MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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about Miss Chattle?”
“Charlotte least of all! Once she was free of this room, I should never be able to get her out.”
“Not Miss Dale even?”
The colour rushed into Rushworth’s sunburnt face, and Ivy noted it with a jealous pang, as he answered more gravely, “No, not even Bella. I made up my mind—and I’m a man who once he has made up his mind, well, sticks to it—that this state-room should be my bolt-hole, as well as my study. It’s understood by everyone on board that when I’m in here, I won’t be disturbed.”
He pointed to a telephone instrument. “If the yacht catches fire, my skipper has permission to ring me up.”
The short dinner was served well and quickly by Rushworth’s own steward; but neither of the two felt in the mood for talking in the presence of even the most unobtrusive third. Each was longing, consciously longing, to be alone with the other.
During that half hour when he had been waiting for her, aching for her, Miles Rushworth had faced up to the fact that he was madly in love with Ivy Lexton, and that he would give everything he valued most in the world to have her for his own.
But his passion for another man’s wife—so again and again he assured himself—was of an exalted, noble, and spiritual quality. Never would he allow that passion to become earthly. He admitted, at long last, that, as regarded his own peace of mind, he had been unwise to see as much of Ivy as he had done in London. But he had dreamt, fool that he had been, of a friendship which should be prolonged even after his marriage to another woman. During those three weeks he had also thought often of the girl whom he meant to make his wife. Ivy should be his friend and Bella’s friend—their dear, dear friend.
But since they had all come together on his yacht Rushworth had had a rude awakening. He knew now that Bella Dale was his dear, dear friend, but Ivy Lexton was the woman he loved.
At last dinner, which had seemed to them both intolerably long, was over.
“Would you like coffee served on deck?” asked Rushworth.
But before Ivy could answer, the steward intervened. “It’s just begun to rain, sir,” and as he said the word “rain,” there came a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder.
Ivy’s host turned to her. “We shall have to stay here, unless you’d rather go into the saloon?”
“I’d rather stay here,” she said in a low voice.
“Shall I pull down the blind, sir?”
“You may as well.”
In a minute the man brought in coffee, and then they heard him running along the deck through the pelting rain.
Ivy’s hand lay on the table. She looked at it—her fingers were twitching. She felt, with joy and triumph, the tenseness of the atmosphere between them, and, for the first time, something in her responded to Rushworth’s still voiceless passion.
“I don’t want any coffee,” she murmured.
“Neither do I.”
They both rose. He looked across at her. “You’ll find that sofa over there comfortable, I think.”
He uttered the commonplace words in a strained, preoccupied tone. The summer storm outside seemed at one with him, shutting them off from the world.
Ivy walked across to the little couch, which was just large enough for two, and, after a perceptible moment of hesitation, he followed her.
For a moment he stood silently gazing down into her upturned face. Then he began moving forward a chair.
“Won’t you sit down here, by me?” she asked, looking at him with her dove-like eyes.
“Shall I? Is there room?”
“Plenty of room,” she said tremulously.
As he sat down, there came another vivid flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder louder than the one before.
He turned quickly to her: “You’re not frightened, are you?”
“I am—a little.”
And then all at once she was in his arms, and he was murmuring low, passionate words of endearment and of reassurance between each long, trembling, clinging kiss.
How he loved her! And how wonderful to know that she, poor darling, loved him too. He felt as may feel a man who, after wandering for days in the desert, suddenly comes on an oasis and a cool stream.
But even now, when every barrier between them seemed miraculously broken down, Rushworth kept a certain measure of control over himself.
“I’m going to pull up the blind and put out the light,” he whispered at last.
A moment later they were in darkness, though now and again a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the harbour through sheets of blinding, torrential rain.
He strode back to the little couch, and sank down again by her; but he resisted the aching longing to take her once more into his arms. Instead he took her soft hand in his, while he muttered in a broken voice, “I’ve been a brute! You must forgive me.”
She answered in a stifled voice, “There is nothing to forgive.”
“I’ve been to blame all through!”
Then, in a tone he strove to lighten, “I ought to have labelled you ‘dangerous’ from the first moment I saw you.”
She melted into tears, and remorsefully he whispered, “Have I hurt you by saying that?”
She shook her head; but she pulled her hand away.
“Listen, Ivy?”
It was the first time Miles Rushworth had called her by her name, and for that, Jervis, poor fool, had thought him old-fashioned and over-formal.
“Yes,” she whispered submissively.
“We’ve got to talk this out—you and I.”
“Yes,” she said again, wondering what he meant by those strange words, and longing, consciously, even exultantly, longing, for him to take her again in his strong arms.
“I’ll begin by telling you something I’ve never told to any living being.”
He uttered those words in so serious a tone that Ivy felt a thrill of fear, of doubt, go through her. Had he a woman in his life whom he would not, or could not, give up?
“I was twenty when my father died, and before his death we had a long private talk. Quite at the end of our talk, he made me give him a solemn promise.”
Rushworth stopped a moment. He was remembering what had been the most moving passage up to now in his thirty-five years of life. It was as if he heard the very tones of his father’s firm, if feeble, voice.
“At the time my promise seemed easy to keep. Indeed, I was surprised he thought it necessary to exact it.”
“What was your promise?” Ivy whispered, and she came a little, only a little, nearer to him.
“My promise was never to allow myself to fall in love with a married woman. Though it hasn’t always been as easy as I thought it would be, till now I have kept that promise. But now I’ve broken it, for I love you. Love you? Why I adore you, my darling——”
Again he waited, and Ivy felt oppressed, bewildered. Many men had said that they adored her. But no man had made that delightful, exciting admission, without showing strong apparent emotion.
Rushworth had uttered the words calmly, collectedly, and staring straight before him.
“And I can’t help myself—that’s the rub,” he went on, in the same matter-of-fact voice. “Indeed, I’m afraid I’m going to go on loving you all my life,” he smiled a rueful smile in the soft darkness which