Thank Heaven Fasting (9 page)

A number of people had crowded in front of them—they were in the last seat of all, and Mary Collier and Claude Ashe, unable to get places at all, stood laughing and making signs that they would get into the next boat.

“We're off!”

“Hold tight!”

‘Ow-ow!”
The girl in front of Monica was screaming.

Monica did not scream. She caught her breath, and, half jubilant and half alarmed, turned to Captain Lane.

He smiled down at her—an attractive smile, revealing admirable teeth; and at the same instant the boatman called out a warning: “Off she goes!”

Monica gasped involuntarily.

At almost the same instant she felt Lane's arm round her waist, and, as the boat shot over the waterfall, he caught her closely to him.

Sensations as unfamiliar as they were exciting rushed upon Monica.

In one bewildering moment she felt profoundly shocked and unspeakably elated.

The boat rocked…. Lane relaxed his hold, shifted his arm slightly, and, holding Monica by the shoulder, gently forced her to look round at him.

“Wasn't that wonderful?”

Monica had not the least idea what she ought to say. Instinctively, she referred everything, as she had been taught to do from babyhood, to the bar of her mother's judgment, and she knew, of course, that her mother would say that Captain Lane was behaving like a cad, and that Monica must instantly make it clear to him that she was Not that Kind of Girl.

Monica, did not, however, know how to do this.

Worse still, she did not want to do it.

“Did you enjoy it?”

She pretended to think that he meant the waterfall.

“I wasn't as frightened as I was the first time.”

He laughed.

“Where are the others?” said Monica hurriedly.

“I don't know—and, what's more, I don't think I very much care. Neither do you.”

“But I do!” Monica said without conviction.

She could not resist looking up at him as she spoke, and he looked down into her eyes and laughed.

“I'm not going to let Ashe monopolize you as he did at dinner. It's my turn now—I've been waiting for it all the evening. Mind that step!”

He put his hand beneath her elbow, steadying her as she got out of the boat, and again that unfamiliar thrill went all through her.

“Have you been on the switchback yet?”

“No.”

“Come on, then. We'll go.”

He was being masterful, exactly like the people in books! Monica found it entrancing. She had never felt in the least like this with Claude Ashe, who was not masterful at all, and indeed, in a few minutes she had forgotten the very existence of Claude Ashe.

Christopher Lane was saying things in his deep, booming voice.

“I didn't think I was going to meet anyone like you this evening. Joan asked me, and she said the Colliers were coming and a Miss Ingram who was only just out, and I wasn't a bit interested. I don't like girls who are only just out.”

“Never?”

“Well, hardly ever,” Lane laughed.

Monica thought the repartee brilliant.

“I'm
always frightened of people who are older than I am.”

“Always?”

“Well, nearly always.”

They laughed together. It was wonderful.

On the switchback Lane asked if she was nervous.

“Terrified,” said Monica, not certain of what the answer might lead to, but knowing that was what he meant her to say.

“I'll hold your hand,” he promptly declared.

His clasp was gentle, and yet strong and protective. Again, the feeling of being at once shocked and delighted went all through her, but this time pleasure and wild excitement predominated over every other sensation.

Down, and up again, flew the little trolley—Lane's large hand tightened upon Monica's and instinctively her fingers returned the pressure.

The car negotiated a sharp curve, and Monica, unresisting, was swung against his shoulder. When the end of the brief, nerve-racking transit was reached she was almost lying in his arms.

He released her instantly as the motion ceased, but kept her hand in his.

“Would you have liked that better with Ashe?”

Monica shook her head.

“Let's do it again, shall we?”

“I—I don't think so.”

Christopher Lane immediately bought two more tickets for the next journey, for which the trolleys were already filling up again.

“Are you angry with me?”

Monica, feeling sure she ought to say Yes, but afraid that if she did he might believe her, and not like her any more, said nothing.

“You're not
really,
are you?”

His voice sounded dreadfully anxious.

She still remained silent, not looking at him.

“If you are,” said Captain Christopher Lane—and his voice now was grave, and rather cold—“of course, I'll take you back to the others at once. Please do tell me, if you'd rather I did.”

She had vexed him!

In a panic at the thought of such a thing, Monica looked up at him.

“But I wouldn't!”

“You—darling!”

She couldn't be certain of the word. It was lost in the noise going on all around them. But there was no mistaking the expression on his face.

“Stand back, please—cars all full up now——!”

They were off.

Monica longed ardently to feel her hand in his again. He made no movement. Incredibly—and surely involuntarily?—she looked round, although without moving. Instantly, as though at a signal, his hand closed over hers.

Bliss invaded her.

This, surely, was love—the most wonderful thing in life. Monica forgot to think about her mother, and what her mother would have thought and said of Captain Lane—forgot about the rest of the party—forgot about time itself.

After the switchback, they wandered about in the semidarkness, still holding hands and talking. Christopher was no longer laughing and teasing her. He was talking to her quite seriously about himself, and telling her how much he wished that he could have met someone like her earlier in his life.

“We can be friends now, though,” Monica assured him, earnestly and diffidently.

“Will you really?”

“If you really want me to.”

“You know I do.”

“Then I will. Of course I will. I—I'd love to.”

“You're the most wonderful girl I've ever met! May I call you Monica?”

“Oh!”

She was thinking how shocked the Millers would be, who knew that she had met him for the first time that evening. They would probably speak of it to Lady Margaret, who in her turn might tell Monica's mother.

As though he had guessed her sudden panic, Christopher added: “Only when we're by ourselves—Monica. Because I want to see a great deal of you.”

“Oh,” she cried, “I wish we weren't going away! But we shall be leaving London next week, I'm afraid.”

“Then we must meet as often as possible before you go. What are you doing to-morrow?”

“Hurlingham, in the afternoon.”

“Good; that's easy.”

“Shall you be there?” gasped Monica, hardly able to believe in such good fortune.

“Of course. If there's a chance of seeing you.”

“I shall be with mother.”

“Anybody else?”

“No one else is coming with us, but I expect we shall meet people we know.”

“One
person you know, anyhow,” he said, looking into her eyes and smiling; and at the tingling sensation that ran through her veins like fire Monica forgot that for one anxious instant she had waited to hear him ask for an introduction to Mrs. Ingram.

“I'm horribly afraid that I ought to take you back to the others now-—wherever they may be. It's getting rather late.”

Monica was horrified that this reminder of the time should have come from him rather than from herself.

“I was just going to say that we ought to look for them,” she lied hurriedly.

Christopher put his hand on her arm, drawing her further away from the lights.

“I want to say good-night to you first,” he told her softly.

Although she did not exactly know what to expect, Monica's heart began to beat violently.

“Oughtn't we to hurry?”

“Not for a minute. I think you're perfectly sweet, Monica. The loveliest thing I've ever seen.”

“Oh!”

“Do you like me a tiny bit?”

“You know I do,” she whispered, nearly suffocated by the throbbing in her breast.

Could he be going to ask her to marry him?

Christopher put his hand under her chin, and gently tilted her face upwards.

“Good-night, you little darling.”

He bent his head. Obeying a blind instinct, Monica turned her face sideways, so that his kiss alighted on the middle of her cheek.

For a moment the world stood still round her….

“There they are!”

It was Joan Miller's voice.

“Is that you, Lane?”

“Where on earth have you been?” calmly enquired Christopher Lane. “We've been looking for you.”

“And
we've
been looking for
you.
Is Mr. Ashe with you?”

“No. We left him at the water-chute,” Lane explained, and his manner somehow made it seem as though he and Monica had left the water-chute but a moment ago.

“Oh, well, I expect we shall pick him up at the gate. We said we'd all meet there about eleven o'clock, if we got separated. Rachel wants to get home. Her mother said she wasn't to be late.”

Scarcely knowing what she did, Monica walked on with the others. They were all there, excepting Claude Ashe.

Christopher Lane was no longer beside her. She could hear him talking to Joan.

“Hasn't it been fun?” said Rachel Modbury, in her flat, unenthusiastic voice that always had the same faintly pleasant inflections.

“Yes, perfectly glorious.”

At the entrance they found a tall form standing rather aimlessly.

“Oh, there's Mr. Ashe. Good!” The young chaperon was evidently relieved at having collected all her party again.

“Now, how are we going home? The same way that we came?”

“No, Dorothy,” said her sister. “We'd better divide up according to the directions we're going in—you know what I mean.”

Discussion, and a certain amount of giggling, ensued. Rachel's mother had sent a car for her, and Peter insisted that he must see her safely home.

“Monica, you're Eaton Square, and the Colliers are Eaton Place—hadn't you better all go together?”

“We're taking a taxi,” said Mary Collier. “Can't we give you a lift, Miss Ingram?”

“May I ask for one in the same direction?” Christopher enquired.

“Certainly.”

“What about you, Mr. Ashe? Can we——?”

“I shall go by the District Railway,” replied Mr. Ashe sepulchrally.

He was standing next to Monica.

“Good-night, and thank you most awfully for—for suggesting that I should come to-night.”

Monica shook hands with him mechanically. His hand seemed extraordinarily limp as it held hers loosely for an instant and then let it drop. She returned the long look that he gave her quite unseeingly; and he turned away and said good-bye to the others without another word to Monica.

The drive back through the comparatively empty streets was a swift and rather silent one. Monica leaned back in her corner next to Mary Collier, feeling all at once more tired than ever in her life before.

Christopher Lane and David Collier sat opposite, and whenever the light of a street-lamp fell upon them Monica could see that Christopher was looking at her.

“Which comes first—you or us?” demanded Mary Collier.

“We'd better drop Miss Ingram first, I should think,” her brother returned courteously.

At the Ingrams' door, both young men got out.

“Shall I ring?” asked Christopher. He was half-way to the bell already.

Monica had no latch key, but the taxi, driving into the quiet square, had evidently been heard, for a light appeared above the fanlight.

“It's all right.”

She exchanged polite thanks and farewells with the Colliers.

“Good-night,” said Christopher Lane, very low and quickly. He crushed her fingers tightly in his. “Good-night, Monica darling. Don't forget to-morrow, at Hurlingham.”

“As if I could!” Monica answered under her breath. She released her hand and sprang forward, just as the door opened.

“Thank you, William,” said Monica to the footman. She had been taught to reward servants for such extra services as sitting up at night by a smile and a few polite words, and she now saw with surprise that the clock in the hall showed it to be long past midnight.

“I hope you've had a pleasant evening, Miss.”

“Yes, thank you. Very.”

“Madam desired that you would go to her room at once on your return, Miss Monica.”

“All right, William. Thank you. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Miss Monica.”

Monica had known that there would be no escaping the visit to her mother's bedroom—nor the glass of detested hot milk that she felt certain awaited her there.

She went slowly upstairs, leaving William to extinguish the light in the hall before retiring to the basement where he slept.

There was no light to be seen under her mother's door, but this did not release Monica from the obligation of knocking softly upon it.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Ingram sat up in the big double bed and switched on the green-shaded bedside lamp as her daughter came in. To Monica, there was nothing strange, or even unfamiliar, in the astonishing difference between her mother up and dressed
and her mother in bed; for she was accustomed to the double row of steel wavers, the absence of tight stays, the flannel nightgown and blue wool bed-jacket, and the cold cream that glistened upon her mother's face and neck.