Wild, Wild Heart/Chapter 14

Waring had been away for nearly a fortnight when Ann received a letter from him.

“It depends on you whether I return to Wairiri or not,” he wrote. “I’m quite aware that you’ve already refused me on three different occasions. I’m trying once more—the fourth and last time. Don’t answer for a day or two. Please think it over. As my wife you can choose whether you would live in New Zealand or in England. You can travel or do anything else you please. Money isn’t to be despised. It oils the wheels of life considerably, believe me. And I’m not a bad sort of chap, as men go, and not difficult to live with. I'm neither unreasonable, nor fussy, nor bad-tempered. These may be minor virtues, but I imagine that they are not without value in a husband. This isn’t a love letter. It’s a business offer. You’re a business woman. Think it over. If you decide that you want to live at Kopu—which you’ve never seen, but which, if you like the country, you’d find one of the most attractive spots on the coast—I will reserve the homestead and part of the place. If you don’t want to live there the Government can take over the ​whole station as they appear to be anxious to do, and I shall not return to the district. I’ll probably go to England for a time. I’m holding up the sale for a week, but do me at least this favor: read this letter through after an interval of twenty-four hours and do not answer it until then. The world is a very beautiful place, my dear Ann, and we could see it together.

“I’m not discounting your own capacity as a money-maker. You appear to be doing exceedingly well. But after years of a rather irksome grind, I don’t think it is possible that you would have made as much money as I could give you tomorrow. Money means freedom. That’s its greatest virtue, and freedom to enjoy its pleasures while you are young is not to be despised.”

Ann read the letter through carefully, and though she had no doubt as to what her reply would be, she placed it in the envelope and locked it up in her desk. She meant to accede to Waring’s request, and read it again later. The lapse of time wasn’t in the least likely to alter her decision, she felt sure; and yet she knew that the writer of the letter did, by this means, keep his offer before her. She was honest enough not to deny that to a certain extent she was tempted now, as she had never been before, to accept Waring’s proposal. It meant the solution of so many of her difficulties. But, though she admitted the truth of his statement, “money means freedom,” she wasn’t blind to the fact that a loveless marriage didn’t mean anything of the sort. She had already tasted the joy of an income earned by her own efforts. Only one thing she knew would ever induce her to give up her ​economic independence—the sharing of her life with a man she loved.

Throughout the whole of the day, though at the back of her mind she had still the memory of Waring’s letter locked up in her desk, her attention was concentrated upon the work in hand. Both she and Mrs. Hill were kept busily engaged supplying the wants of numerous customers, while Ruth Atkins, the third member of the establishment, sat in Ann’s room behind the shop stitching industriously.

The Autumn Steeplechase Meeting was te take place next day, and new frocks and hats were being busily selected. Rhoda Hemingway was in town, staying with her mother for the races, and Mrs. Ford telephoned to Ann inviting her to accompany them in the car.

“We have a spare seat. Rhoda’s driving, and Stephanie, of course, is coming. Jim prefers to spend the day on the golf course. I’m not much of a race-goer, but Stephanie won’t hear of my spending the day at home alone. We’ve got half a dozen ladies’ tickets, so you might as well make use of one of them.”

Ann thanked her, but declined. Vera had sent no answer to the letter she had written to her nearly three months previously, and still had made no further move to go on with the case. But as long as the action was pending, Ann had no desire to join in any social functions. And yet she could not help feeling a little pang of regret as she refused the invitation. It was to be Nigger’s day of triumph. She would have liked above all things to be on the course, to see him win. And Nigger’s owner would be there also. All the more reason for her to stay at home, she told her​self. She had seen nothing of Marsh since the evening she had walked home with him from the Fords; and had heard nothing, except the fact that he had been up the coast buying cattle.

The rush of business was over before five. At half past the shop would be closing; and Mrs. Hill had already gone, and Ruth was putting on her hat preparatory to taking her departure, when a belated customer entered. Ann, alone in the showroom, moved forward to meet the newcomer. After three days of stormy weather it had been a gray, showery afternoon, and now twilight was falling. Ann’s hand went out towards the electric switch.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” said the other woman, in a swift, low voice. “Are you alone?”

It was Vera!

Ann stood perfectly still and rigid for a few seconds.

“I’ll get rid of my assistant,” she said.

She passed through the door into her own room, and after a moment or two emerged with Ruth.

“Shan’t I stay to lock up?” asked the girl.

“Oh, no! I can manage,” returned Ann, her voice perfectly normal and business-like. “I want that ribbon from Bletchley’s, particularly. You’ll have to hurry to get there before they close. Don’t come back with it. It’ll do in the morning. Good night.”

Ruth passed out of the shop, and Ann shut the outer door, and returning closed the inner door as well.

Vera was standing where she had left her, with her back to the entrance. She was picking up hats and putting them down.

​“We’re quite alone now,” said Ann, “and we shan’t be disturbed again.”

“Are you surprised to see me?” asked Vera, with a certain harsh abruptness.

“Just at first I was, but I think I always knew we’d meet again—somewhere.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I think our lives are bound together in a way—yours and mine.”

“The bond was nearly broken then. They thought I was dying in Sydney—I wish I had died.”

Even in the dim light, Ann could see that the handsome face was more haggard than ever—the dark eyes more deeply sunken.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry that I didn’t die?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Why should you be sorry for any other reason? I don’t want pity.”

“Don’t you want any affection—any sympathy?”

Vera did not answer for a moment, and then she said sharply:

“That’s out of the question between us now.”

“Why? You don’t believe that story about Mr. Holmes and me—I know you don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You know that there’s only one woman in his life—you.”

Suddenly Ann pushed forward a chair.

“Sit down. You’re dead tired.”

“There’s no reason why I should be—I’ve been sitting in the Hawkeston service car all day.”

But nevertheless she took the chair that was offered.

​“I suppose I’m not quite strong yet. They told me I ought not to travel so soon.”

“What was it?”

“Pneumonia—after ’flu.”

“Why have you come back?”

“It’s better that I should be here, on the spot, for the case, isn’t it?”

“If you’re going on with it, I don’t think you ought to have come to see me.”

“Why not? No one need know I’ve seen you. I only arrived an hour ago. No one even suspects I’m back in Wairiri yet.”

Ann made no comment on this. But she had seated herself, and the two women faced one another in silence, in the darkening shop.

“Was it true—what you said in your letter?” asked Vera suddenly.

“You know it was.”

“How should I know? Why should a man like Gerald Waring want to marry you? How often outside the pages of penny novelettes does the rich bachelor propose to his typist or . . . or any poor girl in a subordinate position?”

“That’s not a very kind remark, is it?” said Ann.

“Why should I be kind to you?”

“Haven’t I shown any consideration for you?”

“You mean in keeping from Dick the knowledge you imagine you gained of . . . of an intrigue between Gerald and me? I wish now you’d spoken. I wish the action for divorce had been brought by Dick.”

Ann was silent, and Vera went on with a certain violence:

“Gerald always flirts with every attractive woman he comes across—but he hasn’t any serious idea of ​marriage. You’ve misconstrued something he has said.” She was looking at Ann with burning eyes. “What was it that made you imagine that he . . . he really loved you?”

“Why should I tell you anything further?” answered Ann quietly. “All that I wrote in my letter to you was true—not only that Gerald Waring wanted to marry me, but that he would never ask you to be his wife—now.”

“So he’s been discussing me with you?”

“Oh, Mrs. Holmes, how can you ask that question! Surely a man who would do that would be a . . . a pretty shabby sort of person.”

“You’ve magnified him into a hero, have your”

Ann shook her head.

“I don’t see him either as a hero, or an utter blackguard. Need we go on discussing him?”

Suddenly Vera gripped her hand.

“I’ve got to be certain, certain that what you say is true. Oh, my God! It’s killing me, this—this doubt. I can’t go on untess I know the truth.”

“Why don’t you ask him then, if you can’t believe me?”’

Vera made no reply, and Ann knew that the question had been cruel; for it was evident, even before she spoke again, that Mrs. Holmes had no knowledge of Waring’s present address.

“Is he here, in Wairiri, now?”

Ann rose and crossed to her desk.

“He’s in Wellington,” she said, “and I had this letter from him this morning. He doesn’t call it a love letter—and I don’t think I’m acting unfairly in showing it to you. He owes you more . . . more confidence than he owes me. And I shall never tell him that you ​have seen it, for that would make it plain to him that I know of his . . . his friendship for you. You are the only person in the world who is aware of the . . . knowledge I have—and no one else will ever learn it from me.”

She handed Vera the letter, and turned away while the older woman moved towards the window to read it. The screen of short, black curtains hid them from the eyes of passers-by in the street, but above the curtains the evening light filtered grayly into the dim little showroom. For a few minutes the rustling of the paper as Vera turned the sheet was the only sound within the room. Then she laid the letter down on the table beside her.

“Did he know that you were likely to be mixed up in a divorce case when he wrote that?” she asked, in a strange hard voice.

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t mind?”

“He didn’t believe there was cause for the action—any more than you believe it.”

“Have you answered this letter?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you going to say?”

Ann had already seated herself at her desk. After a moment she rose, and crossing to Vera, handed her a sheet of paper on which a few lmes were written.

“Is this your answer?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to read it?”

“Please. And perhaps you’d post it for me.”

She addressed an envelope and stamped it, while Vera’s eyes passed over the written words.

She drew a deep breath as she finished reading.

​“And so, though he will never know it, my hand will deal him the blow. There’s a certain satisfaction in that, at any rate.”

Vera’s voice was still unshaken, but it was hard and strained. She took the envelope, and placing the letter within it, sealed the flap.

“Are you refusing him because—because of what you know concerning his friendship, as you call it, for me?”

“No, he asked me to marry him before—that night. The afterneon you all got back from the Wairiri Polo Tournament.”

“Had he been making love to you from the first day of your arrival?”

“What good can all this discussion do?”

“You needn’t answer my question.”

“If it helps, I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, it will help me. Not now, at the moment, perhaps, but later. Do you mind if I sit down again?”

She sank into a chair, and for a moment Ann, looking at her face, so deathly white in the gloom, thought she was going to faint.

“No, I’m all right,” said Vera, as Ann made a movement towards her. “Don’t come any nearer. I think I’m hating you and Gerald more than I’ve ever hated any one in my life.”

“You haven’t any reason to hate me.”

“Reason—reason,”’ repeated Vera, a little wildly. “Do you think this kind of . . . of torment has anything to do with reason?” She took a deep breath again, and closing her eyes laid her head back against the cushions of the chair. “I wish I could cry,” she said at last, “I haven’t cried since. . .” she broke off. “Not even when I was ill in Sydney. They thought ​I was so brave. I wasn’t. A fire seemed to be burning my heart out.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Ann said:

“You want to know all that has ever passed between us—Mr. Waring and me. It isn’t much. He began a sort of flirtation—you could hardly even call it that—soon after my arrival. I never imagined he was in earnest. I don’t think he was at that time. Then one night—the night of the dance at Omoana, I let him kiss me. I was feeling angry and reckless. I’d just realized that I . . . I cared for some one else, and that he was quite indifferent to me.”

“For Dick?” Vera gave a half-hysterical laugh. “That would be the most ironic touch of all.”

“So you admit that you’ve never believed you had any grounds for your action?” said Ann swiftly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Your tone then told me so quite clearly.”

“Never mind the divorce.” Vera dismissed that as though it were of no importance. “I don’t care who you fancy you love. It might be a good thing if it were Dick. Tell me about—Gerald.”

“There’s nothing else to tell. He never kissed me again. I’ve seen him alone on three occasions since then—once that afternoon when he came into the kitchen at Tirau, once when he came back from Australia and asked me to morning tea with him at the Imperial, and once at the Fords’ house, about a fortnight ago.”

“And each time he asked you to be his wife?”

“Yes,” answered Ann, “and I refused.”

“You’ve told me everything?”

“Everything.”

​Vera gave a long sigh.

“The mills of God grind slowly,” she said at last. “He’ll never suffer what I’ve suffered, but he’s paying—in part. I’m glad of that.”

It was almost dark now in the little showronea. Near the window one or two hats, perched on their stands, caught the light from a street lamp outside. They looked absurd—trivial and incongruous—like some ridiculous spectators of this queer scene. It was the sort of background a fantastic dream might have. From without came the rattle of a passing dray, the horn of a motor, the sound of a horse’s clattering hoofs.

The silence within the room was unbroken for so long that Ann wondered if Vera had quietly fallen asleep. But suddenly she spoke.

“What has happened to . . . to Biddy and Jo? Are they still at Mrs. Marley’s?”

“They’re spending their holidays at Tirau, with Mr. Holmes. Of course to them nothing is altered—except that you aren’t there.”

“Were their—their small belongings sold—their saddles—Biddy’s old horse———”

“I don’t think the bank made any changes. Mr. Holmes got rid of the car and his polo ponies. Just those things, I believe, that weren’t included in the mortgage. Mr. Ford believes he may eventually get Tirau back—I don’t know much about the business part of it.”

She did not mention the fact that Gerald Waring had been instrumental in putting matters on a better footing for Holmes. She would avoid all further reference to the man who had been an utterly disloyal friend, and yet kind after his own fashion.

​“Are the children well?”

“Quite well. I saw them less than a fortnight ago—and Mr. Holmes too. He was out at the hunt.”

“He’s able to enjoy himself, then,” remarked Vera, dryly.

“He went more for the children’s sake than his own, I imagine. I don’t think if you could see him you’d talk about his ‘enjoying himself.’ But every one says he’s been very brave.”

Vera made no comment on this. She did not refer again either to her husband or the children. She still held the letter to Waring in her hand.

“So this is Gerald’s address in Wellington,” she said.

“Yes.”

Was she going to make another effort to see the man who had proved faithless? Ann wondered. But she could not ask. And she could not bring herself to mention the case again. Nothing she could say would be likely to influence Vera—now. She was unable to read the older woman’s thoughts—they were as inscrutable as ever. Had the knowledge she had gained—the absolute certainty that Waring was no longer her lover—ended the despairing conflict of her mind? Ann couldn’t tell. She knew herself that certainty might in some cases be easier to bear than heart-breaking suspense.

“I landed in Wellington. I stayed there for one night before coming on to Hawkeston yesterday. And I didn’t even know that I was near him—could have seen him and spoken to him.”

Vera seemed not so much to be addressing Ann, as thinking aloud. Her voice was low and hard. Did she ​regret not having seen him? Again Ann couldn’t be sure. Vera rose.

“I’m staying at the Imperial tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

It was the nearest Ann could get to any question as to Vera’s plans.

“Tomorrow!” echoed Vera, still with the same bitter ring in her voice. “There may be no tomorrow. Oh, I’m not contemplating a dose of poison or anything dramatic of that sort. I haven’t got the pluck to commit suicide—I wish I had.”

She rose, and in the darkness stumbled over a low stool.

“I’d better turn on the light,” said Ann.

She waited a moment, but as Vera did not again request her not to do so, she moved to the switch, and in a second the little showroom was revealed in a flood of radiance. Clearly now Ann could see the ravages that physical and mental suffering had wrought in Vera’s face. She was still handsome, but she looked a wreck of her former self. And yet it seemed to Ann that the eyes were not so wild, the whole figure less tense than it had been at the beginning of the interview. “Has it helped her?” Ann asked herself. “Has she at last accepted defeat?” But still she couldn’t tell.

Vera was looking round now at the hats.

“Have you made a success of this? Oh, I needn’t ask. I can see you have. You should thank God you have some work that interests you. It might have saved me—any sort of creative effort.” She moved across to one of the stands and picked up a hat. “That's pretty.” Suddenly she replaced it on the stand, and laughed, But her laughter, to Ann, was ​more sad than tears. “After passion dies and one’s life is smashed, clothes can still hold an interest for us. Oh, God, what petty creatures women are!”

“Life’s made up of trivial things. If we lose our grip of those, we’re done for.”

Vera made no answer, and Ann, obeying a sudden impulse, went on abruptly:

“That hat would suit you. Take it. I’d like you to have it.”

She thrust the hat into Vera’s hands. Vera remained for a moment holding it, and then suddenly burst into tears.

The hat rolled on the floor between them, and Vera, covering her face, sank back into the chair from which she had risen. Her whole body was shaken and racked with sobs. In a second Ann was beside her, but Vera thrust aside her clinging hands with a sort of fierce anger.

“No, no, don’t touch me,” she gasped out between her sobs. And Ann, repulsed, stood at some little distance helplessly wondering what she could do.

Nothing, apparently!

Nothing, but allow Vera to weep on, alone, and unconsoled. But Ann was wise enough to realize that these tears were, as Ford had expressed it, an outlet and a relief for mental suffering. After a little while Vera partially regained her self-control.

“Of course this has its humorous side,” she said with a laugh that was again to Ann heart-rending. “I tell you that I . . . hate you, and you offer to present me with a hat.”

“I don’t believe you hate me. I’ve never believed it.”

“But you hate me?”

​“There have been moments when I did, but always I knew those moments wouldn’t last.”

“You’re one of the forgiving kind—I’m not.” She rose as she spoke. The storm that had swept her was over. “I’ll go now—good night.”

In another moment she had passed out of the inner door, through the narrow hall, and was gone.

What did she mean to do? Still, Ann had no clew as to her intentions.

It was half an hour before Ann could get the trunk call through to Omoana, and so on to Tirau; but at last she heard Dick Holmes’s familiar voice at the other end of the wire.

“Holmes speaking.”

“It’s Ann Merrill here.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Holmes arrived by the service car from Hawkeston today. She has been in to see me.”

There was a long pause, and then Holmes’s voice came again.

“Well?”

Both he and Ann knew that there was more than a possibility that the conversation could be overheard. Tirau was on a party line. Any one else on the line, at that moment standing at their telephones, could hear all that passed.

“I didn’t ask her what her plans were. But she’s been very ill in Sydney—I expect you knew that.” (This was for the benefit of any chance listeners.) “She’s staying at the Imperial tonight. Is there any ​possibility of your getting down? You’ve still got the car, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are the roads bad after the rain?”

“Not too good, but I think I can manage it. Did she ask you to ring me?”

“No, but I thought I’d let you know, in case she couldn’t get through to you.”

“Thanks—it’s very good of you.”

Again there was another pause.

“Ought I to call and see you first?”

“I don’t think so. If you go straight to the Imperial, you’ll find her there.”

“Can you tell me—anything?”

“No, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Shall I let her know you rang up?”

“If you like. She won’t think it officious of me I’m sure.”

“No, of course not. Very good of you. Saves her the trouble. She’s probably been trying to get me.”

“Yes. You’ll come?”

“I’ll start right away. With the roads as they are I’m afraid I can’t get down till after ten.”

“I don’t think that will matter. The tide for the beaches isn’t very good. I looked it up in the paper.”

“Thanks. I can come by the inland track if the beach road isn’t possible.”

“It’s high tide at eleven.”

“Oh, that’ll be all right then, unless I’m held up on any of the cuttings.”

“It’s quite safe, coming down alone like this at night?”

“Oh, quite—there’s a moon, and the weather’s clearing.”

​“Don’t run any risks.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“How are the children?”

“Very fit.”

“And you?”

“A1.”

“Let me know how—how Mrs. Holmes is, after you’ve seen her.”

“Yes. Shall I call or ’phone?”

“Better telephone, I think.”

“Tonight?”

“Well”—Ann hesitated—“you may be able to give me—more news in the morning. And you’ll have a lot to talk about tonight . . . as Mrs. Holmes has been away so long.”

“Yes—that’s true.”

“Just give me a ring after you arrive in Wairiri. I’d like to know you’ve got through safely.”

“Right-o! Thanks very much for ’phoning.”

“That’s all right. Good-by.”

“Good-by for the present. I’ll call you up later—if I get in before eleven.”

“No, at any time—I’m working late. Doing wretched accounts.”

“Very well. Good-by.”

Ann hung up her receiver. She had done all she could. The future was in the lap of the gods. What would Vera decide to do? Would she be so anxious to regain her freedom now that she knew without any shadow of doubt that Waring was no longer interested in her? Ann had no answer to these questions. Vera was an incalculable being—her actions difficult to foretell with any degree of accuracy.

Ann could only hope that the arrival of Holmes—​his plea to her to abandon the action, and return to him and the children—might not be without effect. That Holmes would use every argument to bring this state of things about, Ann had not the least doubt. She was convinced that she had spoken the truth when she said to Vera: “You know that there’s only one woman in his life—you.” Ann did not believe that his love for his wife was imperishable. She doubted if any human love could survive persistent indifference and neglect. But Dick Holmes was one of the steadfast kind—the best kind—and his affection for Vera would take some killing. It was by no means dead yet.

In her heart Ann was conscious of a very deep pity for Vera, and she could never rid herself of the belief that in her own queer way the older woman still retained a fondness for her—Ann Merrill. Vera had been jealous of her, and capable of sacrificing her to gain her own ends, but then Vera had been more than half crazy and desperate during the past few months. Somehow Ann felt assured that sanity had now returned to the poor tormented soul. It was a very sad sanity. Vera faced the wreck of all her hopes of happiness. They were illusions, those hopes, Ann knew. She would never have found happiness with Waring. And perhaps some day, if she could be induced to return to Holmes, and to her children, more happiness might come to her than she was likely to believe possible at the present moment. Now, Ann knew, Holmes’s wife was in purgatory, and no one in the world but Ann was aware of her anguish. The fact that Vera had brought this suffering upon herself did not diminish Ann’s pity. It was so easy for those who had never been tempted—for those of easy, equable ​temperament—to throw stones at the more passionate. Nature wasn’t fair. She armed some individuals so securely against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and left other so defenseless.

Ann went to her desk and tried to fix her attention upon invoices and accounts. Her business was growing bigger day by day. Within a week more goods were arriving from London. She must vacate her room at the back of the shop—find some other home for herself, in order to secure sufficient accommodation for her staff and the augmented stock.

If only Vera would abandon the case! Ann knew that if Holmes could tell her this good news within the next few hours a great load would be lifted from her mind. She would no longer feel an outcast, unable to mix with her fellow-citizens. She could make a pleasant home for herself, enjoy all the little gayeties of the town, and form many friendships amongst her warm-hearted neighbors.

Marriage—a happy union—children, and a home—was probably the most enviable state the world at present could provide for any woman. But freedom, interesting work, the control of money fairly earned by one’s own efforts, were not without their own advantages. Ann knew that she was never likely to reach the fullest development of her individuality—the greatest height of happiness—alone. Like any other warm-hearted girl, she wanted love, a home to share with her mate, and children. But she was sensible enough to realize that though marriage seemed unlikely to be her lot, she was lucky to have achieved this business success, which meant that the life ahead need not be entirely destitute of happiness and interest.

​If only Vera would disperse this shadow from above her head! Would she?

Ann returned to her lists of figures, adding, subtracting, tallying invoices and stock lists, calculating the percentage of duty, until just before eleven the telephone bell rang.

Ann crossed the room and took up the receiver.

“Holmes speaking.”

“You’ve got down quite safely, then?”

“Yes. Rather a rough trip, but it’s a clear night. You’ll have a good day for the steeplechase meeting tomorrow.”

“I’m not going—unless———”

“Yes, I understand. I’m ringing from the Imperial—just this minute arrived. Vera’s upstairs. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m just on my way up now.”

“All right. Give her—give her my love.”

There was a pause.

“Honest?”

“Honest. Don’t forget.”

“All right. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Ann hung up the receiver. What reception would Holmes get from his wife? How would he succeed in his mission?

Ann realized that in the morning she would learn her fate—would know whether the case was to be proceeded with or abandoned.