The Flowering Thorn (28 page)

Without a word Lesley set down her glass and went over to his chair. Causing as little discomfort as possible, she plumped up one or two cushions, fiddled about with the bolster, and drew a travelling rug tighter about the whole.

“Thank you,” said Sir Philip. “And now confess. Didn't you get some slight satisfaction too?”

“Out of giving you pleasure I did,” admitted Lesley honestly. “Not out of the fussing itself. But then”—she paused, and looked at him with humour—“I don't really come into the category of your women.”

“You don't feel it, then?” said Sir Philip placidly. “Now, I do. Perhaps because you're living in my cottage. I feel as though there were possibly a relationship between us—nothing obligatory, you know, but one of those curious, underground connections that make English history so fascinating.” He reached out deliberately and lifted his glass. “I feel, for instance, that if you were had up for exceeding the speed limit, I should have to come and bail you out.”

Lesley regarded him whimsically.

“You almost tempt me to buy a car,” she said; and they fell into a sudden deep silence, as though the conversation could now be carried on without the impediment of words. The fire crackled, a stable-dog barked: far across the park Lesley could hear a faint hymn-tune being tried over on five bells. Raising a long sallow hand, as though to shield his eyes from the flame, Sir Philip said abruptly,

“My son was born in that cottage.”

Involuntarily her eyes flew to the great Sargent, glowing and sumptuous even in the dusk. Sir Philip shook his head.

“No. I have no heir. And
he
died at Gallipoli, of enteric.”

On the other side of the hearth Lesley sat very still. Behind that wrinkled hand, behind those wrinkled lids, a vision was moving: she must not disturb it. And looking again at the Sargent, she suddenly thought, ‘And
you
—what was
your
story?' But the portrait kept its counsel.

“So you will understand,” said Sir Philip, lowering his hand, “that it seemed very natural for me to see a woman and child there again.”

She said softly,

“Was that why you let it to me?”

“No. No.” For a moment, half sadly, half humorously, he had tried to give himself the benefit of the doubt. “To tell the truth, I had almost forgotten. It's you, my dear, who have brought her back.”

Simple as the first dairy-maid, Lesley raised incredulous eyes.

“She died, you see, more than thirty years ago,” said Sir Philip. “You think it strange? Wrong in a man, perhaps, but I assure you, Lesley, not in the least strange. What is strange is that now, ever since you came here, I think of her almost constantly.”

“You had never really forgotten at all,” said Lesley.

The fire crackled, the dog barked: they would soon be sitting in darkness, with only a red fire to light the crystals, and Lady Kerr's portrait no more than a deeper shadow on the dim walls. The dog barked: the fire crackled: had bell-practice finished, or was the wind blowing another way?

“She had a laugh like a blackbird's,” said Sir Philip.

3

Soon after, Lesley went away: she did not wish to mar, by their usual wit, an impression of such deep and tender intimacy. ‘A laugh like a black-bird's!' What a phrase to end on! She said softly,

“I'll come again soon. To-morrow, perhaps, or at any rate the day after.”

He looked at her with great kindness.

“When you can, my dear. But there are other things more important for you than I am.”

The statement, from so confessed an egoist, made her open her eyes. The Pomfrets? The Pomfrets were certainly keeping her busy, but since when had Sir Philip thought of anyone but himself?

“You must be worse than I thought,” said Lesley, and went away laughing.

She was not able to return on the morrow, however, nor for many days after, for Alec and Pat caught coughs, and she promptly sent them to bed. The measure was a drastic one, but other people's children are like other people's china; and with a fire in the boys' room already it seemed a waste not to put Pat in bed too. It all made more work, of course, but safety came first; as to the sufferers, they rather enjoyed themselves, for Lesley read aloud a good deal, out of an expurgated edition of the Arabian Nights, and they also invented the new occupation of trying to suck up the sugar off Turkish delight like lemonade through a straw. Neither made any progress, but Alec gave up first. With three other children in action the rest of the day's routine naturally proceeded as usual, while nine o'clock at night, when the last had gone to bed, opened a long and oddly domestic evening in the company of the Vicar. Sometimes they listened to the gramophone—Lesley with her darning, Mr. Pomfret with his pipe; but chiefly Mr. Pomfret talked. He did not, of course, actually prefer her company to his wife's, because he was a Vicar, but there was no doubt he enjoyed it. Lesley, on the other hand, after about the third session, became conscious of a slight disillusionment: his conversation was always good, but he had a preacher's wind, and she now first began to attribute to something other than pure unselfishness the unfailing good humour with which his wife saw him depart to spend an evening at the Hall. With the same good humour Lesley would have seen him off herself; but this resource was no longer available, for Sir Philip's chill seemed to have settled in his temper, and he had asked neither of them to dinner since Lesley's last visit. This sudden moroseness, explained the Vicar, was but the normal accompaniment of any slight indisposition, and his own parochial calls now took place in the morning and lasted about ten minutes. He went every day, however, returning occasionally with a message for Lesley, once with a hothouse bloom or two, but in general with no more to report than crabbedness and a tendency to swear.

“But how is the chill?” demanded Lesley, sniffing at her forced hyacinths.

“On the liver—or so he says. He also says that it's worse than gout.”

“And I haven't been up for nearly a fortnight! Did you tell him I was coming to-morrow?”

To her extreme surprise, the Vicar looked suddenly distressed.

“Do you know, my dear,” he said, “if I were you I don't think I should go. Being ill doesn't agree with him. He's got into one of his hermit-crab moods.…”

“You mean he said he didn't
want
me?” persisted Lesley.

The Vicar looked more distressed still.

“Well—not quite that exactly, but he'd evidently rather be left alone. At that age, I supose, one feels entitled to a few crochets.”

She listened with politeness; but in her heart she was both surprised and hurt. Sir Philip not want to see her! It was preposterous! It was inexplicable! Even out of mere courtesy, even if only for the sparing of a rebuff, he could surely have supported her company for a bare ten minutes! And concealing her chagrin, Lesley felt the hurt go deeper. For she who had believed herself—and surely after that last meeting had been right to believe herself—his dear friend, was now thus brusquely informed that he no longer wished to be amused. Or so she saw it, as she feigned indifference; and the hyacinths smelt less sweet.

At this juncture, however, and by a fortunate coincidence, her thoughts were effectually distracted by no less an event than the simultaneous arrival of two telegrams. One was from Mrs. Pomfret, announcing her return that afternoon: the other, for Lesley, contained a long and enthusiastic acount of the 1933 Buick, ending with an invitation to lunch, the day following, at the Yellow Swan, at Thame. It was one of those communications, in fact, for which Elissa had been so long and deservedly famous.

‘After all this time!' thought Lesley. ‘Elissa!' By contrast with Sir Philip's capriciousness, her fidelity in friendship (though, as Lesley herself remarked, after all that time) was doubly welcome; and since her duties at the Vicarage would by then be over, Lesley wired back at once a grateful acceptance. Unlike the Locks, Elissa had forgotten to prepay an answer: but it was a shilling well spent on mental distraction.

By four o'clock that afternoon Mrs. Pomfret was back; and it speaks volumes for her character that she returned in genuinely good spirits. For the aunt, by whose will she would benefit to the extent of five hundred pounds, had against all expectation made a complete recovery. She was extremely grateful, however, for Mrs. Pomfret's attention, and was almost certainly going to send after her, as a token of esteem, the small garden roller she had so often admired.

With a sort of sorrowing affection, the Vicar took his wife's hand.

“That's splendid, my dear,” he said, “and I expect we shall use it a lot. But the next time you're there, do you think you could admire that small oil-painting over the dining-room sofa? I have an idea it's a Raeburn.”

CHAPTER NINE

In rather more of a hurry than she had intended, Lesley set out to meet Elissa. For she had meant to dress carefully, to spend a long time over her face; but after taking Pat up to the Vicarage, putting milk for the cats, and talking to Mrs. Sprigg, there was only just time to put on her hat and run for the 'bus. She went, in fact, just as she was, in a sweater of bright daffodil yellow, brown skirt and short leather jacket; a combination pleasing enough in its way, but definitely …

‘Simple-minded,' thought Lesley, considering her image in the 'bus window. ‘All I want is a buttonhole of wool flowers.' For a moment or two the reflection depressed her (especially when she remembered the cream-and-crimson chevrons of her latest knitting. They would have impressed anyone, even Elissa); but all other emotions were soon overshadowed by the pleasure of the approaching reunion.

Why this should have been so, Lesley did not stop to think. The gap in their acquaintance, now of nearly three years' duration, had been supported by her with no more than the most occasional and mildest pang; and no doubt the same with Elissa, who would have supported no pang at all, not even the mildest, without doing something about it. She now wanted to show her new car, and so remembered old acquaintance; but though Lesley knew this to be so, it in no way affected her present flow of affection. For Elissa—therein lay the spell!—came from the enchanted territory of Baker Street, wherein no one could do wrong; like a magic carpet she carried that territory with her, and Lesley joyfully looked forward to stepping upon it too. Her imagination, as will be seen, was still a little coloured by the Arabian Nights; and indeed there
was
something about Elissa that made her by no means out of place among—for example—those ambiguous widows who came to buy silk and vamped the merchants.… So ran Lesley's thoughts as the 'bus stopped, proceeded, and stopped again; and with every successive mile her impatience grew. This was unfortunate in a way, because as soon as she reached Thame it became gradually more and more apparent that Elissa, as usual, was going to be late.

And she was late; she was very late indeed. Lesley could have creamed her face and changed from top to toe, and now instead found no better distraction than the pile of illustrated papers in the lounge of the Yellow Swan. She did not dare go and look at the shops, in case Elissa came and missed her; and only a strong initial impetus enabled her spirits to rise superior to one hour and ten minutes of hunger and suspense. But rise they did, though only just: and at five past two, when a brand-new Buick slid gracefully into the square, she was able to go out and meet it with genuine pleasure.

“Elissa!”

With a swift wriggling movement, curiously reminiscent of getting out of bed, Elissa slipped from the low seat and looked inquiringly round. Then her eye was caught, she slammed-to the door, and an instant later had flung herself over the threshold and into the arms of her friend.

“Darling!” cried Elissa, quite in the old way.

“Darling!” responded Lesley, quite in the old way too.

“How lovely to see you! Come and look at my car!”

They went out on to the pavement and examined it minutely, Elissa never ceasing to proclaim her unalloyed delight. It was the most marvellous car she'd ever had, it went like a bird, they had christened it with champagne, the upholstery of course was going to be altered, but the mascot—Lesley must look really carefully at the mascot—was really rather a gem, absolutely unique, made specially for her, Elissa, by a marvelous Latvian craftsman who was going to be deported. It represented a slim naked female embracing a policeman.

“And so you see, darling, I never get held up. They just take one look and wave me through. Now let's have a Martini, and then get at some lunch. I'm simply ravenous,” said Elissa; and pulling out a chair she proceeded to order a small piece of fish and toast Melba.

Lesley heard her with mixed feelings. For the last hour and a half she had been frankly looking forward to her food, but if Elissa were really on a diet any marked display of appetite could scarcely look other than heartless. For a moment she wavered; then remembering with relief that Elissa never did eat anything, gratefully threw aside all scruples and ordered jugged hare. Or rather, to be exact, jugged hare, brussels sprouts and sauté potatoes.

“My dear!” murmured Elissa. “Aren't you afraid of fat?”

“I know I ought to be,” said Lesley guiltily. As unobtrusively as possible she took a roll and butter. “But being in the open air seems to give one such an appetite. Are you on diet again, darling?”

“No more than usual,” replied Elissa rather severely. “I hate”—and she sketched a little gesture of disgust—“I do so hate being cluttered up with food.”

Lesley frowned.

“But it
doesn't
clutter up, you know, really. I mean, most of it one actually needs, and the rest … well, at any rate it shouldn't clutter. Look at Pat, for instance. He eats enormously, but, roughly speaking, I know what happens to every mouthful.”