The Dark Tower

Miss Marley said, “Come in,” in that wonderful, low, soft voice of hers that came so strangely from her blistered lips. She was sitting in a low chair, smoking, in front of an open wood fire.

Her room was furnished by herself. It was a comfortable, featureless room, with no ornaments and no flowers; there were plenty of books in cases or lying about at ease on a big table, a stout desk by the window, and several leather-covered, deep armchairs. The walls were bare except for photographs of the Cresta. These had been taken from every possible angle of the run — its banks, its corners, its flashing pieces of straight, and its incredible final hill. It was noticeable that though there was generally a figure on a toboggan in the photograph, it never happened to be one of Miss Marley herself. She was a creditable rider, but she did not, to her own mind, show off the Cresta.

Her eyes met Winn’s with a shrewdness that she promptly veiled. He wasn’t looking as if he wanted her to be shrewd. It struck her that she was seeing Winn as he must have looked when he was about twenty. She wondered if this was only because he had won the match. His eyes were very open and they were off their guard. It could not be said that Winn had ever in his life looked appealing, but for a Staines to look so exposed to friendliness was very nearly an appeal.

“Mavorovitch has just left me,” said Miss Marley. “You ought to have heard what he said about you. It was worth hearing. You played this afternoon like a successful demon dealing with lost souls. I don’t think I’ve ever seen bandy played quite in that vein before.”

Winn sank into one of the leather armchairs and lighted a cigarette.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I played like a fluke. I am not up to Mavorovitch’s form at all. I just happened to be on my game; he would have had me down and out otherwise.”

Miss Marley nodded; she was wondering what had put Winn on his game. She turned her eyes away from him and looked into the fire. Winn was resting for the first time that day; the sense of physical ease and her even, tranquil comradeship were singularly soothing to him. Suddenly it occurred to him that he very much liked Miss Marley, and in a way in which he had never before liked any woman, with esteem and without excitement. He gave her a man’s first proof of confidence.

“Look here,” he said, “I want you to help me.”

Miss Marley turned her eyes back to him; she was a plain woman, but she was able to speak with her eyes, and though what she said was sometimes hard and always honest, on the present occasion they expressed only an intense reassurance of good-will.

“When I came in,” Winn said rather nervously, “I meant to ask you a little thing, but I find I am going to ask you a big one.”

“Oh, well,” said Miss Marley, “ask away. Big or little, friends should stand by each other.”

“Yes,” said Winn, relieved, “that’s what I thought you’d say. I don’t know that I ever mentioned to you I’m married?”

“No,” she answered quietly, “I can’t say that you did; however, most men of your age are married.”

“And I’ve got a son,” Winn continued. “His name is Peter — after my father, you know.”

“That’s a good thing,” she concurred heartily. “I’m glad you’ve got a son.”

“Unfortunately,” said Winn, “my marriage didn’t exactly come off. We got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Ah,” said Miss Marley, “that’s a pity! The right end of the stick is, I believe, almost essential in marriage.”

“Yes,” Winn acknowledged; “I see that now, of course. I was keen on getting her, but I hadn’t thought the rest out. Rather odd, isn’t it, that you don’t get as much as a tip about how jolly a thing could be till you’ve dished yourself from having it?”

Miss Marley agreed that it was rather odd.

Winn came back swiftly to his point.

“What I was going to ask you,” he said, holding her with his eyes, “is to sit at my table for a bit. I happen to have two young friends of mine over from Davos. He’s her brother, of course, but I thought I’d like to have another woman somewhere about. Look better, wouldn’t it? She’s only nineteen.”

His voice dropped as he mentioned Claire’s age as if he were speaking of the Madonna.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Marley, “it would look better.”

“I dare say,” said Winn after rather a long pause, “you see what I mean? The idea is — our idea, you know — to be together as much as we can for a fortnight. It’ll be all right, of course; only I rather wondered if you’d see us through.”

“See you through being all right?” Miss Marley asked with the directness of a knife-thrust.

“Well — yes,” said Winn. “It would just put people off thinking things. Everybody seems to know you up here, and I somehow thought I’d rather you knew.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Marley, briefly.

She turned back to the fire again. She had seen all she wanted to see in Winn’s eyes. She saw his intention. What she wasn’t sure about was the fortnight. A fortnight can do a good deal with an intention.