Patricia Wentworth - The Fingerprint

“Where are the others?”

“Johnny has taken Mirrie out in his old ruin of a car. She’s been crying herself sick, and he thought a little fresh air.”

Georgina nodded.

“She really was fond of Uncle Jonathan. I suppose he was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her, poor Mirrie. Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace sound fairly grim.”

Anthony had walked over to the window. He turned round now and came back to her.

“Never mind about Mirrie just now. I want to talk about us.”

She looked up faintly startled.

“What is it?”

He said abruptly,

“Mirrie says that Jonathan did make a new will when he was in town. He told her so.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about Mirrie.”

“We’re not. It’s what she said about Jonathan’s will.”

She moved to the hearth and stood looking down into the fire.

“I don’t think I want to talk about wills, Anthony.”

“Nor do I. I want to talk about us. I only mentioned the will to get it out of the way. Jonathan told Mirrie that he was treating her as a daughter, and if that means anything at all it means that she will get the bulk of whatever he has to leave. And that means-oh, Georgina, don’t you see-it means that I can ask you to marry me.”

There was an applewood log on the fire. It sent out a very sweet smell. About half of it had burned to a grey ash, but it had not fallen away. Little glowing sparks ran to and fro in the ash under the draught from the chimney.

Georgina looked down at the sparks. Her colour had risen a little. She said in a low voice,

“I don’t know that I care very much about a conditional offer of marriage, Anthony.”

“What do you mean? I couldn’t ask you if you were going to have all that money.”

“That would depend upon whether you thought more of the money than you do of me.”

She looked up at him for a moment. He had time to see that her eyes were bright with anger, and then she was watching the fire again.

“ Georgina!”

“What else? If the money didn’t matter more to you than I do, you wouldn’t let it come between us. I can’t see that it’s any better that way than it would be if you asked me just because I had got the money. In either case you would be letting the money matter more than I do. I won’t marry anyone who does that.”

He took her hand and held it to his cheek.

“You don’t really think I care about the money!”

“You do if you let it come between us.”

“But if you haven’t got it-darling, don’t you see that it makes everything quite easy? I mean, he has probably left you something, but from what you told me yesterday it doesn’t sound as if it would be very much.”

She turned a quiet look upon him.

“I’m wondering just how much your pride would let you take. It might be as well to think it out. Suppose he had left me five hundred a year-”

He broke into angry laughter.

“What are you trying to say?”

“It’s a case of what you would say.”

“Do you know that he has left you that?”

“No, I don’t. I just wondered where you would feel you had to draw the line. And you haven’t answered me. Could you or couldn’t you bear to marry someone with five hundred a year?”

Before she had any idea of what he would do he had taken her by the shoulders.

“If you think I’m going to be haggled with-”

“Anthony!”

“You don’t really think I care about the damned money!”

Georgina looked at him.

“We could always give some of it away, you know. Supposing-just supposing it was more than you felt you could bear – No, Anthony, you are not to kiss me! Not until I say you can. If you won’t be haggled with, I won’t either. I don’t know what Uncle Jonathan has left me, and I don’t want to know. I want to get this settled between us first, and it’s not going to be settled on any question of money. If I have anything, it will be ours. If I haven’t got anything, what you have got will be ours. If I’ve got more than you are going to feel happy about, we can get rid of it. We can talk it over and decide how much of it you can bear to keep. Now don’t you think we might stop going on about the money?” Her voice faltered on the last words.

He put his arms round her and they kissed. It was some time before she said, “You mustn’t!”

“Why mustn’t I?”

“Because-because-oh, I oughtn’t to have let you! I was just thinking of getting the money out of the way.”

“What else is there?”

“Something that matters more than that.”

“Jonathan? I know, darling. But I think he would have been pleased.”

“Yes, he would have been pleased. He liked you very much, but-but-”

“There aren’t any buts.”

Now that it came to the point, it was too difficult to say. She leaned against his arm and felt the comfort of it. Why couldn’t they just stay like this, knowing that they loved each other and neither thinking nor caring about the future? All through the world’s history lovers have wished that it would stand still for them, but it still goes on. The enchanted moment flies, no matter how much they cry to it, “ Verweile doch, du bist so schön !” Georgina said in a strained voice,

“It’s no use, Anthony. Frank Abbott thinks I did it.”

MIRRIE HAD BEEN at Field End for six weeks, but she had had eighteen years of drab poverty before that. It hadn’t been want. There was a decent roof over her head, and there was enough to eat. The charity clothes had often been of quite good quality. If they required mending they were mended very neatly indeed, at first by Aunt Grace, and afterwards by Mirrie herself under Aunt Grace’s eye. But it was all very penny-plain. There were no extras, there were no treats, there was no fun. The child who craved for colour and enjoyment began to snatch at them wherever and however they might be come by. She learned to start with, in a perfectly innocent and accidental manner, that a child who burst into tears in a bus and sobbed out her dismay at having had her fare stolen was practically never made to get out and walk. There was always some kind person who would press the pennies into a trembling hand. She really had lost her fare the first time, but the incident had shown her how to save the fares provided by Aunt Grace and use them for cinema tickets. Her remark to Johnny that she had hardly ever seen a film fell a good deal short of the truth, but of course she couldn’t tell him about the bus fares. There were other ways of coming by a sixpence or a few coppers here and there. There was the broken milk-bottle trick. She had picked it out of a dust-bin, lurked near a likely dairy, and let one fall on the pavement as a well dressed woman came out of the shop. Confronted with a weeping and most attractive child who said she was afraid to go home because she would be beaten, Mrs. Jones readily produced a shilling and told the child to keep the change. Of course the time spent on visits to the cinema had to be accounted for. There was a child called Beryl Burton of whose parents Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace were pleased to approve. Mirrie could always say that she had gone home with Beryl. It said much for her ingenuity that she was only found out once, and even then she managed to lie her way out of it-there had been a sudden change of plan and she had gone with Hilda Lambton instead.

Hilda was one of the people she didn’t want to think about now. Not that she had anything against her, but because of her being all mixed up with Sid Turner. She used to tell Aunt Grace that she was going to a museum or a picture gallery with Hilda, and they used to meet Sid and his friend Bert Holloway and go off to the pictures. Aunt Grace didn’t mind how much you went to museums, because of their being free, and Uncle Albert said they were educational. There was a most frightful row when they found out about meeting Sid. Uncle Albert did nothing but quote texts out of the Bible for days and days, and Aunt Grace never stopped scolding, and got Mirrie that frightful job at the Home, where the only outings were to church on Sundays and straight on to Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace for dinner and tea, after which Uncle Albert saw her back to the Home. No more pictures, no more Hilda, no more Sid. It just didn’t bear thinking of, so she didn’t bother to think about it.