly mysterious in the cold ligh t of the waning moon.
“But that was what accounted for my absurd behaviour, of course,” she told herself. “That and the fact that I was dead tired. But fancy crying about it! What a fool he must have thought me. Only he didn’t seem to. He said he understood. I suppose he did And I suppose that was why he kissed me.”
Though why she had kissed him in return she simply could not imagine now. This was the moment when it seemed such an extraordinary thing to have done, and it became impossible to recapture that fugitive mood in which it had seemed quite natural.
“We were none of us quite normal, after the shock of the accident,” Rachel assured herself. And then she came to one of the main shopping streets, and forgot all about her personal affairs ia the delights displayed there.
One is either a window-shopper or one is not. To some people nothing is specially interesting or lovely unless they can themselves hope to possess it. For them there will never be the joyous experience of dawdling along, gazing into
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