These Delights (24 page)

“Mind!” exclaimed Corky. “I could jump over me bloomin’ ‘at!
Not,
mind you, that I didn’t know what was coming. I could see Miss Vicky wasn’t no kid the very first day she set foot in the ‘ouse, Mr. Luke, and I said to meself, there’ll be trouble with Milady Frigidaire—begging your pardon, sir—sure as eggs is eggs.”

“Didn’t you approve of my engagement either, Corky?” asked Luke, laughing.

Corky’s long upper lip grew even longer.

“Haw! Too hoity-toity, that Miss Sale. Wanted a kick in the pants if you ask me, and
you
wouldn’t be the gent to do it. She’d be getting you to give me the sack before you’d been married a week. Now Miss Vicky—she’s one of us, and won’t mind if I forget meself and get a bit chatty when I’m serving meals.”

“
You’re often a da
rn
sight too chatty,” retorted Luke, but Vicky laughed.

“He’s a darling,” she said. “Corky—I’ve often wanted to ask you—is
Co
rky your real name?”

He grew very red.

“Well, no, miss, it’s me nickname,” he said. “No one knows me real moniker in these parts except Mr.
Luke
and Miss Hester, but since you’re going to be mistress ‘ere, I don’t mind telling you. It’s Lancelot Bedivere Potts.”

“Oh,
Corky
!
What lovely names!” said Vicky, then burst into helpless laughter.

“His mother clearly had a taste for Tennyson,” remarked Luke, and Pauline said:

“Oh, Corky,
may
I call you Bedivere? It’s so
distinguished
.”

“If you do, Miss Pauline,” said Corky menacingly, “I’ll tan the ‘ide off you, and you, too, Miss Vicky, for all you may be a married woman and me employer so to speak.”

“Well, she’s not a married woman yet, so sit down, Vicky, and eat your food,” said Hester firmly. “It’ll be supper time in about an hour and you’ll all have to start again.”

But when it came to supper, they found Corky had forgotten to prepare anything in all the excitement and they had to be content with boiled eggs which, as Hester remarked, was just as well from the children’s point of view, and early bed for everyone was to be the order of the evening.

“And cocoa?” asked Pauline, and Hester
smiled.

“Undoubtedly Corky will consider this a
crisis
or an occasion, or something.”

“And so it is an occasion, it’s an engagement celebration, and what are you thinking of, Mr. Luke, to forget to order up the champagne?” said Corky, appearing with a bottle wrapped in a napkin which he proceeded to open with a flourish.

“
Quite right,” said Luke. “Boiled eggs and champagne
—
what could be better?”

He raised his glass to Vicky, sitting on his right
.

“
To you, my dear, dear love,” he said softly.

Vi
ck
y raised her own to him, but her eyes filled with tears and she could say nothing at all.

Lou insisted upon making a very involved speech which no one understood, and, in tears, was finally led to bed by Pauline, and Luke, putting on his coat in the hall, told Vicky to follow Lou’s example.

“I may be late,” he said. “And you’ve had quite a day, my poor little sweet.”

“You are going to
her
?”
Vicky asked, watching him.

“Yes,
just to return her money. I don’t want her coming to the house.”

“No.” She put her arms round his neck. “Do not be hurt by her. Do not ever be hurt by her again.”

“One can’t be hurt by, those one doesn’t love, Vicky,” he told her gently. “Only you will ever be able to do that to me, now.”

“Oh, Luke..
.”
She cl
ung to him more
close
ly.

“Good night, my darling. Go to bed early,” he said, and went out of the house.

When Luke had gone, Vicky and Pauline sat with Hester in the living-room until she drove them to bed. They were quiet now, and a sadness had fallen on them,
thinking o
f their father. They sat together in Luke’s chair, their arms entwined,
talking
of Douai and the little apartment they had all shared, which had been so cramped, and of those farther off days at Belizane which Lou could scarcely remember, and which had held a sweetness for them despite the troubles, because there, there had been freedom to roam and their father had been well.

Hester listened to them and felt great thankfulness to these three strangers who had entered their home and
their
hearts. Lube’s happiness was safe in Vicky’s loving hands, and hers in his, and for herself the long years stretched ahead with quiet contentment, for in them, and in their
children,
she would find again her own lost youth
...

“Bed,” she said, as nine o’
cl
ock struck. “Bed for all of us, my children. It’s been a long day.”

She made the fire up and left out the decanter and syphon for Luke when he should come in, then turned the lamp
low. She looked in on Lou, who was sleeping soundly, then turned to kiss Vicky good night.

“I will be good to Luke,” Vicky said shyly. “I will always be good to him.”

“I know you will, Vicky. You’re what he’s always needed,” Hester told her.

“Hester—for I cannot call you Cousin Hester if we are to be sisters, can I? Hester, I love him very much
...
it makes me feel humble.”

Hester touched her cheek and her eyes were bright. “Love is humble, darling,” she said. “But so few people learn that. Good night, sleep well
...
”

Up at the Manor, three silent people listened to Luke briefly stating his case in Lady Sale’s exquisite drawing
room.

At his coming, Diana had risen, and he could read the triumph in her face that he had come to her so soon. When he silently handed her the roll of notes, he saw the color mount under her skin, but she braved it out.

“What’s this for?” she said.

“It’s what you gave Vicky this morning,” he said quietly. “Fortunately I was able to stop the children and bring them back. You weren’t very honest with Vicky, were you?”

She was silent, and Lady Sale said coolly:

“What is all this about, Luke? Or would you rather be alone with Diana?”

“No,” he said, “I would prefer you and Sir Harry to stay and hear what I have to say.”

“Please, Luke
—”
said Diana quickly, but he shook his
head.

“No, Diana, I’m sorry, but things must be straight between us once and for all, and I think you have said nothing to your parents about our broken engagement.”

L
ady Sale looked at her daughter sharply.

“What is all this nonsense about a broken engagement?” she demanded.

“Diana and I broke off our engagement over a week ago, Lady Sale,
”
Luke said, and Diana interposed quickly: “You mean you tried to.”

Lady Sale said in a brittle voice:

“This is all rather undignified. If you wish to break your engagement, Luke, I hardly think Diana would hold you to it.”

“Yes, I will hold him to it,” Diana said, two bright spots of color burning in her cheeks. “I won’t be made a fool of on account of—on any account.”

Her mother looked at her with faint displeasure, and Sir Harry asked, speaking for the first time:

“Why did you give money to Vicky, Diana?”

She was silent and he repeated his question.

“To pay their fares,” she replied defiantly. “They wanted to return to France.”

Luke said nothing, but Sir Harry asked gently:

“They
wanted
to return? You mean you bribed—or persuaded them to go.”

“Really, Harry!” protested his wife. “That doesn’t sound very pretty.”

“No,” Sir Harry replied, “and I don’t think it is very pretty Diana, you’re my daughter, and I want you to be happy, but I’ve watched you now for a long time, and you’re not going the right way about it. I think this engagement of yours is much better ended.”

“Father, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Diana said shrilly.

“Oh, yes, I do, my dear,” he answered quietly. “Luke is not the right man for you. I never did think so.”

Lady Sale’s social sense was outraged. Anger with Luke, and exasperation with her daughter for creating such a situation, mingled with disgust at her husband for dragging such things into the open. To her, this had never been a satisfactory engagement, although if this was going to mean accepting Frank Tregenna as a possible son-in-law, she was not sure which alternative she preferred.

“Surely,” she said, “these two young people can settle matters on their own.”

“Apparently they can’t,” Sir Harry said calmly.

“Luke knows my views,” said Diana. “And it takes two to break an engagement.”

“No, Diana,” Luke said, and Lady Sale looked at him with surprise, aware of the strength of purpose which gentle people sometimes have.

“I’m sure,” she said suavely, “that my daughter would have no desire to—hang on to you, Luke, if you no longer wish to marry her. You must have misunderstood.”

“I hope I have,” he replied gravely, then looked directly at Diana. “There’s one thing that has arisen which I’m sure will alter your plans, Diana. My cousin, Dennis
Jordan
, is dead, and Hester and I are adopting his children. Monk’s Farm will be their permanent home.”

At last she was defeated. She read the final ultimatum in his quiet eyes, and the color left her face.

“
You
fool,
Luke!” she cried, and snatching off her ring flung it at his feet.

He picked it up and laid it on the mantelpiece.

“I don’t want it,” he said mildly.

“Not even to give to Vicky?” she flashed, but her mother rose.

“Diana!” she said sharply. “Have more dignity! I think we’ll say good night to you, Luke. We probably won’t be seeing much of you in the future, so—good-bye as well. My husband will see you out.”

“Good-bye, Diana. I’m sorry,” said Luke, and held out his hand, but she ignored it, making no reply, and he left her there, standing by the elegant Adam fireplace which he hoped never to see again.

At the front door, Sir Harry put a hand for a moment on his shoulder.

“You know,” he said with humor, “you’ve more courage than I have, Luke. Diana—well Diana’s my own flesh and blood and I’m very sorry for her, but you were right to end things. I’ve seen it coming for some time.”

“It’s extremely decent of you to take it so well, Sir Harry,” Luke said.
“
You’ve always been very kind about the whole business.”

The rain had stopped, and Luke drove home under a
cl
ear sky, patterned with stars. There was frost in the air, and a great hunter’s moon was rising over the edge of the moor. He passed no one, for it was late, and, in the coombe, the village huddled asleep with no light showing. Luke knew a great relief and a great freedom as the car breasted the second hill and he turned in at his own gates and saw his home waiting for him in the moonlight. The house was sleeping, and only
a
faint radiance from the living-room windows told him that Hester left him a lamp and a fire to return to. He glanced up at the house as he stepped into the porch. Upstairs she was sleeping, his beloved child, and all the years stretched before them, and happiness was theirs for the asking.

He went in quietly, and almost immediately he saw her. She was curled up in his chair, asleep, her long blue dressing-gown tucked under her toes, and her fair hair spread over the arm that supported her head. He stood looking down at her for a long moment, and a great tenderness was in his face, and he hoped, most humbly, that he might always keep that sweet felicity which was so much part of her.

She
must
have
become conscious of him, for she stirred and opened
her eyes,
then held out her arms to him in gladness.

“You have come, my dear, dear love,” she said.

He knelt beside her and took her in his arms.

“To come back to you is coming home,” he said. “I love you so much, Vicky. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that now. And I? Do you know what you are to me? But you cannot know. You cannot ever know
...
”

“And you’re sure, Vi
ck
y?” He held her away from him and his eyes were searching. “There’s a big difference in our ages, you know. You aren’t just
a
child who doesn’t know what she’s doing?”

Her eyes were
cl
ear and wise.

“I am sure,” she said gravely. ‘You see, for you I have never been a child. For you I grew up when first I knew you.”

“Yes,” he said, and gathered her
cl
ose again. “I think you do know. I think you know all the lovely fundamental things of life without being taught.”

“But you have taught me, darling Luke, don’t you know that?” she told him simply.

She asked him no questions about his errand to the Manor, and he told her nothing. Diana had no importance for either of them any longer.

Presently he lifted her out of the chair.

“You should be in bed,” he said, ruffing the fair hair. “I told you to go before I went out.”

“I did go,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him, “but I sneaked down again. I could not let you come home alone Luke.”

He turned out the lamp and lit the candles in the hall to light them up to bed.

“It’s a perfect night,” he said. “Take a quick look outside.”

He opened the front door and they went out onto the porch together. The moon had risen now, and rode, full
cir
cle, over the moor. The farm buildings and the ploughed fields lay bathed in the soft brilliance, and Vi
ck
y almost thought she could hear the sound of the river, so still was the night.

She leaned against Luke’s breast, lifted her face to the stars, and said softly: