Blindfold (10 page)

The man slipped a hand under her elbow and spoke low in her ear. Miles could not hear what he said, but he saw the distressed colour rise high in the girl's cheek. If he hadn't been a fool, he wouldn't have crossed the street. He was now going to get involved in an affair which had nothing whatever to do with him. Thus the voice of reason. Kay's voice drowned it. She pulled away her arm, swung round to face the man, and said,

“I don't know you, and I won't go out with you. Will you please go away—or must I go back home again?”

“Oh, come, come!” said the man. He put his hand on her arm again, and Miles thought it was time to interfere. He came up on Kay's other side and said,

“I beg your pardon, but can you direct me to Bassett Street?”

The man's hand dropped. Miles caught a gleam of pale fury in his eyes. The gentleman's annoyance was extremely gratifying. He wondered if there
was
a Bassett Street in London.

Kay said a little breathlessly, “I'm afraid I don't know.”

Her voice was prettier than ever with that flutter in it.

“Bassett Street,” said Miles with an air of hopeful simplicity.

“There's no such street round here,” said the man.

Miles produced a genial smile.

“Do you think they can possibly have changed the name?” he inquired.

“There is no such street,” said the man curtly. He touched Kay on the arm. “Shall we be coming, Kay?”

A shutter went up with a snap in Miles' mind. It was little Kay Moore, grown up.
Kay
—yes, of course it was. And not changed anything to speak of either. She had been an awfully pretty kid, and she was an awfully pretty girl. He had been very fond of Kay. And here she was, colouring up to the roots of her hair and looking at him with appealing eyes.

“Oh, come along, Kay!” said the man.

Kay burnt her boats. She looked steadily at Miles Clayton and said,

“Please will you tell this person to go away? I don't know him.”

It was all over in a moment. Miles took a step forward, and the man with the light eyes dropped her arm and took a step back. A look passed between the two men, and that was all. The man with the light eyes lifted his hat. He said, “Another time, Kay,” and turned and walked away.

CHAPTER XIII

Kay leaned against the railings of No. 28. The paving-stones were tilting under her feet. She wondered why she was so frightened. People had spoken to her before; it wasn't that. She thought it was his eyes. Then a voice said, “Are you all right?” and she said “Yes,” because the voice was a very reassuring one and the pavement stopped tilting.

She looked up at Miles and said, “Thank you so much,” and he wondered why he hadn't recognized her at once, because no one but Kay ever had such dark blue eyes.

He said, “That's nothing. Are you sure you're all right? May I walk a little way with you? I don't know where you were going.”

Kay said “Thank you” again.

They began to walk up the street. Kay was the first to speak.

“I didn't know him at all,” she said.

“You don't know me,” said Miles.

Kay took another look at him. She didn't really need to do this, but it was pleasant.

“You're different,” she said.

Miles felt unreasonably pleased. But of course she oughtn't to go about with people she didn't know. It wasn't safe, and she was so awfully pretty. It wasn't as if she knew who he was. It would look a bit odd if he started warning her against himself. All the same—

“How do you know I'm different?”

Kay took another look. He thought the dark blue eyes said “Don't be silly.” And of course it was silly, because he and Kay—he and Kay … He had a curiously touched recollection of Kay kissing him good-bye. She had kissed them all with soft, cold childish lips, but when she came to his mother there had been a desperate clinging. And then that horrible scene with the aunt. An impossible woman if there ever was one—crazy with jealousy because the poor kid was fond of them all. He wondered how she had fared. It was eight years ago. She must be nearly twenty now.… He turned to her and said,

“I'm Miles Clayton, Kay. Do you remember me?”

The colour came into her face like a wind-blown flame. Her eyes shone like stars above the lovely tint. She stopped. Her hands went out and met his own, and her voice broke on his name.

“Miles!” And then, with a sort of bubbling joyfulness, “Oh, it is—it is—and I didn't know you! Did you know me? At once—just like that? It was very clever of you, because I've grown ever so much. But I ought to have known you, because you haven't changed a bit.”

“Nor have you, really,” said Miles.

At this point he became aware that a milkman emerging from the area of No. 30 was regarding them with an expression of gloom. He was a perfectly worthy young man of the name of Edward Jones, and the housemaid of No. 30 had just informed him that she wasn't coming out with him any more because she liked Bob Stevens a lot better than him, so there. In these circumstances the sight of Miles and Kay holding hands and gazing at one another in the middle of the pavement was more than flesh and blood could bear. His expression became so homicidal that Miles reluctantly let go and, taking Kay by the arm, began to walk her along.

“Where are you going? And can I come with you, or will you turn me down like you did the other chap and ask that ferocious milkman to protect you?”

“I'd rather have you than the milkman. I was going on a bus.”

“What bus?”

“Just any bus—just for the ride. It's a lovely day.”

“All right, we'll go on a bus together.”

Kay's heart beat joyfully. Miles—as well as a bus ride, and a fine day, and her afternoon out. It was almost too much. She felt as if there were wings under her feet.

She said “lovely!” and then, “Miles, tell me all about all of you. I haven't heard anything, not for years.”

“My mother's gone,” said Miles.

She said, “I know. When Aunt Rhoda died I wrote, and someone wrote back and said she had gone—two years before.”

“She was very, very fond of you, Kay.”

Kay was silent for a little. Then she turned a curious beaming look on him and said,

“I love her—always.”

Miles felt an extraordinary rush of emotion. It was four years since anyone had used that present tense in speaking of Eleanor Clayton. It seemed to bring her very near. He was so suddenly and deeply moved that he found it quite impossible to speak. His hand tightened on Kay's arm and they walked on in silence.

When they came to the corner, he began to tell her that George was in India with his regiment, Kitty married and in India too. “And I've been over in New York for three years.” And then the story of how he had come over here to try and find out what had happened to a baby who had disappeared nearly twenty years ago.

They chose their bus, climbed on the top, got a seat right in front, and went on talking. Such a lot can happen in eight years, and it was nearly eight years since Kay had gone sadly away from the only home she had known.

“And what did you do then, Kay? Where did you go? You never wrote.”

Kay looked away over the top of the bus rail to the houses crowding up into the misty blue sky. It hadn't been misty a moment before, but clear. The mist was in her eyes—the mist of an old weeping for things which she had loved and lost. She said at last,

“I couldn't write—not until Aunt Rhoda died, and then it was too late.”

“Where did you go, Kay?”

Kay said, “Everywhere. We kept moving—three months—four months—six months. We just kept moving on until she died.”

“When was that?”

“Getting on for three years ago.”

She told him about being mother's help to the Vicar's wife, and how she had had to leave because they couldn't afford to keep her.

“The next place I went to I didn't like at all. There was a perfectly revolting boy of twenty. His mother spoilt him, and he would come into the nursery, so I simply couldn't stay. And so I thought I would be a house-parlour-maid, because you get better wages and proper times off, but I got into a horrid place. Oh, Miles, it really was.”

Miles frowned. She had come up the steps of No. 16 Varley Street. He said quickly,

“What sort of horrid? You mustn't stay there, Kay.”

“Oh, but I didn't. I was only there two months. I didn't like the people or their friends—rather horrid men. I left as soon as I could.”

“And came to 16 Varley Street?”

She nodded.

“Perhaps it was ungrateful to say that about their friends being horrid, because it was really one of their friends who helped me to get another place—at least not exactly a friend—” She broke off. “Miles, she told me not to tell anyone, so perhaps I oughtn't—”

“You're to tell me at once!”

“But she said—you see, it might make it awkward for her with her friends. You do see that?”

“Well, I'm not any of her friends. You're going to tell me at once!”

When he looked like that, she could believe that it was nearly eight years since he had last ordered her about. She had been very ready to be ordered about, but it
was
nearly eight years ago. She smiled a little fleeting smile, because the eight years which had changed them both so much hadn't really changed anything at all. She would still do what he told her, but she would do it with a little secret amusement.

“Well, it was like this,” she said. “Nurse Long used to come to the house sometimes—not to the parties, you know, but just quietly in the afternoon to see Mrs Marston. I think they'd been at school together, so she wasn't like the other people who came. And one day she spoke to me going down the stairs. It was rather curious, Miles, because she said, ‘Is your name Kay Moore?' and when I said it was, she asked me if I had an aunt called Rhoda. She said she used to know her long ago. Then she asked me if I liked the place, and of course it was rather difficult to say I didn't, but when we got down to the door she gave me her address and said if I wanted to make a change she might be able to help me.”

“What was the address?” said Miles quickly.

“16 Varley Street,” said Kay.

“How long have you been there?”

Kay looked at him. There was something in his voice which she didn't understand. It seemed to ring an echo in her own mind. She couldn't understand what it said. It was just an echo. She answered his question.

“Only since Saturday. I came in on Saturday evening.” She went on talking, because she rather wanted to drown that echo. “Miles, it was rather funny. I gave notice at the Marstons about a week ago, so I really had almost another month to put in there. Then on Saturday afternoon Mrs Marston sent for me and said she would like me to go at once, because she was suited, but her friend Nurse Long was wanting someone and would I speak to her on the telephone. So I did, and she told me the girl there had left in a hurry and she would like to engage me. So of course I was very glad, because I really hadn't anywhere to go, and I haven't been able to save anything yet because of having to get uniform and all that sort of thing. Mrs Marston got the things and stopped it out of my wages. That was why I couldn't leave before.”

“Tell me about 16 Varley Street, Kay.”

Kay's heart gave a little flutter of happiness. Lovely to have someone to tell. It was when you had to bottle things up that they were sort of frightening. There wasn't anything to be frightened of, and there wasn't anything to tell, but it was lovely to have someone to tell it to. She was in the outside seat, and she sat right round with her back against the rail so that she could face Miles. There was hardly anyone else on the top of the bus, only two giggling children about half way down on the other side, and a workman with a large bag of tools on the back seat. To all intents and purposes they were alone. That was a lovely feeling too. They could talk secrets if they wanted to. And then Kay laughed, because of course they hadn't any secrets. She thought it would be rather nice to have a secret with Miles. She looked at him with the laugh in her eyes and began to tell him about No. 16 Varley Street.

“It isn't Nurse Long's house, you know. She's looking after an old invalid lady who hardly ever comes out of her room. She's a Miss Rowland, and I've only seen her twice. There's a lot to do, because there's only the cook and me, and Mrs Green never comes upstairs at all. She ought to do the dining-room and the hall of course, but she says she's too fat to get up the stairs, and I really think she is. She's very good-natured, and she's been there for years and years.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?” said Miles.

“No—just Miss Rowland, and Nurse Long, and Mrs Green, and me. And they don't seem to have any visitors, It's a good thing, or I'd never get through. Nurse Long does the old lady's room, but I've got everything else, and all the trays to take up and fetch. It's a basement house, and that always makes work.”

Miles asked a funny question. Afterwards she thought it was a very funny question indeed. He said,

“What's the drawing-room like?” and she laughed and said,

“Oh, my dear, it's exactly like the pictures in the old
Punches
your mother had—bunches of flowers on the carpet, and a table with photograph albums, and a gold clock with cherubs, and things like that.”

“What sort of shape is it?”

“Wide across the front of the house and narrow at the back, like an L. Two doors—one in the wide part and the other behind.”

“Is there a mirror in the narrow part?” said Miles.

Kay nodded.

“A great big one with a wide gilt border. How
did
you know?”

Miles laughed.

“That sort of room ought to have a mirror in it,” he said.