The House of Discontent (17 page)

Dear Patricia,

Thank you very much for your postcard. I am glad to know that the arrangements for the dance are going ahead satisfactorily. I only hope to goodness that something unforeseen doesn’t turn up to prevent it. Do write again and let me know who you are asking. And why not a letter? Not that I didn’t like your postcard. I have always had a great longing to go to Peking. I wonder if it will ever be satisfied. How’s the hospital going?

Yours ever,

Anthony Brierleigh.

There was something about this letter which pleased Patricia very much. For one thing he had made it clear that he wanted to hear from her again; for another it was friendly and simple. And then he had confessed to her one of his cherished longings. There was something almost intimate about this. How many people knew that he had always had a great longing to go to Peking?

She read the letter over and over again, until she knew it by heart, and then she examined it carefully, noting the formation of every letter. She came to the conclusion that he had written it with a fountain-pen because the writing was fainter and a little scratchy towards the end, as if the ink had started to give out. The very paper on which it was written was precious to her because his hand had rested upon it.

“I’ve certainly got it badly,” she thought wryly, and then with a sigh she asked herself: “What’s the good? I mustn’t let myself get like this. Soon there will be nothing in the world for me except him, and then what will happen to me when I hear that he is engaged to someone else? This is a very good example of putting all one’s eggs in one basket. But in this case it is even worse, because my basket has a hole in it—the hole being the simple little fact that he almost certainly doesn’t care two hoots for me except as a casual friend. Now you take care, my girl. You are not to let yourself get like this. Do you hear what I say? You are
not to let yourself
.”

CHAPTER
FOUR
TEEN

IT was a few days after this that Lady Brierleigh asked Patricia whether she would like to come in to Church Carding in the car to do some shopping. “I’ve got a Women’s Institute meeting at six,” she said, “but it won’t last very long, and then I’ll be delighted if you’ll come back with me and have a little dinner.”

Patricia accepted with pleasure. “Mary was coming up here,” she said, “and we were going to spend the afternoon together, but I’ll ring her up and ask her to meet me in the town instead, and then I can go up to The Knowle while you are at the meeting.”

She knew that Aunt Dorothy would almost certainly be at the meeting too, so it would be a perfect opportunity to go to The Knowle, for Uncle Peter would be back from the office soon after six and it would be nice to see him alone.

Directly after lunch she telephoned to Mary.

“You only just caught me,” Mary said. “I was just this moment setting out to come to you.”

“You’re very early,” Patricia said.

“Oh, something so awful has happened. I can’t wait to tell you, but I suppose I shall have to. Must you really do any shopping? Can’t you come straight here?”

“I do badly want to do a little shopping. Can’t you meet me somewhere in town?”

“I suppose so.” And then, unable to keep her news to herself any longer, Mary blurted out: “Jim’s in England! I had a letter from him this morning.”

“Oh dear,” was all Patricia could find to say.

“ ‘Oh dear,’ I should think so,” Mary went on. “I simply don’t know what to do. I must talk to you about it. I need your advice so badly. There’s no one else I can talk to, because no one else in the world, except you, knows anything about him.”

“Look here,” Patricia said, “I’ll finish my shopping as soon as possible and come straight on to The Knowle.”

“No, don’t do that. I can’t stay, here waiting for you. I’m much too restless. I’d rather come out. I’ll meet you under the clock in the Square. How long will you be?”

“I’ve got to change. About half an hour, I expect.”

“Well, be as quick as you can,” Mary said, and cut off.

As Patricia put down the receiver she found herself thinking, “A pretty kettle of fish, I must say,” and was amused to find herself using such an expression.

Lady Brierleigh dropped Patricia in the Square, and arranged to come and pick her up at The Knowle as soon as her meeting was over. Meanwhile she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s.

Patricia found a very agitated Mary waiting for her. “I’ve got Jim’s letter to show you,” she said. “Oh dear, what am I going to do? Hurry up with your shopping and then we’ll go into Gush’s and have tea. It’s early for tea, but it will be nice and empty, and I can’t wait to talk to you.”

They turned and ran straight into Camilla.

“Hallo!” Mary said, “I didn’t know you were home.”

“Yes, I got home last night. But I’m only here for a couple of days and then I’m going back to Gloucestershire.”

“I hope you’ll be back for my dance,” Mary said.

“What dance?”

“Haven’t you heard? Anthony Brierleigh is giving a dance for me on May 24th. You remember I had to miss yours because of my bicycle accident? Well, Anthony was so nice and sympathetic about it because I was so disappointed that he promised to give another one specially for me. I thought at first that it was just a joke, but it’s all been arranged now; the day has been fixed and Lady Brierleigh has already sent out some of the invitations. Hasn’t she, Patricia? I know there’s one for you, Camilla, because I’ve seen it, but it’s on your mother’s card, of course.”

“Oh, yes, I believe mother did say something about it in one of her letters,” Camilla replied in a blasé voice. “I don’t know whether I shall be here or not.”

“I do hope you will be,” Mary said generously. Too generously, Patricia thought. She wanted to say to Camilla, “Well for goodness’ sake don’t be so high and mighty about it,” but of course Camilla was Johnny’s sister, and that made all the difference to Mary now. She had not been quite so generous about Camilla when Camilla had just been a pretty girl—much prettier than herself—whose photograph she had sent to Jim, in Malaya, instead of her own.

“I’ve seen quite a lot of Anthony,” Camilla said with apparent casualness.

Patricia’s heart sank like a stone.

“Oh, have you?” Mary asked with interest, not realizing at all what this news meant to Patricia. “Didn’t he say anything about the dance?”

“Yes, I believe he did say something about it now I come to think of it, but I can’t for the life of me remember what.”

“Are you staying anywhere near him?” Patricia could not help asking.

“Yes, the house is only about a mile away. Well, I must be off. I’ve got some more shopping to do. Good-bye.”

“I shall see you again,” Mary said. I’m dining at the White House tonight.”

“Are you? Oh well, see you then.”

She left them, having robbed Patricia of all the peace of mind which had been hers since receiving Anthony’s letter a few days ago.

Camilla’s departure had brought back to Mary the thought of Jim with renewed force. “Have you got much to do?” she asked Patricia.

“No. I can do it afterwards,” Patricia replied, all interest in her shopping having suddenly evaporated. “Let’s go to Gush’s and sit down.”

Perhaps a strong cup of tea would help her. It was awful to be thrown so completely off one’s balance by a thing like that. What was it that Anthony had said about the misery of being at someone’s mercy? To be in love was intolerable slavery, she was discovering. It had the power to make one so utterly wretched. It also, she supposed, had the power to lift one into paradise. It was a strange mixture of heaven and hell, but the hell seemed to predominate.

Anthony was right: by falling in love one lost one’s independence and one’s peace of mind, and was there anything in life more precious than these? The joy of love comes in the peace of it. Patricia had not yet known that peace.

She followed Mary into Gush’s, and they sat down at a far corner table. They had the place almost to themselves at that time in the afternoon, and Patricia was thankful for the quiet. She would have liked to slip away from Mary and hide herself somewhere in the great woods round Brierleigh where she could have been certain of complete solitude, but that, of course, she could not do. Mary needed her help and advice, and she must give her all the help she could. One’s own worries and miseries must never be allowed to stand in the way of helping a friend. With an effort she brought her mind round to the consideration of Mary’s problem.

Mary had taken Jim’s letter out of her bag and now set it before Patricia. It was quite short. It announced that he was back in England, and then went on:

I’ve got to spend a day or so with my people, but I’ll be coming to Church Carding as soon as possible—if I can wait that long. I suppose I shall be awfully shy. Shall I ring up or just come along unannounced?

What are you really like, Mary? I think I know. I suppose it’s more important to wonder what you’ll think of me. Well, it won’t be long now before we know, and I’m a bit scared, I must say. What about you?

Yours till we meet,

Jim.

Patricia didn’t quite know what comment to make. If Mary was really in love with Johnny, as she believed she was, the prospect of Jim appearing at any moment must be a terrifying one.

“He’s bound to telephone first” was all she could find to say.

“Have you noticed the worst part of all?” Mary asked.

“What?”

“Well, look at the date on the letter. I only received it this morning, but it was written last Wednesday.” Patricia looked at it again and saw that this was so.

“It doesn’t give me any time at all to think what to do,” Mary said miserably.

“He signs himself ‘Yours till we meet,’ ” Patricia put in. “Perhaps he doesn’t expect to be yours after you have met!” She was treating the situation with a certain levity because she could not think for the moment of any other way of dealing with it.

Mary looked quite annoyed. “Oh, Patricia,” she said, “it’s no good being funny about it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“What am I to do? What
am
I to do?” Mary cried. “He’ll be turning up here at any moment.”

“I suppose Johnny’s the real trouble,” Patricia said tentatively.

Mary’s face softened. She could not even think of Johnny now without looking almost beautiful. Patricia had never seen her look quite like this before. “How she loves him,” she thought, “and she must be pretty sure that he loves her, too, or she wouldn’t look as happy as that.” Out loud she said: “What a pity you didn’t realize about Johnny sooner.”

“Yes, I always liked him, but it has only been since I had my accident that I have grown to love him. Of course, if he had cared for me before ... But I suppose I was too young. I’ve got an awful feeling that he still thinks I’m too young,” and her face suddenly clouded over. “Do you think eighteen is too young to get married?”

“But you’re only seventeen,” Patricia said.

“I shall be eighteen in June,” Mary retorted. “But I’m afraid Johnny thinks I am too young, and that’s why he hasn’t said anything definite. And yet I’m sure he cares for me. Oh, Patricia, I
know
he cares for me! How does one know these things? One just does. One knows just exactly how much someone cares for one, to the very millimetre. One always knows. It isn’t a question of words. One knows beyond words.”

“Does one?” Patricia asked quietly. “It must be nice to be so sure.”

“Oh, but you’ve never been in love,” Mary exclaimed. “And until you have you can’t know what it is. It’s like explaining smoke or colour to a man who has been blind from birth. You could try to explain it for a million years and he still wouldn’t understand ... Oh, what shall I do?”

“There is only one thing you can really do,” Patricia said seriously. “Only one honourable thing. Tell Jim the whole truth as soon as you see him. It may be a disappointment and a shock, but it’s the only thing to be done.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But couldn’t I write to him? Wouldn’t that do as well?”

“Yes, it might be better in some ways. It would save him the trouble of coming here.”

“If he hasn’t already started. If my letter takes as long to reach him as his did to reach me, he’s bound to have left before he gets it.”

“Why don’t you send him a telegram then, saying: ‘Please don’t come till you have received my letter’? Or, better still, a reply-paid telegram saying: ‘Have you already left? If not, please don’t come till you have received my letter.’ Then you would know whether he had received it or not, or whether he is already on his way.”

“That is a good idea,” Mary said. “I’ll go and send it at once. Will you wait here and keep the table while I nip across to the post office?”

Patricia was not sorry to be left alone for a little while. She loved Mary, but found her at moments slightly over-exuberant; and yet she had been struck that afternoon by Mary’s extraordinary confidence in Johnny’s love. “One always knows,” Mary had said. “It isn’t a question of words. One knows beyond words.”

What would Mary have felt if she had been in Patricia’s place? Would she have known that Anthony cared, or would she have known just as certainly that he did not? Was her intuition abnormally keen?

It was a great temptation to Patricia to confide in Mary at that moment—to put before her all the evidence down to the minutest detail and allow Mary to decide for her whether Anthony cared or not. But it was not in her nature to make confidences. She had never confided her innermost heart to anyone, not even to her father, and the temptation to tell Mary everything passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her thankful that her secret was still inviolate.