Acting on Impulse Page 15

  “Jolly good show, wasn’t it?” said Malcolm. “I do hope you enjoyed it!”

  “Ever and ever so much!” she answered mendaciously.

  V.

  IT was the third time the advertisement had been in the newspaper. It headed the Agony Column, and was imperative:

  “Mary N. Communicate your address at once, dear. Bill C.”

  Mary N. was to write to Box No. 3175.

  Mary’s eyes were wet as she read the advertisement.

  “Dear quixotic Bill,” she murmured. “He’ll—get over it—and be glad of his—escape.”

  “What did you say?” inquired Janet, looking up from her correspondence. She was wearing a sapphire ring on her third finger, which had been placed there three days ago by an adoring, many-times-repulsed young man. Mary felt unreasonably jealous of her happiness.

  “I didn't say anything,” she replied with dignity. “I’ve got a half-holiday tomorrow, and I’m going to take the Chinese shawl to a shop I know of and sell it.”

  Janet let fall her letters.

  “You’re not?”

  “Yes, I am. I'm sick of it; and I want some money badly.”

  “I don’t know how you can bear to part with it! I’ve got a sort of feeling about it—I don’t know, almost as though it would bring you luck.”

  “Luck!” ejaculated Mary. “You’re wrong. Anyway, I’m going to sell it.”

  Accordingly she set off next afternoon with the shawl tied up in a brown-paper parcel in search of a possible buyer.

  It was a long time before she could make up her mind to enter a shop, and when at last she summoned up enough courage to do so, she was met with a chilly refusal to buy. Yes, the shawl was undoubtedly lovely, but Simpkins and Jones did not buy second-hand goods.

  The same answer was waiting for her everywhere. Dispirited, Mary went home. The impossible crimson birds embroidered on the shawl seemed to regard her with derisive eyes.

  “I shall advertise it,” said Mary. “Horrid thing.”

  She spent her shillings in advertisements, and still the shawl remained unsold. The only people who answered her advertisements wanted to buy the shawl at half the price she asked for it. Mary threw their letters into the fire. It seemed as though fate were willing her to keep her aunt’s gift.

  But at last a belated offer to buy arrived, accompanied by a request that Mary would send the shawl first on approval.

  “Aha!” said Mary. “It is going to be sold after all!”

  Mary sent the shawl to the prospective buyer, and in due course received a wad of notes in return. Mrs. Mellowe was delighted with her purchase.

  “Well—well—I’ve sold it,” said Mary.

  “You’re sorry now, I reckon,” Janet told her.

  “I am not. Only—no, I’m not sorry. I’m glad.”

  VI.

  MEANWHILE Corkran, in despair, had enlisted a detective on his side. After what Netta Chalmer had told him of Mary's misfortune, and realising that she had slipped through his fingers, he felt that, whatever happened, and no matter what the cost might be, Mary was to be run to earth.

  Her father’s old lawyers knew nothing of her whereabouts; they were rather averse to discussing the Nugent family with anyone. Mr. Nugent had not proved himself to be a distinguished client.

  Corkran advertised in more papers, with the same discouraging result. He set his lips tighter, and vowed that Mary was the most obstinate, trying little wretch a man could possibly wish to marry. In the hope of meeting her again by chance he visited dance halls and theatres, naturally with no success.

  On one of these hunts Netta Chalmer accompanied him. They went to a first night (Mary had made a hobby of first-nights in the old days), and sat in a box so that Corkran might rake the house with his opera glasses.

  “I don’t see how one could expect her to be here,” complained Netta. “I have told you her father’s death left her practically penniless. In fact, I don’t understand how it was that she came to be at the Corinthian. Unless, of course, she was taken.”

  “My dear Netta,” answered Bill irritably, “I tell you that Mary was in a most ex-pensive rig.”

  “I’d like to know what sort of a judge you are,” said Netta superbly. “She was probably in a black three-year-old hack frock, but, of course, you’d think it a Paris model.”

  “It was nothing of the kind. It was a priceless-looking dress, sort of swathed about her, Spanish fashion, with a fringe and quaint-looking red birds over it, like that shawl thing that woman in the fourth row’s wearing. See!”

  “Oh, yes, I know the sort of thing you mean. It couldn't have been one of those, though.”

  “I tell you it was!” indignantly reiterated Corkran. “And—hallo!”

  “What?” Netta followed the direction of his opera-glasses, straining to see what had caught his attention. “What is it? Tell me!”

  “I thought it was Mary,” explained Corkran disappointedly. “It isn’t, but—I’ll swear it’s her dress! Here, you take a look! The woman getting into her seat in the sixth—no, the seventh row. Quick!”

  Obediently Netta focused the glasses on to Mrs. Mellowe.

  “No, it’s not Mary, but what a beautiful shawl! I've never seen one quite like that before. Are you sure it’s Mary’s?”

  “Dead sure! I remember the way those red birds were flying about all over it. Hang the curtain going up! I’ll have to wait till the interval.”

  “You can’t very well go and ask her where she got the shawl,” whispered Netta, giggling.

  “Can’t I!” he retorted.

  As soon as the interval came Corkran left the box. With a beating heart Netta watched him appear downstairs and make his way towards Mrs. Mellowe. Netta saw him smile and bow to Mrs. Mellowe. Through the glasses she observed Mrs. Mellowe’s startled and puzzled frown. The man who was with her seemed to be amused; he gave up his seat to Bill and went outside, presumably to smoke. Bill entered deep into conversation with Mrs. Mellowe. To her relief Netta saw that lady laugh and nod. Evidently the two were hatching some plot, for Bill did not return to his box until the curtain was rising on the second act.

  “What happened? Who was it? Does she know?” demanded Netta.

  “Sh! I’ll tell you after this act,” said Bill. He was smiling, and his eyes were shining.

  VII.

  “HOW very queer!” said Mary. “Whatever can she mean?”

  “Who?” asked Janet.

  “The lady I sold the Chinese shawl to. I have just received this letter from her. She says she has ‘discovered something rather strange about the shawl, and should be so very grateful if you could make it convenient to call here one day, when I will explain to you what I mean.’ Did you ever hear of anything so mysterious?”

  “I always said it was no ordinary shawl!” exclaimed Janet. “What on earth’s it been doing? Sounds rather uncanny. Are you going to do as she asks you?”

  “I suppose I must. She writes very politely and nicely, and she asks me to choose my own day. It’ll have to be Saturday. Hand me my writing-case, will you, Janet?”

  On Saturday afternoon Mary dressed herself with unusual care. At three o’clock she let herself out of the house, intending to go to Mrs. Mellowe’s house by omnibus. To her surprise a large saloon car was standing by the kerb, evidently awaiting someone. She descended the steps, staring, and as she did so the man in the driver’s seat turned to look at her. Mary fell back a pace, wondering whether she could escape, and what Bill was doing here.

  Corkran slid out of the car.

  “Ah!” he said sternly. “At last! Get in, please.”

  Mary began to stammer. Corkran gave a great sigh.

  “Get—in!” he repeated, and took her firmly by the arm.

  “B-but I c-c-can’t! I don’t know how you f-found me, but I d-don’t want to see you, and I won’t go with you, and I wish you’d go away!” She found that she was being forced relentlessly into the front seat. “No, Bill, I can’t poss
ibly go with you. I—I’ve got an appointment!”

  “I’ll drive you there," said Corkran, shutting her in. He went round to the other side and got into the seat beside her, setting his foot on the starter. “Now, then, young lady! Did you or did you not see my advertisement in the Personal Column of the paper?”

  “Yes,” murmured Mary, gazing straight ahead of her.

  “Why didn’t you answer it?”

  “Because I—oh, because I—I didn’t want to!”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Oh!” he smiled. “You’re an awful little silly, Mary dear. What possessed you to cut and run, as you seem to have done? I heard all about it from Netta. She was ever so upset when you disappeared. After we’ve seen Mrs. Mellowe I’m taking you to her.”

  “What!” Mary started. “What do you know about Mrs. Mellowe?”

  He chuckled.

  “That’s how I found you. I saw her at the theatre in your shawl. Recognized it at once, and tackled her. Between us we hatched this plot to find your whereabouts. Now this, Mary, is Battersea Park. I’m going to stop the car and talk to you very seriously.”

  She uttered unintelligible protests. Bill took her hands in his.

  “Mary, you know how much I love you. I always have loved you. Do you—could you care enough to marry me?”

  She tried to pull her hands away.

  “I can’t! I can’t! Please let me go!”

  “You don’t care for me that way?”

  “It’s not that!” she cried impulsively.

  His grip on her hands strengthened. His voice lost its worried note.

  “Then that’s all right. You do care for me. Why won’t you marry me?”

  “Oh, Bill, don’t you see?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “How—how c-could I marry you? How could I let you marry a—a—suicide’s daughter?”

  “Why not?” he asked imperturbably.

  She gasped.

  “But—but—oh, don’t be so silly, Bill! I couldn’t bear to have all that old scandal raked up and—and attached to you! People would talk so!”

  “Why should they?”

  “Because—Bill, don’t be dense! You must understand! For one thing I haven’t a penny to call my own, and—and everybody would say I married you for your money.”

  “I was waiting for that platitude,” he remarked. “Wondered whether you’d be foolish enough to bring it out. Do you seriously believe people would say that?”

  “Yes—no—I don’t know. Didn’t the Chalmers tell you about—about father?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with you and me.”

  “But it has got something to do with us! You’ve no idea what—what a dreadful scandal there was. You can’t possibly marry me! It’s—dear of you and—and quixotic, but—”

  “Quixotic be hanged!” he said. “I’m getting my proposal in before anyone else has a chance to. You seem to think that because your father was—er—unlucky, the blame and the disgrace will rest on you. Ridiculous, child! If you’d only waited you’d have had ample support from your friends, and no one would have stared at you or whispered about you.”

  Mary seemed to shrink suddenly. She tried to pull her hands away, and, failing, bowed her head over them.

  “People – cut – me!” she whispered brokenly. “I c-couldn’t—face them—after that. And I won’t, I couldn’t possibly marry you!”

  Bill took her in his arms, where, after a slight struggle, she remained, weeping softly into his shoulder. Man-like, he patted her shoulder by way of comfort.

  “How soon can you be ready?” he asked gently when the muffled sobs had abated.

  “I won’t! I couldn’t! I’m not going to.”

  “One thing,” said Bill severely, “is very evident; you’ve got a lot too pig-headed through living on your own all this time. I’m not going to stand any more nonsense. Understand?”

  “I won’t—”

  “You’ll do as you’re told. D’you suppose I’m a child that I don’t know my own mind? You’ve told me you care for me—”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You wouldn't be crying your eyes out on my shoulder if you didn’t. No, lie still, Mary! There! As I was saying, you admit that you care for me, and yet you won't marry me, because you don't think you're the proper sort of wife for me. Are you listening? Very well, then, perhaps you’ll explain what you mean by trying to interfere in my concerns? If I want to marry you that’s my affair. I’m not going to be dictated to on the choice of a wife by you. Mary, you darling, you’re laughing!”

  “I c-can’t help it! You’re s-so idiotic!”

  “Not a bit of it. I’m talking sound sense. There have been many too many ‘I won’ts’ from you. You’re going to do as you’re told—aren’t you?”

  “I can’t—”

  Bill bent his head to kiss her.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I—”

  He kissed her again.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Bill,” she said weakly.

  VIII.

  WHEN Mary returned to her lodgings it was late that night, and she, too, was wearing a ring on her third finger. Also she was carrying the Chinese shawl over her arm. Janet sat up in bed and stared.

  “You’ve got it back? But—whatever’s happened, Mary?”

  Mary danced to the bed.

  “Oh, Janet, it’s a wonderful shawl, and it did bring me luck, after all, because I’m engaged to be married, and, oh, Janet, everything's too wonderful for words!”

  “Engaged! The shawl! Sit down at once, Mary, and tell me what you’ve been doing!”

  Thus adjured, Mary perched on the edge of the bed and told Janet the whole story.

  “And then Bill insisted on buying the shawl back again, and Mrs. Mellowe was awfully good about it. And after that Bill made me go with him to the Chalmers, and it was so glorious to see them again! I’m to be married next month. Oh, and I’ve got to give notice at the office, because I’m to go and stay with the Chalmers until the wedding!”

  “It’s—it’s like a fairy tale!” said Janet, hugging her. “I am so glad!”

  Mary slid off the bed and began to undress.

  “To think that I was sore with Aunt Felicia for sending me the shawl,” she marvelled. “If she hadn’t sent it I should never have gone to the Corinthian, and if I hadn’t gone to the Corinthian I shouldn't have met Bill. And if I hadn’t sold the shawl to Mrs. Mellowe Bill would never have found me. I’ll never part with it again. I love it!”

  One of the crimson birds smiled sagely in the candlelight.

  THE END

  READING “THE CHINESE SHAWL”

  So, you’re a hopeful gentleman in love with a much-admired young woman. She comes from money, and you don’t feel you can support her in the style to which she has become accustomed. You hope you can strike it rich and be worthy of her, so you leave the country… and three years later, without a letter or a phone call or (considering the times) telegram, with merely a bare suggestion of your feelings before your departure, you return home and, fortuitously finding her still single, expect her to immediately wish to marry you.

  What an odd time it was for romance, the 1920s.

  Also a very odd time for selling things. Can you imagine sending your goods off to a complete stranger on spec nowadays? eBay doesn’t even give that as an option—funnily enough. How trusting – or perhaps just how honourable – were the people of the past. It’s like that story of how P. G. Wodehouse used to just throw his letters, stamped, out the window to save himself a trek to the local post box. He was so certain of his fellow man’s noble nature that he believed not a one of them would hesitate to post his letters for him, should they find one on a London street. (Cheek, I call it.)

  But back to Bill and Mary. Just like Kenneth and Ursula of “Acting on Impulse,” every facet of their relatio
nship, the fact that they even have one, is entirely at the man’s discretion. Just as Ursula had never, apparently, even considered marrying madcap Kenneth before he abruptly decides she should, Mary actively denies any desire to marry Bill more than once but he insists and insists and because it is easier to give in (to the life of ease and comfort he is offering her as much as to his stern importunities) she just meekly goes along with it. Cicely, Katharine, Ursula, Mary – for all we know, Diana also married George because he told her to; at least Ruth had enough backbone to stand up to Peter, before “The Little Lady” sent him crawling back to her – these women are all almost entirely at the whim of the men who might choose to marry them, and by god, that is annoying. Way more so here than in any historical romance, even in those that employ the Forced to Marry trope, like A Civil Contract and Friday’s Child and so very, very many penned by Barbara Cartland and her ilk.

  Part of the problem, of course, is the brevity of these stories – we learn a lot about the players, major and minor (except for most of the people in “Linckes” and, sadly, Ruth) because of Heyer’s gift for characterization in an economy of words, but the development of relationships must be necessarily truncated in an offering like this, so abrupt denouements are somewhat to be expected. But this dictatorial “you will marry me” nonsense, this whole “you need me to take care of you” rigamarole, this infuriating “you’re nothing without me” rubbish, just makes me so mad.

  Yet these stories are… pretty great. This one isn’t close to my favourite in the collection, but it’s still better than ninety percent of romantic shorts I’ve ever read—and which number in the thousands. Georgette Heyer is so good that even when she drives you crazy, you still love her.

  Plus, hey! Good thing that Mary’s friend Janet espouses the Maria from Sound of Music school of fashion design – pre-Sound of Music, of course – or else bullying, bizarrely-confident-after-three-years Bill would never have found his carefully selected bride.