“Oh, Peter, Peter, how unhappy you make me.”
“I’m sorry, my dear.” He turned towards her, and next moment she was in his arms, holding herself tightly to him, despair and longing in her clasp. Perhaps, he thought involuntarily, she would not be cold and aloof; perhaps, after all, she is warm and loving. He set his cheek on her hair.
“Oh, Peter,” she said at last, against his shoulder, “could we not try it for a little while? Let us be engaged, and see how it works; and if, after a few months, you do not feel differently (but I am sure you will), I will let you go.”
“It is a crazy idea,” he said.
“Let us try it,” she urged. “I am so sure it would work.” He hesitated. Was ever a man in such a difficult spot?
“Please, Peter, darling,” she said softly.
“We will see,” he said, “we will see.”
They walked back to the hotel soberly. She knew she had won. But she must go very, very carefully; not rush her fences. She had a wary animal here, likely to shy away at the slightest provocation. She must be very clever.
It was at Monte Carlo, one of the stops on their homeward route, that she saw the wonderful ring in Cartier’s shop. A very beautiful and unusual ring. They were on their way to the Casino, and the others went on while she paused to admire. Peter was beside her.
“Oh, Peter, it is beautiful, beautiful,” she said. “I have never seen one so beautiful. I feel I must possess it.” She gazed with longing and admiration at it. “No,” she decided reluctantly, “I cannot afford it. I must go without. Unless, darling Peter, you will buy it for me.” She turned to him
,
her eyes alight, looking younger and more girlish. “You don’t often buy me gifts. Flowers, yes, hundreds of them; but never jewels. Buy me this one Peter.”
“All right,” he said. “You shall have it.”
The ring was bought. It was too big, but Lydia would not have it altered. She must take it at once. “I am afraid Madame will lose it,” said the man.
“No, I will not lose it. I will take great care of it.”
“If you will take it to our London showroom, Madame, they will do it for you.”
“Thank you, yes,” said Lydia. “Don’t put it in a box. I want to wear it. Thank you.” She took it in the palm of her hand, and closed her fingers over it.
There was some complicated business for Peter to transact, before they were free to go; but Lydia was not interested in it. She was entirely absorbed in her own thoughts and her own determinations. She and Peter followed the others to the Casino, but she did not show them the ring. She would present Peter with a
fait accompli.
Consequently, at d
inn
er that night, when they were all gathered round a circular dining table in the brilliant,
crowded restaurant, one of the company suddenly said:
“Good heavens, can I believe my eyes?”
“What is it?” the others asked, beginning to look round the room, half expecting to see somebody they all knew.
“What is that, on Lydia’s engagement finger? Do I see a ring, a simply wonderful ring, or do my eyes deceive me?”
“Lydia,” they cried. “Darling. At last. Do we really congratulate you both at last? Oh, what a very nice ending to our holiday. And what a beautiful ring!” And so on, and so on. Lydia turned her eyes to Peter, and saw that he was watching her with a very curious expression. She smiled at him, a curiously pleading, tentative smile; and, unexpectedly, it touched him; so that he smiled back at her reassuringly. He could hardly throw cold water over the general jubilation at the dining table, so he reserved what he had to say until a future occasion.
Alison was having dinner with Douglas and her guests at the cottage. Guy and George were spending their summer holiday there, and George’s most recent girl friend had arrived to join them. Susan was about Alison’s own age, and the five of them had had a good deal of fun and enjoyment together. Yet there were times, and this evening was one of them, when this group of young people was not enough for Alison. There was gaiety and jollity, as there should be on holiday; they went dancing
—
and even Douglas danced a little, sedately, warily; they had been to all the concert parties and shows; they swam regularly and sunbathed on the beach. Yet Alison knew that there was a hard core of life, which she did not touch at all with them. She missed her old life; she wanted somebody who had contact with that old life: she wanted to talk about her parents, about the places they had lived in, the places she had grown up in, the different peoples and the different ways of life. She wanted to see again the theatre in Paris, the opera in Salzburg, and wanted somebody knowledgeable with whom to discuss them. In fact, she admitted to herself, she wanted Peter.
Peter had sent her dozens of picture postcards. Some were addressed to herself and Douglas, some to herself exclusively. Every fresh place he stopped at, he sent her a postcard. Some of the places were familiar to her, and she wished she might be seeing them with Peter; but with Peter alone; not with Peter and Lydia and several other people.
Alison wandered away from the others after dinner. She wanted to be alone. She was not in a mood for the light-hearted chaffing and easy quipping that pleased the others. So she went down to the bottom of the garden, where she could hear the waves breaking upon the beach, and wondered if Peter, at this moment, walked some other beach, and if he walked with Lydia.
She knew that Lydia would make the most of this holiday. She also wondered if she had been very foolish in refusing the Italian holiday and allowing Lydia free play. She made up her mind that this should be Lydia’s last chance. If she did not come back from Italy engaged to Peter, then Alison would refuse to believe that the relationship between them was what Lydia said it was. If Lydia was not engaged, then she, Alison, would take no more notice of this bogus, nebulous sort of arrangement, and would continue to stay in the London house and see as much of Peter as possible, and allow Peter to make a free choice. If, however, Lydia were engaged, and all that she had previously said were indeed true, then Allison would pursue her plan of getting a job and leaving the Mayfair house.
At the end of this holiday—and it was now nearing its end—she and Douglas and Peter would all be once more gathered under the same roof. The cottage would be shut up for the winter, and Mrs. Thomas would go back to her own little house in London, complete with the television set which was to keep her amused all winter, and which she had earned for herself by keeping house here during the summer.
Douglas was to begin work. He could hardly wait for it now. The summer had effected so much improvement in his health, and every day he walked so much more easily and with greater strength, that he felt he must now be doing something. The idea of travelling for his brother’s firm delighted him—the necessary business trips, mostly by air, between European capitals and even to the States, satisfied some of his craving for movement. Of course, it was necessary to get some grounding first, to learn plenty about the business from Peter; but he was quick and intelligent, and he certainly had plenty of charm, and
savoir-faire.
It became more apparent every day, as he gained in strength and confidence. At first, he would go to the office with Peter, and Alison supposed that he would be back every day for dinner; until, she added, he makes fresh friends, and then perhaps he will be out as often as Peter, and anybody living there then would have a quiet time. But she would not be there. As soon as they went back to London, she would begin to look for a job; and as soon as Peter and Douglas were both absorbed in the business, she would leave Mayfair. If Lydia had actually succeeded in bringing about this engagement to Peter.
I suppose I have been lucky, thought Alison. I have had six months in Peter’s house; and apart from helping Douglas a little, it has been a holiday. I should be much better prepared now for taking a job, than I was when I first came to England, when Mother first died.
The thought of her mother took her back once more into the past that she was missing so much to-night. She wondered where Peter was. She knew that he had called upon Ilse at Vado, and that Ilse had had a successful season at Salzburg. She knew that he had called on old Madame Raoul at Parma; it was her parents who had first taken him to meet Madame Raoul, and she had been old and formidable then. She must be even more old and formidable now. Alison remembered visiting her in her grand and old-fashioned house; remembered sitting silent and still on a large footstool, speaking only when she was spoken to, calling her hostess Madame with every remark, and curtseying to her on arrival and departure. She had been a little girl and very much in awe of such a grand old lady. It would have been fun to go again with Peter. Would she have had to sit on a footstool again, and be expected to curtesy on arrival? She and Peter would have laughed about the quaintness of it all. Perhaps, however, he had taken Lydia instead, and certainly nobody could imagine Lydia ever
curtseying
to anybody, unless it was Royalty; or having fun with Peter about it afterwards.
Steps were coming through the garden. Alison hoped it was not Guy. She was becoming a little embarrassed at Guy’s importunity; for that one reason, it was good that the holiday was soon ending.
“Alison?” asked a voice quietly, and she knew with relief that it was Douglas.
“Here, Doug,” she replied.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Moon sickness?”
“No,” she said, and because there was such a bond of affection between them and it was always easy to talk to Douglas, she added: “A sort of loneliness. It sounds silly with our friends here; but all the same, a sort of loneliness.”
“For a person?” he asked, gently.
“More for a state of affairs that is past,” she said.
“You’re too young to pine for the past.”
“I’m not. I’m lonely for some of the places out of it, for some of the voices I used to hear; for my mother and the life we used to live.”
“And not Peter?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, and Peter, too,” she said, on a great sigh. “And much good that will do me.”
“It’s getting cold out here in the garden. Come in with the rest of us.” She turned to go with him, and he put an arm about her shoulders. “As for Pete, he’ll be home quite soon, and you’ll see him again.”
“Yes, of course,” said Alison, but she told herself that she had got to the stage where seeing him was not enough.
CHAPTER TEN
THEY had said goodbye to the Thomases, left instructions about sending on their heavy baggage, looked their last on the cottage and the sea, and driven Londonwards. Douglas was driving, yet another old accomplishment he could now manage safely. Alison sat beside him, and Guy and George were in the back. Susan had left a couple of days before.
“Well, it’s been a grand time,” said George, “and we certainly are grateful to you both.”
“We’ll do it again some time,” said Douglas.
“I’m only sorry it has to end,” said Guy.
“Not so me,” said Douglas. “I’m in a hurry to get to work.”
“That first fine enthusiasm won’t last long,” said George pessimistically.
The car swept on. Peter had taken his own abroad, but he had bought another looking very nearly new, for Douglas; and this, which had really done very little mileage and drove very sweetly, was now taking them to London. They dropped Guy and George at their rooms, and went on to Mayfair. There, Douglas said: “We’ll just unload our bags into the hall, and I’ll take the car straight round. I’ve got a
door key
somewhere.”
“I’ve got mine,” said Alison, feeling faintly excited at coming home again.
They had only a little luggage with them. Alison said she could manage it, so Douglas stayed in the car to drive it to the garage. Alison let herself into the house, and set the bags in the hall. Oh, nice to be home again, she thought, looking round her. There was a faint smell of cigar smoke. Who could be responsible for that? The servants, apart from Thomas who was not here, were strictly feminine, and could not be suspected of smoking Peter’s cigars while he was away. Could it be possible that Peter was home first? that he was here in the house now? This was more than she had expected. She ran
swiftly up to the drawing room and opened the door. “Peter,” she said, in delight.
He looked up and saw her, and rose at once to his feet.
“Alison,” he said, and he seemed as pleased as she was, and held out both his hands to her. She crossed swiftly to him, putting her hands in his. Her eyes were alight. She said:
“Oh, it’s good to see you again. What a lovely surprise. I didn’t
think you would be home yet. And how brown you are! you must have had nothing but sunshine. It suits you so well
...”
They stood there looking at each other, her hands tightly gripped in his.
“Did you have a wonderful time?” she asked him.
“Well, it
was
all very pleasant,” he said. “And what about you, with all your young friends?”
“Well, it
was
all very pleasant,” she replied, laughing.
They waited. Alison thought that perhaps he might have news to impart. Peter was strangely thinking the same thing of her. Nothing happened. She had no secret to tell, and he was not ready to tell his.
Priscilla came into the room.
“I’ve ordered the tea,” she said. “Why, Alison, I did not expect you already.”
“I rang up,” said Alison.
“Then they forgot to tell me,” said Priscilla crossly.
“They told me,” said Peter.
“Oh. Well, I must order more tea.”
“It’s all right,” said Alison. “I’ve done it. I saw Brenda going through the hall. Douglas is just coming in too.”
Peter had dropped her hands.
“What arrangements did you make about the cottage?” asked Priscilla.
“I left all that to Mrs. Thomas,” said Alison.
“Oh dear, she will never do everything properly.”
“Yes, she will, Priscilla, she is very efficient,” said Alison smiling.
“You don’t know these people as I do,” said Priscilla. “She will forget to notify the tradesmen, or forget the moth deterrent in the blankets, or something like that.”
“Ring her up and have a long talk with her,” suggested Alison. It was obvious that Priscilla was going to have a nice, long worry about the cottage, so Alison turned her attention to the tea which Nora was bringing in. In a few minutes Douglas arrived, and the brothers settled down to a good talk. Peter was elated at Douglas’s progress, and said he would certainly let him start work now; it was time he did something to justify his existence. Priscilla came out of her preoccupation with the cottage to remark that that was not very kind of Peter, and was then surprised that everybody laughed at her. She never did understand their little jokes.
Alison began to question Peter about his holiday, where he had been, what and whom he had seen.
“And Madame Raoul?” she asked. “Is she as autocratic as ever?”
“Very nearly, although she is over eighty now. Her memory is excellent, and she remembered you perfectly. A very well-behaved child, she called you. I told her you were still a well-behaved child.” He did not add that Madame Raoul had been scornful at that, saying imperiously that it was nonsense, that Alison must be nearly twenty, old enough to be married and a mother. The words had startled him, and reminded him that, indeed, Alison could hardly any longer be called a child.
“She used to terrify me,” said Alison. “And you saw Ilse, too? Now tell me all about Ilse
...”
The talk went on until almost dinner time, when they went upstairs to change. Alison went first, and the two brothers followed, arm in arm. Peter was staying at home for dinner, a fact which gladdened the whole evening for Alison. She could hardly have known what was to happen a little later to darken it for her.
After dinner, they gathered in the drawing room for coffee. Priscilla sat behind the tray, pouring it out. “Isn’t it nice, all to be home again?” said Alison.
The brothers agreed that it certainly was. There was a cosiness, a settled comfort about the house when they were all in it. Even Priscilla’s preoccupation with the little details of housekeeping added to it. Peter thought of Lydia’s words, and wondered how it would seem if these two young people married, and left it for a house of their own. Unspeakably empty, he imagined; without the Douglas who had been chained to it for so long, and who had been a magnet all the time, drawing his brother back to it; and without the Alison who had given it its gaiety, encouraged Douglas, brought laughter into the house and been an equally strong magnet in her different way.
“We took some more
films
,” Alison was saying, “of Douglas walking, and Douglas dancing. You remember those first ones we took of him? When he could only
just
walk? One can hardly believe the difference. It will be fun to see them all again, in ten years’ time, or even more.”
“You certainly have made remarkable progress, Doug,” said Peter. “Six months ago, you were on the verge of walking, and now it’s difficult to believe that all those horrors lie behind you.”
“Alison,” said Douglas. “I would have walked anyway, of course; but it was Alison who brought me along; it was Alison who made recovery possible so quickly.”
Yes, thought Peter, of course; it was always said that love could work miracles. It had certainly provided the incentive in Douglas’s case.
It was at this moment that Nora announced Miss Peyton, and Lydia came into the room, wearing a black dress and an ermine cape over it. She was surprised to see Douglas and Alison there, but sat in the group asking them questions about their holiday very politely, and replying equally politely to their questions about hers. Priscilla, fluttering, offered her coffee, and became very confused, as she always did in the presence of Lydia. Poor Priscilla, thought Alison, she would have a thin time of it in this house, if ever Lydia came to be mistress of it. It would be better for Peter to buy her a little cottage somewhere.
“I thought,” Peter was saying to Lydia, “that you were due at the Waltons’ to-night?”
“Yes, I am on my way. But there is no need to be early, and of course I wanted to come and see you, so I broke my journey here. You wouldn’t like to come, too?”
“I haven’t been invited: and to tell you the truth, they don’t interest me much.”
“I know, darling. We’ll have them as little as possible when we entertain.”
These words had an electrifying effect upon the three other people in the room. Priscilla, Douglas and Alison turned automatically towards her, as if they had been puppets jerked on strings. They seemed to be waiting for an explanation. Lydia looked back at them in bland surprise.
“Why,” she said, “you haven’t told them, Peter.”
“They have only just returned from the cottage,” said Peter, who had not been looking forward to telling them his news.
“Told us what?” asked Alison, although she actually already knew.
Lydia turned smilingly to Peter.
“May I tell them?” she asked, charmingly.
“Naturally.”
She extended her left hand before her, and on its third finger blazed the ring that she had asked Peter to buy for her in Monte Carlo.
“Peter and I are engaged to be married,” she said.
“Oh, congratulations,” said Douglas, “to you both. May you be very happy, Lydia.” It was the accepted thing to say, and he said it gracefully, and bent in admiration over the beautiful ring, complimenting Lydia on her taste, and giving Alison a little time to recover, and adjust herself to the news. He was the one person in the room apart from the engaged pair, who had no reason to feel dismay. He would soon be free, working, travelling, living a life of his own. The marriage could not vitally affect him; but he knew that Alison was bound to suffer.
Priscilla, feeling deep dismay, immediately began to worry. She had always felt Lydia’s irritation with herself, and she knew that Lydia would have few sentimental considerations for her. She did not, however, foresee the possibility of having to leave the house; she saw only that ahead of her there would be more anxiety, more worry, and the probability of endless fault-finding.
Alison, after the first quick look at Lydia, had turned to look at Peter, and found that Peter was looking back at her. Her expression was utterly revealing. He could not fail to see her shock, her dismay, her disappointment at this news. Immediately, within himself, he felt a corresponding disappointment, which was so unexpected as to startle him. Why should Alison be so dismayed? Because she foresaw the possibility of having to live in the same house as Lydia? Surely, that was not enough to disturb her to the extent to which she
was
disturbed? He wanted to ask her. He wished for a moment, that they were alone, so that he could, only say: “Alison, tell me why this news upsets you so?” But that wasn’t possible. Lydia was turning towards him, her hand extended to bring him to her side, his ring flashing upon her finger, her smile a very proprietorial one.
There followed a confused jumble of congratulations and questions, and Douglas said they must toast the happy couple, and champagne was produced, and Alison managed to sip hers, doing her best to hide her feelings, well aware that Lydia was arrogant in her triumph. As soon as she thought she could slip away without appearing rude, she went upstairs to her room, feeling that a blow long awaited had at last descended upon her.
So, she thought, at last it has happened. I always hoped that it wouldn’t. I always felt that Lydia was lying, was exaggerating. But apparently she was not. I made a bargain with myself—I said that if she came back from Italy with the engagement still not an ac
complished fact, I would go ahead with my own plans and see as much of Peter as possible; but if they were engaged,, then I would leave. I can’t possibly stay on now. She wouldn’t permit it after her marriage, anyway; and from now on, she will be so smug, so triumphant, that I couldn’t bear it. She doesn’t like me, and she will do everything she can to drive me away; and
I
won’t wait to be driven.
I
will go as soon as possible. Douglas is to begin work now, so that I shall see much less of him. He doesn’t need me.
I
am free to go.
But where to go? What to do? She must find a job, and her languages were her only asset. Perhaps she could be language mistress at a school? She had no qualifications, no experience. It would probably have to be a very small, private school; or teaching younger children in a bigger school. She had learned enough about the English schooling system in her sojourn in London to realise that the autumn term would be starting very soon, and that most schools in need of new mistresses would already have engaged them. She must make an early start. But how to start? Even this, she did not know. There must be journals connected with education, in which vacant posts would be advertised, but she did not know what journals they were. She could not ask Douglas to help her this time, nor even Priscilla, because her intentions must be secret even from them. If Douglas knew what she was doing, or of her whereabouts, it would be much more difficult for him when Peter began to probe—and Alison had no doubt that Peter would very rapidly begin to probe. She would have to think later about her goodbyes to Peter
...
Her help came, rather unexpectedly, from the bookshop. During the summer, and especially the earlier part of it, when Douglas had been tied to his chair, she had become well known at one or two of the better bookshops in the Piccadilly area. She had been to buy books that would interest Douglas, and had frequently consulted the assistants and asked their advice. Later, during the period when she wheeled his chair about, she had taken him with her, and this had brought them even more sharply to the assistants’ notice. So that now, as she stood before the crowded shelves, it occurred to her that the particularly agreeable young man who so often attended to her wants might be able to help her now. He was immediately helpful, making a list of all the journals tha
t
might advertise the sort of vacancy she wanted.
In the privacy of her own room, she studied these journals with great care, but there seemed very few posts for which she would be suited. The ones that seemed to offer possibilities she applied for at once, and then resigned herself to waiting patiently for replies.
Peter, at this time, was very busy. He was giving Douglas some careful schooling, and the two of them left each morning for the office, together. In the evening, he was often out, while Douglas always sought out Alison to give her a report of his day. The house seemed oddly bereft, without the occupant who had been tied to it for so long. She and Priscilla had the whole abovestairs to themselves, and it slowly dawned on Alison, piercing her preoccupation with her own affairs, that Priscilla was much more than usually worried. At coffee-time one morning, Alison sought her out.
“Come down and have coffee with me, Priscilla,” she suggested. “I’m sure there is nothing so urgent that you can’t leave it for a few minutes.”
Priscilla allowed herself to be led to the drawing room.
“It seems such a quiet house without Douglas, doesn’t it?” asked Alison.
“Indeed it does.”
“Such a lot of changes all happening at once.”
“Dear me, yes,” agreed Priscilla, unhappily.
“I understand that Lydia likes this house, and that she and Peter will live here when they are married.”
“And well she might,” said Priscilla, quite snappily for her. “It couldn’t be a better address, and Peter has made it into a jewel of a house
...
Though I daresay she will want to alter everything as soon as she moves in.”
“Yes, I’m afraid there are a good many things she won’t approve of,” said Alison.
Priscilla glanced quickly at Alison.
“That is what I think,” she said. “Me, for one.”
“And me, for another,” said Alison.
“Goodness me, do you t
hink
so? I never thought of that.”
“Even Douglas. She doesn’t want to marry a whole family.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid it will all be very unpleasant.”
“Why do you stay, Priscilla?”
“My dear, what else can I do? I have no private means, and I’m too old—and perhaps too stupid—to get work.”
“But Peter would never expect you to work. You could have a little flat in town—or a little cottage in the country. If you liked anything like that, I’m sure Peter would see you settled.”
“Ah,” said Priscilla, unexpectedly, “how often I’ve dreamed of a little cottage in the country. It’s one of those things you dream of all your life—in moments when you can’t help feeling depressed—and it cheers you up.”
“Really?” asked Alison. “That is what you would like?”
“I would like it above everything. Not too lonely, of course. A little cottage on a village green—I might even share it with another woman of my age. And helping the Vicar with the work of the church, and making things for bazaars, and sometimes having children to tea. Making scones in a little kitchen of my own, and sitting at my parlour window and being able to see the village about its business
...
But of course, it is all a dream. It’s very silly of me, I know, but I’ve got the whole of my life in that cottage planned out. Sometimes, I refurnish a bedroom, or plan a new patchwork quilt, or work out the menus for when a visitor comes to stay with me
...
but this cannot interest you.”