The Flowering Thorn (2 page)

“It's a very beautiful idea,” she said, “only I happen to have a home already. You've seen it.”

“Well, lend it to someone else,” suggested Mr. Ashton, with the easy resource of a man who never has to think about money. He wrote songs, both words and music, at the rate of two dozen a year, employing in the process a vocabulary of about thirty-five words—the figures were Elissa's—and six musical phrases. One heard them on every gramophone, the latest, called ‘
Love-hut for Two
,' having sold no less than a quarter of a million records; and it was only by a severe mental effort (Lesley felt) that the composer affected to despise them.

“Well, if you change your mind in the next two days, give me a ring,” said Toby Ashton. “I hope you will.…” He looked earnestly into her eyes and moved on with the stream, thus making room for an invitation to tea, which Lesley refused, and another to dance, which she accepted. By the heat and bustle, now at their extreme, she was no more oppressed than is a swimming fish by the weight of water; a Magyar count lit her cigarette, and her complexion continued perfect.

3

In a little room off the hall Elissa was doing her Yogi. Tall, pale and slender, dressed in grey, white and black-and-white check, intricately coiled upon a sofa of black, red and silver tapestry, she looked as much like the cover of a fashion paper as was humanly compatible with the usual organs. Between her long hands lay a rosary of amber, loosely strung on a silk cord: with every bead she drew a deep breath and thought of infinity. And if that wasn't everyone's idea of Yogi, at least it was Elissa's.

‘Infinity-click,' thought Elissa, ‘Infinity-click …' for it was almost impossible, as she had early discovered, to think the infinity without thinking the click. There were all those people upstairs, soon she would have to go and give them more drinks; but it was always on occasions like this, with the house crammed and the gin flowing, that she felt the strongest impulse to meditation. On a table at her side stood a bowl of lilies and a telephone with the receiver off: they reminded her respectively of the negation of being and a message from the hairdresser—Madame's regular assistant having gone down with 'flu, would Madame trust somebody else, or change the appointment? That would have to be seen to, and a fresh supply of Martinis.

Meanwhile … the Way, the Life, the Threefold Gate. Nothingness eternal. The end of doing, the end of wanting, the end of being! Well, either Monsieur Lecoq himself should do her hair, or no one. It wasn't worth the risk. Had Toby Ashton come yet, and if so, would he be able to stay on? Toby and Lesley, and possibly Hugo Dove—they could all make a scratch supper off the remains and then go somewhere amusing. Or if that stockbroker person had the Rolls with him? In any case, something or someone was sure to turn up. The end of planning.…

‘Infinity-click,' thought Elissa.

4

“But why not to-morrow?” pleaded the Count, who had come rapidly to the boil.

“Because I'm going out already,” said Lesley.

“To-night, and to-morrow, and the night after that! Can it really be so?”

“Easily,” said Lesley.

“I do not wonder,” explained the Count. “I grieve.” It was quite true: he really did grieve, for Lesley with her dark slim elegance conformed almost exactly to his favourite type. He grieved for ten seconds. Then he remembered a girl he had seen on arriving, equally dark and with very beautiful ankles. She was still somewhere about, but there was no time to lose. As swiftly as was compatible with a broken heart, the Count bowed, sighed, and turned sadly away into the arms of the stockbroker.

“Dry Martini and gentleman's relish. The caviare's all gone,” said the stockbroker.

Lesley received him gratefully, professing an extreme solicitude for the welfare of his person. The crowd round the drinks, was it really as bad as people were saying?

“Worse. Far, far worse,” replied the stockbroker heroically. “But no matter. Every time someone hacked me on the shins I saw your lovely lips and struggled on.” He paused. “This time to-morrow I expect I'll be asking someone to hack me again.”

Lesley smiled like a woman who is flattered; and then all at once, in the drawing of a breath, her mood changed, and a sudden cold detachment ran chilling through her veins. She thought, ‘Why am I exerting myself to attract this rather stupid, middle-aged stockbroker? He is wealthy, and pretends to admire me; but if ever he asked me to become his mistress, I should certainly refuse, and there is notoriously no other means of getting at his money. Physically he is far below the average policeman, and for intellectual companionship I should prefer the lift-boy. Then why?'

Her gaze, which had been mechanically fixed on his small pale eyes—bright, clear and colourless as the windows of an empty house—shifted to a group by the balcony door; and again, without warning, her thought twisted aside. For no possible reason, but sudden as an arrow from the sky, anxiety pierced her. She glanced quickly round the room, hoping to see young Collingwood, but he was not there. Gone home, then?—or perhaps still out on the balcony?—and if so, what was he doing there? The questions raced through her head, too swift for any rational and reassuring answer. It became imperative that she should go and see what Bryan was doing on the balcony.

With an incoherent murmur she turned on her heel and walked straight across the room. The long windows were pulled-to, but the latch being on the inside had prevented his fastening them, and Lesley stepped out with five seconds to spare.

“Put that thing down at once,” she said crossly.

For a moment young Collingwood tried to out-stare her, the revolver still wavering at his temple. Then eyes and hand dropped together and the gun dangled ridiculously by his side.

“Now give it to me,” said Lesley.

This time he obeyed at once. She opened her bag—fortunately a very large one, in the latest mode—and stuffed the thing inside.

“But—but … Lesley!”

“Well?”

“I l-love you!”

“Nonsense,” said Lesley coldly. “You don't love me in the least. You simply like to have an emotion.”

And without even waiting to see whether he threw himself over the railings she stepped back through the window and almost on to Elissa's toes.

“Darling! I didn't think you'd got here! Have you had anything to drink?” From under the preposterously long but still genuine eyelashes Elissa's bright intelligent glance flickered over the hat, gown, complexion and accessories of her dearest friend. “Come and have one of my new sandwiches and tell me if they're all right.”

“But darling, I'm just going home!”

Again that bright intelligence flickered out, this time over the assembled guests.

“They are rather a mess, aren't they? But just hold on another ten minutes and we'll throw out the riff-raff and go on somewhere amusing. You and me and Toby and Hugo.…”

Lesley shook her head. Not that Elissa wasn't right. It was a mess, a mess of people and a mess of emotions, a purposeless mingling of fret and pleasure and fifty perfect strangers. A silly mess, that nothing but gin could ever hold together … Aloud she said,

“I can't really, darling. I'm dining out.”

“Who with?”

“Douglas Ford.”

And a sudden spring of happiness warmed her heart.

5

All the way home in the taxi Lesley's mind raced ahead, planning in ridiculous detail the employments of the next hour. To turn on the bath: to lay out shoes, frock, undergarments, stockings: to rub on the first and swiftly-to-be-removed layer of face-cream—all these would take at least a quarter of an hour. Then the bath itself, and after the bath another quarter of an hour, this time of complete relaxation, before beginning to dress; then the face, the hair: five minutes for the hands. There was time, but no time to lose; and with an odd feeling of crisis Lesley left her fare to be settled by the porter and stepped straight into the lift.

On her outer door-mat, however, she had to pause and look for her latchkey. That ridiculous revolver was still stuffing up her bag, making everything very difficult to find; and with a final spurt of dislike for all men under thirty she reflected that she would probably now be liable to a heavy fine for being in unlicensed possession of firearms. Unless of course one got up very early in the morning and went and threw it into the Round Pond.…

And pushing open the door, Lesley smiled. No doubt Douglas would know what to do with it; and in any case the story—very delicately hinted, no suspicion of giving a man away—ought at least to convey, to that rather preoccupied intelligence, certain … well, certain implications. ‘An absolute child, my dear, and being very silly about me.…'

But the thing was spoiling her bag nevertheless, and weapon in hand, as though to face a burglar, Lesley went into her sitting-room and switched on the lights. But there was nothing stirring, not even a mouse; since from Beverley Court both mice and burglars were equally excluded by the board of management.

CHAPTER TWO

About five hours later, between midnight and the quarter, Douglas Ford stood up to go. The smoke of many cigarettes faintly blued the air, for they had returned, at Lesley's suggestion, a little early.

“I'll come and show you the lift,” she said. “The doors are so ornamental that no one recognises it.”

Douglas Ford laughed.

“I know them of old. An Aunt of mine lives on the top floor. She says it's just as good as a nursing-home, and much more convenient for the shops.” He laughed again, and for once, as he stood loosening his shoulders, Lesley took notice that her room was small. The bulk and solidity of men! A thought struck her, and she said,

“In your Arctic kit—didn't you look enormous?”

“So the other fellows used to tell me. But out there there's room.”

He lifted his hand, as though suddenly interested in the size of it; then changing the gesture to one of farewell, took Lesley's ungloved fingers and bade her good-night.

“Don't lose your way!” she said.

When he was quite gone, and when the lights of his car had vanished from below the window, Lesley went slowly to her bedroom and looked in the glass.

The image she sought there—so curiously, eagerly, as though for the first time—was tall, poised and precisely as slender as fashion required. Gown, gloves and single orchid were impeccably chosen, while the dark, smooth shingle, close as a silken scalp, set off a certain neat elegance of head and shoulders. A lady, one would say, of at least sufficient income, enjoying considerable taste, and not more than twenty-eight years old.

Without the slightest warning, Lesley Frewen burst into tears.

For a moment, while the sobs were still beyond control, her only desire was to fling herself down on the bed and bury her face in a pillow. But she was standing, as has been said, before a mirror, and the sight of the havoc therein—the disintegration, as it were, of so much elegance—acted at least as well as sal volatile. Swiftly as it had come, the storm passed over: Lesley dried her eyes, powdered her nose, and returning to the sitting-room sat down to consider the extraordinary phenomenon of her own tears.

2

Extraordinary indeed; for purely on her own social merits, and with an income which to many of her friends would have seemed microscopic, Lesley Frewen was universally admitted to lead an exceptionally full, varied and interesting life. She had as many dinner engagements, someone once said, as a young man about Town, and could be relied upon as neighbour for either ambassadors or poets. Music, art, the theatre (all modern) were absorbing interests. She was a foundation member of the Ballet Circle. Hostesses liked her, and occasionally asked her advice. A more fortunately situated young woman, in fact, it would have been hard to conceive: and to crown all, she had just been dining alone with Douglas Ford.

A good many women would envy her that. Elissa, for example, who had first introduced them, and then a little regretted it; and for the length of a cigarette Lesley sat by the fire and thought of Douglas. He was exactly—she admitted it without disguise—the sort of man she liked and admired. Although little over thirty, he had already made a name for himself in scientific exploration: was universally expected to go on to even greater triumphs of pure research: and had in addition a sophisticated and delightful sense of humour that exactly matched her own. Nor was it the only quality they shared. Golf and the French cinema, skating, bridge and D. H. Lawrence—the list of their common tastes was endless. And he admired her looks, thought her extremely intelligent; would ask her opinion on current affairs.…

“Then what was it?” cried Lesley aloud; and so at last admitted what still seemed almost impossible, that the evening had been a failure.

They had dined, they had laughed and talked, in every mirror she had watched herself looking her best: and yet, for want of some tiny, ultimate pinch of happiness, the whole evening had been flawed.

Thus, step by step, she approached the heart of her black mood, the reason for those unreasonable tears; and presently, for the bitter reward of her courage, the last turn straightened to the centre and there was no more looking aside.

She had wanted Douglas Ford to make love to her, and he had not been sufficiently attracted.

There had been a moment, perhaps ten minutes ago, when leaning forward for a last cigarette she had deliberately displayed, with an exaggerated turn, the smooth contour of her delicately-rouged cheek. If he had kissed it, she would have said—what?—‘My dear Douglas!'—very lightly, more amused than rebuking; and she would not have drawn back.

An angry shame burned at her centre. To have so offered herself, to have been so refused! That the offer had passed unnoticed, that the refusal had been unwitting, she could and did believe; but the bitterness was not thereby lessened. Beside it nothing else mattered: in all her life at that moment, nothing else even existed. And having thus stumbled on the ultimate truth, Lesley remembered her generation and lit a cigarette.