The Young Intruder (5 page)

She found she was still shaking slightly. She was so sure that Lydia had been malicious, that Lydia knew very well that Alison would appear far from her best in the clothes chosen. And Lydia would be angry when she heard what Alison had done. Ah well, thought Alison, shrugging away this trouble until it had to be met, let’s forget it. And she went down to the drawing room to have some tea with Douglas.

The following evening, Peter was out to dinner, and Alison, Douglas and Priscilla had theirs together, and then went to the drawing room for coffee. It occurred to Alison that Priscilla must lead rather a lonely existence, cutting herself off from people as she did. She said impulsively:

“Let me pour the coffee, Priscilla. You come and sit here, in this comfortable chair. You like a little footstool, don't you? There, that all right? And two lumps in your coffee. Douglas, pass this to Priscilla, please.”

“No, no,” protested Priscilla, “I can get it.”

“You stay there, Priscilla. We mustn’t let Douglas get lazy.”

Priscilla opened her eyes wide at this, it being her idea that Douglas must never be asked to do anything, but must be waited on hand and foot.

After their coffee, Douglas taught them a new gambling game. He had learned any number of them when he was in the Air Force, and although with Priscilla and Alison, he played for matches, and they valued their matches at ten for a penny, they still derived a great deal of laughter and excitement from it. Peter, coming into the house later, thought it was a pity to break up what looked like a very happy party, but he had something to say to Alison, and did not want to let it wait. Alison, asked to give him a moment in the morning room, jumped up at once. After all, her last session in the morning room had been extremely pleasant.

Peter faced her across a small table, which held a big bowl of blue hyacinths.

“Aren’t they lovely?” she said. “The scent is so heavenly.”

It was at once apparent that he was not there to talk about hyacinths.

“Alison,” he said.

“Yes, Peter?”

“I have been having dinner with Lydia.”

“Oh,” said Alison, and her smiling face turned serious.

“She was very reluctant to tell me what she did tell me,” said Peter, “but she thought it best. I’m sure there must be some mistake, that you can quite easily put right. You know what I’m referring to?”

“Those wretched dresses,” said Alison.

“Yes. Alison, my dear, tell me what the trouble was, and I’m sure it can quite easily be put right with Lydia. She is, as you can imagine, very hurt and very offended. She went out of her way to help you, gave up her time to go shopping with you, and took you to her own dressmaker. (Not all women would do that, by the way.) Now she tells me that you have cancelled the whole order, in the tersest manner possible.”

There was a long and awkward silence.

“Well?” asked Peter at last.

“Oh Peter,” she said. “I know it sounds strange, but honestly, they chose all the wrong things for me. I would have looked terrible in all the things they chose.”

“But why didn’t you say so at the time?”

“I did. Or I tried to. But they wouldn’t listen. They treated me as an ignorant child who knew nothing at all about clothes.”

“My dear, you are only a child, you know. And Lydia has the reputation of being one of the best dressed women in London. And Madame Roseanne knows her business, you know, or she wouldn’t be where she is.”

“You’re
telling me now that I don’t know what is right for me,” said Alison.

He did not reply to that. She stood looking wretched and dejected.

“I hate to say this,” she said at last, “but it seemed as if they were in league to provide me with unsuitable things.”

“Alison,” he said sharply, “you certainly should not have said that. I have known Lydia for a number of years, and her taste is perfect. You couldn’t have understood her.”

“I do know,” cried Alison hotly, “that when I rang up Madame Roseanne, she agreed with me that Lydia was too strong-minded; and she said she would find me things I really liked if I would go back to her. But I won’t go.”

“You are being childish,” he said, and she saw that he was angry with her. “Naturally, Madame would say that, because she does not want to lose a customer. To Lydia, she would say something very different. I’m afraid, Alison, you have behaved very badly about this. You have hurt Lydia very much; but I hope that when you have apologised to her, she will be able to forget it.”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” said Alison, “but I cannot apologise to her.” She was pale and wretched, but determined.

“Alison.”

“I’m sure she was being deliberately unkind.”

“That is nonsense. I have known Lydia for a long time, and that is quite unlike her.”

“And you have only known me for a few weeks,” said Alison. “And you think I could possibly make up such a thing. But I am not wrong. And I will not apologise.”

“You will apologise, Alison, if only for such bad manners.”

She looked at him and saw that his mind was made up. She had to apologise to Lydia. Or what? What was the alternative? Obviously, he was not the kind of man to take any sort of petty revenge. But he would be angry with her. He would think she refused to apologise out of obstinacy. There would be constraint and embarrassment instead of the wonderful friendliness that had prevailed so far: and that she could not bear. Peter, Peter, Peter, her heart cried, longing for his understanding, wishing she might lean on him for one moment as she had done on the steps of the Monument. She could not bear to live in the same house and be estranged. So she looked up at him, pale and miserable, and said:

“All right. I will apologise to her.”

“Alison, it is no more than you ought to do,” he said, hurt by her pallor and
w
retchedness.

“All right,” she said. “I have said I will do it.”

He looked down at her. How quickly she swings from one extreme to the other, he thought. Now she looks as she did in the hotel in Portugal, small and wretched and unhappy; and when
I
came in and found them playing cards, she was radiant. Poor child. I don’t like to be the cause of changing her like that, but after all, she can’t go about offending people right and left
...
But what made her do it? It seems so unlike her. She’s usually so sweet and reasonable. Perhaps Lydia’s taste was a little advanced for her, but she shouldn’t have got out of it in that way.

He felt oddly protective towards her; as he might have done towards a naughty child, whom one wanted to pet and reassure, feeling it necessary to make the reprimand, but feeling no anger with it.

“Do you need me any longer?” asked Alison.

“No,” he said.

She went away, but not back to the drawing room. She went upstairs to her room, and sat on the edge of her bed. Had she been mistaken about the whole thing, she wondered? Had she fabricated a grudge out of the fact that Lydia’s taste was different from her own? She remembered the glances that passed between Madame and Lydia, and knew that she was right; but, of course, Peter would never believe it; and if Peter were really going to marry Lydia, he would probably never believe anything against her.

She undressed and went to bed, thinking that she would read for a while, but the book could not hold her attention for one moment. There was a heavy weight on her heart, and she was oppressed and miserable. She would rather anybody in the world but Peter were angry with her. Peter had been so kind, so charming always. Peter...

Oh dear, she thought, tears welling into her eyes. Why don’t you admit it; you’re in love with the man.

That, coining almost unconsciously into her mind, gave her pause. Almost it brought a light with it. She was in love with Peter. Why, of course. What more natural? He was so absolutely right in every way.

Well, where does that get you, she asked herself dolefully. He’s probably going to marry somebody else; somebody you don’t even like. That’s not going to be a very nice situation, is it? You’d better not give up thinking about that job yet, Alison, my girl.

When Priscilla crept into her room, bringing with her a hot supper drink, she found Alison asleep, with the light on, and a book open under her hand, and tears resting on her cheeks. She was puzzled. The girl had been so happy all the evening—they had been very gay, in fact. Then why did she cry herself to sleep? Ah, she was still fretting for her mother, no doubt. Priscilla moved the book, switched off the light and crept out again with the hot drink, her conscience pricking her for not making the child more welcome.

Next morning, Alison told Nora she would have a breakfast tray in her room.

“I’m
sorry to give you extra work,” she said, “but I don’t feel too good, and would rather not go down.”

“That’s all right,” said Nora comfortably. “If everybody gave as little trouble as you do, Miss Alison, we’d be in clover. Got a headache?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bring you some aspirins, shall I?”

When Alison was sure that Peter had gone to his office, however, her headache miraculously improved and she got up. When she met Douglas in the drawing room, he said:

“Sorry to hear you’ve got a headache, Alison.”

“It’s better now. The aspirins did the trick.”

“Good. Why didn’t you say good-night to me last night?”

She looked at him, wondering how much to tell him. “Peter was angry with me,” she said, “and I felt so wretched about it that I went straight up to bed.”

“A young man of yours rang up—that Guy fellow
—
and wanted to know if you were free to-morrow. I said I didn’t know, and invited him here to dinner, so if you are free he’ll be all right, and if you’re not, he can have dinner with me. Is that all right?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“Now tell me why Peter was angry with you.”

She told him the story, and Douglas, who had had a little to do with women, said cheerfully:

“The whole thing sounds to me like a mountain out of a molehill. I think Lydia is quite capable of doing anything to suit herself; but then I think she can twist Pete round her little finger, so
he
won’t think so. I suppose you’ll have to apologise, Alison, but don’t let it worry you.”

“What worries me is that Peter can think I was small
-
minded or rude.”

“Yes, I can see that. Alison, darling, must you get involved in that direction?”

She looked at him in quick alarm. For several seconds they gazed at each other. Then she said, with a rueful smile:

“I can’t help it, Douglas. I
am
involved.”

“Oh,” said Douglas. “In other words, there’s no one in the world like him?”

Alison did not answer; she only sighed.

“I can’t blame you,” said Douglas. “I think the same, but for me, it’s O.K.. For you, it’s the devil, I know. Poor Alison.”

So, thought Alison, that’s a fair comment, anyway. That is what Douglas thinks of my chances. Poor Alison. Poor Alison.

CHAPTER FIVE

LYDIA Peyton’s maid went into the living room of the flat to tell her mistress that a Miss Vale wanted to see her, and Lydia, who was breakfasting late, told her to show Miss Vale in. The room was expensive and luxurious, very much the right setting for the hothouse plant that Lydia was, and Lydia herself was wearing the kind of heavy satin negligee that Alison had only seen in advertisements, and the more exclusive shop windows.

“Good-morning,” said Lydia, looking neither pleased nor displeased, and going on with her breakfast.

“Good-morning,” said Alison.

“Please sit down. Will you have a cup of coffee? Pickard, bring another cup.”

“No, thank you, I won’t have coffee,” said Alison, and Pickard withdrew and left them together.

“You’ll excuse me if I finish my breakfast?” asked Lydia, still without the vestige of a smile.

“Certainly,” said Alison. “I’m sorry I disturbed you at breakfast. What I have to say will only take a moment.”

“Yes?”

The words stuck in Alison’s throat. She hated to apologise to this woman, this self-assured, finished product whom she suspected of having very few real or sincere feelings. Lydia waited, her coffee cup in her hand, her eyes resting on Alison without expression.

“I’m afraid,” said Alison, “you must have thought me very rude the other day.”

“The other day?”

“When I cancelled the order for the dresses you helped to choose.”

“Yes,” said Lydia. “I did think you very rude.”

“I have come to apologise. I am very sorry that I was impolite to you.”

“I see. You came because Peter sent you, I suppose?”

Alison flushed and did not answer.

“You won’t expect me to help you again?” asked Lydia.

“You were very kind to spend so much of your time on me,” said Alison, “but I do feel I could choose better for myself. But I am sorry I did not take a better way of doing what I did.”

“Yes. Madame Roseanne was not pleased, as you can imagine.”

Alison was tempted to retort that if Madame could not do better than that to please her clients, it was surprising that she enjoyed the reputation she did; but she did not want to have something more to apologise for, so she stayed silent.

“And I might point out,” added Lydia, “that you are hardly likely to make friends in England, if you go about offending people.”

“I do not go about offending people,” said Alison, and she rose to her feet, prepared to go.

“Peter tells me,” said Lydia, “that he is making you his ward.”

“Yes,” said Alison.

“You haven’t thought, of course, that it might make a number of awkward situations in the house of a bachelor.”

“Peter, apparently, didn’t think so. It was Peter’s idea.”

“Peter seems to be under the impression that he has an obligation to your parents, which he ought to fulfil.”

“In any case,” said Alison, “Peter’s household is hardly an ordinary bachelor’s. He has Douglas there, and Priscilla. I don’t see why I should make it more awkward.”

“Douglas, when he is better, will travel for Peter’s business. To various parts of the world. Priscilla is hardly more than a housekeeper. I think neither of
them
would interfere with Peter’s marriage plans.”

Alison looked at Lydia thoughtfully, and was silent. Lydia, her breakfast finished, rose from the table, tall and elegant in her beautiful satin negligee. She pressed the bell, and Pickard appeared.

“Miss Vale is just going,” said Lydia, “and I have finished here.”

Pickard showed Alison politely to the door, and Alison breathed the fresh air of the street with relief. So that, she thought, is why Lydia is so cross. I, simply by being here, am postponing her marriage. She knows that Douglas is getting better all the time, and that sooner or later he will be less dependent on Peter; she knows that she can cope with Priscilla, either keeping her very much in her place or getting rid of her altogether; but she doesn’t know what she will do about me, if I am to live in Peter’s house as his ward. Well, of course, if she and Peter are going to be married, and my arrival has postponed it, I can understand that she doesn’t feel very kindly towards me.

The thought that Peter would marry Lydia seemed all wrong. Quite apart from her own love for him (and she thought she could look at the question apart from her own love), Lydia was so cold; more than that, she seemed soulless. She was a peg for elegant fashion, but what more was she? Could she love? Would she make Peter happy? Alison thought she was much more likely to restrict him in every way. She would not, perhaps, make him unhappy, but Alison could not imagine any expansion of the mind and spirit with Lydia.

“Of course, I’m jealous, she told herself. I don’t suppose I would find anybody right for Peter. Except myself. And how do I know that I would be right for him? Just because I could be happy with him, it doesn’t follow that he could be happy with me
...
But I believe he could be, she thought, a little surprised at her belief. I believe we like the same things in the same way
...
But what’s the use? If he is going to marry Lydia, there is nothing that I can do about it.

She went back to Peter’s house. There would be time to take Douglas for a walk before luncheon. If Douglas did get quite better, and travelled for the firm, it would seem strange and lonely in the house. And if Lydia and
Peter married, she did not think she could stay there; even if Lydia countenanced such a thing for a moment. But Lydia would never countenance it, Alison knew. Alison determined that as soon as Douglas was not in the house, she would leave it too, and get herself a job, and leave Peter free to follow his own plans.

“Well,” asked Douglas, “is the ordeal all over?”

“Oh yes. It wasn’t too bad. She doesn’t love me, Douglas.”

“There are plenty of people who do,” he said, “so don’t worry about Lydia.”

“Shall we go into the park? It’s a lovely morning.”

“No, let’s wait until this afternoon. Hardly worth the effort of getting ready now.”

“Douglas, Lydia speaks as if her marriage to Peter is all arranged.”

“Oh? Could be, I suppose. It hasn’t been announced.”

“Lydia implies that my arrival has postponed things.”

Douglas looked at her thoughtfully.
“Could be,” he repeated.

Alison frowned.

“Would you say that Peter has a strong sense of duty?”

“Yes, I would. All that Quaker upbringing, I expect. I escaped a lot of it, but I daresay some of it lingers in Pete. He’s a good deal older than I am, and he bore the brunt of the parents’ ideas. I wouldn’t say he makes a fetish of duty, or anything like that, mind you; but he’s always very fair-dealing and straight, you know.”

Alis
o
n was silent. So strong a sense of duty, she thought, that he feels he owes it to me to bring me here and keep me in his house. He feels under an obligation to my parents—that was what Lydia said; and I suppose that was what he said to her. No wonder she is furious with me, although she manages to stay so calm and dispassionate outwardly. Well, I don’t want to stay here because Peter feels he must pay off an old debt. I will stay while Douglas needs me, and then I will get a job. I have plenty of time to look around.

It seemed almost a gesture of fate that Douglas said, at that moment:

“Well, Alison, it’s all settled about me. I heard this morning that I go to the rehabilitation centre next Monday. For a month at least, and then further decisions will be made

“Douglas! That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“In one way, good,” he said.

“Not in all ways?”

“Well, yes, it is really. It’s just that the idea of making all this effort scares me a bit. I’ve got lazy and feeble-minded, stuck in this chair so long.”

“But you have been making an effort all the time, Douglas.
I
can see that. And after all, think of what is waiting for you at the end of it all.”

“That girl to kiss?” he asked, laughing.

“I wasn’t thinking of that. But of belonging to yourself again; having your own life, and a private life if you want one. Doing things for yourself. Doing a job of work again. Is it true that you will travel for the firm?”

“Did Lydia tell you that, too? Yes, it’s Peter’s idea. I think he feels I deserve more than being put into an office, after having to lie about and sit about so long.”

“Oh Douglas, it will be lovely to have you walking about the house. I’m sure when you think of everything ahead of you, you can cope with the rehabilitation centre.”

“Alison, you’re a constant inspiration to me. Yes, you are, really. I’ve been sitting here this morning, sweating at the thought of what lies ahead of me; and you come back, and in a few words, you put it in its proper proportion.”

“There you are, then. I’m not entirely a nuisance.”

“You’re not a nuisance to anybody. Oh, I suppose you’re thinking of Lydia. Pity about Lydia—I suppose every jar of ointment has its fly. But don’t think about her. What will you do while I’m at the centre? Will you come and see me sometimes?”

“Every visiting time,” she said firmly. “And in a short month you’ll be back.”

“Perhaps.”

“And what do they hope to accomplish in that month?”

“I believe,” said Douglas slowly, “they are hoping to make me walk. Have you seen those parallel bar things? You have to practise on them, a little longer each time.”

Alison saw that, in spite of his cheerfulness, the thought of it scared him. Hope had often flickered and almost disappeared; had sometimes burned strongly in the face of doubt and despair; and now was so strong in him that he was afraid of it. She resolved that from this moment until Monday, she would spend all her time with him.

On Monday morning, Douglas’s bags were loaded
i
nto the back of the car, and Douglas himself was carried down by Thomas.

“Let’s hope that’s the last time I shall do that, sir,” said Thomas.

“I don’t suppose it will be,” said Douglas. “But let’s hope we’re getting near the end.”

Alison sat beside him on the back seat, and Peter took the driving seat. They drove through a beautiful spring morning, out of the London traffic, on their way to the rehabilitation centre. Douglas and Peter talked a little, but Alison was silent, and when Douglas looked at her enquiringly, she only smiled. He put out a hand, took one of hers in it, and held it warmly tucked against him.

At the centre, an attendant brought a wheel chair for Douglas, and Peter and Alison walked on each side of it into the buildings. It had been Peter’s intention to stay and have lunch with Douglas, but this, apparently, was not allowed; so they stayed chatting to him for a while, and then said goodbye to him, wished him all luck, and returned to the car.

“Well, now we must find a place to lunch,” said Peter.

He opened the door of the car for her, and she sat beside him in front. The car slid away from the long low buildings of the centre.

“I do hope he will be all right,” said Alison.

Peter smiled at her, so reassuringly, so gently that for the moment, her love for him blotted Douglas out completely.

“I shouldn’t worry too much,” he said. “They’ll do their best for him; and I know he’ll do his best for himself.”

“I’m not really worrying. After all, the worst is over now. He’s had his bad times. But it’s going to be very exhausting for him, I expect.”

They found a hotel in a village off the main road, which could arrange lunch for them. They sat in the deserted lounge while they waited for it; a fine example of an oak-beamed Tudor room. It was simply furnished, but when the meal was ready, it proved to be well worth waiting for.

“We’re in luck,” said Peter. “I thought the most we could hope for on a Monday would be cold meat or hash.”

Alison, who had not yet quite forgotten the cooking of the Continent, did not realise their good luck; but admitted that the meal was good, and enjoyed it chiefly because Peter was there to partake of it with her. They talked of Douglas for some time, and Peter’s plans for him in the future, if his recovery should be complete; and then Peter turned the conversation round to herself.

“And you, Alison,” he asked. “How have you settled down with us by now?”

“Very well. I feel that I have been here much longer than I really have. I wonder that I ever felt reluctant to come to England.”

“Good.”

“Of course, it is really Douglas who has made settling down so easy for me.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed, wishing he had had a little more to do with it himself, and thinking, too, that she would miss Douglas in the month to come; and
went on from that to wonder if these two young things had fallen in love with each other. Somebody had hinted to him that such a thing was quite likely to happen—it must have been Lydia—and certainly it had seemed so when he went into the drawing room to find Douglas kissing her hand and telling her how lovely she was. Not that that proved anything, he told himself: Douglas had been starved of so much for so long, that he might be allowed a little extravagance without its meaning that he was in love.

In the early afternoon, they drove without haste back towards London. Alison was feeling a little sleepy, and did not talk. The trees now were in young green leaf, and the grass of the meadows was a sharp, rich green. The afternoon light was golden over everything, so that everything looked young and fresh and delicate. Suddenly Alison blinked at a beautiful blue haze spread over the woods, beyond the meadows.

“Peter.”

“Yes?”

“That beautiful blue over there. That wouldn’t be bluebells, would it?”

He slowed up a little, and looked in the direction she indicated.

“Yes,” he said. “Bluebells.”

“Oh, please stop a moment, Peter, so that I can look at it. Isn’t it a heavenly blue?”

He obligingly stopped the car, and after a moment, said:

“Would you like to walk over and see them?”

“Oh
yes.
That is, if you have the time.”

“Plenty of time. What are your shoes like?”

She stretched a shapely foot towards him.

“Quite sensible,” she said. “Do let’s go.”

So they walked across the two fields which stretched between the woods and the road, and climbed the rickety fence which was the wood’s boundary, and Alison found herself on a veritable carpet of bluebells, stretching away before her under the chestnut and birch. She stood still and took a long breath, letting the magic of this moment soak in to her. “Millions and millions,” she said very softly. “You just can’t walk without crushing them.” She leaned down and picked one or two, and stood looking at their lacy, fragile beauty. Then she saw a heap of cut poles and walked to it and sat down. “I could sit and look at this for hours,” she said to Peter. “Come and sit down, too.”

Peter sat beside her. She took off her hat and put it carefully on the ground, and took off her gloves and put them inside it; as if it were a crime not to feel as much of the springtime air as possible. Peter watched her, smiling a little. The sun, laying its gold over the gold of her hair, made a wonderful thing out of it; and her grey eyes, shining at the scene before her, seemed to take on some of the blue of the bluebells. Peter smiled because she was so young, and because beauty could excite her so. She was like her mother Laura when she allowed herself to be carried away like this.

“Is one allowed to pick them?” asked Alison.

“Yes. They quickly droop, but will revive in water. I always think it a pity to pick them.”

“But I would love some in my room. One can forget it is spring in London, but not with these to remind one.”

He watched her as she walked about picking the flowers at random. He wondered how long it was since he sat in a bluebell wood in springtime and watched a girl pick flowers. She came to him with a small bunch of them in her hands, and a few sprays of hornbeam, the leaves young and fresh, the twigs arranged fan
-
wise. She sat beside him, sighing.

“I think we should go. I am wasting your time. But it is so lovely here, and so peaceful.”

“I am in no hurry,” said Peter.

“It would be nice if Douglas were here with us.”

“There will be other springs.”

“Yes, of course. I just remembered him, that was all. It seems disloyal not to think of people when they are in hospitals or similar places.”

“You don’t have to excuse your affection for Douglas,” he said, smiling at her.

“No, of course not, especially to you, his brother.”

“I am very grateful for what you have already done for him.”

“Too little,” she said. “Much too little; and you, Peter, have nothing to be grateful to me for. It is quite the other way. What would I be doing now, if it weren’t for you? Certainly not enjoying this lovely English spring ... I wonder what I
would
be doing.”