These Delights (21 page)

“Now, tell me,” he said.

She told him what she could remember, in tired little half-finished sentences, and; where he could, he took away the sting of those bitter words.

“And have I truly embarrassed you?” she asked, turning her face into his shoulder.

His arm tightened round her.

“No, child, how could you ever do that?” he said. “You’ll probably never know how much that lovely responsiveness o
f
yours has meant to me.”

“I love you,” she said, “but not in the way she thinks, the way that wants to snatch and break up happiness. I cannot help loving you, but it should not hurt
h
er. Oh, Luke, Luke, do you not know what you’re missing?”

“Yes, Vicky,” he said steadily, “I know.”

She turned her head, and t
h
e shaft of sunlight caught the red mark left by Diana, still clearly visible on the delicate skin. He tou
ch
ed her cheek tenderly, as if he would smooth away the ma
rk
. What had she once said to
him,
so long ago?
Lock up your home, lock up your heart, Cousin Luke
...
But how could he lock his heart against one so ardent and so dear?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LUKE went to see Diana the next day. By the morning his anger with her had gone, leaving only a sense of indifference that the end was in sight. Not for Vicky alone must he end things, but for his own manhood and integrity bound for too long by such a slender tie. When had he thought he loved her, so cold, so undemanding of any man’s love? Admiration he had had, respect for all things that he was not, but love, that swift, warm instinctive love which Vicky would have to offer, had never been between them.

He saw Sir Harry digging in a herbaceous border as he drove up to the house, but he did not seek him out. His business was with Diana, and he had no wish to distress the old man. He found Diana in the flower-room, arranging bowls of great shaggy-headed chrysanthemums with her usual skill.

“Good morning, Luke,” she said, and smiled, but did not offer to kiss
him.

“Good morning, Diana,” he replied with equal formality. “I’m sorry I was out when you called yesterday. Had I been there, I might have prevented your regrettable behavior.”

She began filling a stone jar with sprays of autumn leaves.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt the child has given you a very lurid account” she said. “I expect that. Well, Luke, I think I’ll say to you what I said to Vicky. I don’t intend to have my future marriage messed up on account of a plausible rather silly little girl.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what you said to Vicky,” he replied quietly.

“Well, it’s what I meant to convey. I’ve admitted that my tongue rather ran away with me, and I’m sorry, but perhaps it’s a good thing we’ve cleared the air. Hester was quite rude to me, and since she’s admitted now she doesn
’
t like me, it’s a good thing she has decided not to live with us. And—oh, another thing, Luke—your
man
Corky, was extremely insolent. I’m afraid—I really
am
afraid he will have to go when we’re married.”

She was aware at last of his silence, and turned,
a
spray of beech in her fingers.

“Well?” she said calmly. “Am I not allowed a grievance, too?”

“Yes, Diana, I’m sure I’ve caused you many,” he said a little wearily. “I haven’t really come to recriminate over yesterday’s business. It’s done, and it’s better not discussed. But our own relationship, yes. Don’t you think, on the whole, we’ve both made a mistake? We are not really suited to each other, and I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s much better to be honest about things.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“I don’t make mistakes,” she cried sharply, and all at once he had the key to her.

“Oh, Diana!” he said, and his voice had softened. “No one on earth can make such a statement. We’re only human after all, and mistakes are not criminal.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” she repeated in a hard voice. “And if I do, I cover them up, and that’s the secret of keeping face. Do you think I’m going to let you throw me over for a little schoolgirl and be the laughing stock of the countryside?”

“
You can throw me over, if you prefer it,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “And I assure you, Diana, that neither I nor Vicky will cause you to be a laughing stock. I shall send her away as soon as I can make suitable arrangements.”

She looked bewildered.

“But that’s what you wouldn’t do,” she said. “T
h
at’s what I always begged you to do.”

“That was for your sake, Diana,” he said gently.
“
This
time it’s for hers.”

“I d
o
n’t understand you,” she said. “But if your mind is made up on that point—well, then, shall we forget all about
this
conversation and start again?”

His eyes were compassionate.

“No, Diana, there could be no starting again for us,” he said. “You see, we have nothing to build on. You don’t love me—oh, no, you don’t, and I—well, I admire you and I’d hoped for things you can’t give me, and that’s not enough.
”

“Very well, Luke, if that’s how you feel,” she said. “We’ll admit that love, as you seem to interpret it, is missing between us, but I value other things more, and I’ve no intention of releasing you from our engagement until you can convince me, after a fair trial, that it was a mistake. Now, I think you’d better go before we get led further into fruitless discussions.”

She turned back to her leaves, but her fingers were clumsy now. The sprays got entangled and the leaves broke off as she touched them.

He watched her for a moment with kindly eyes.

“Diana, people aren’t possessions,” he said gently. “You can’t hang on to them by burying your head in the sand.”

“Possessions,” she said in a hard voice, “are all I’ve ever had.”

For the first time he began to understand her.

“Perhaps, because you’ve had too many,” he said.

Her back was to him and she said in a slow difficult voice:

“Luke—let’s not end it yet. Give me a
little
while—a little while to think.”

“Oh, Diana, what’s the use? We’re washed up—finished, and you must know it.”

She stood, turning her engagement ring round her finger, and not looking at him.

“
Well then, a few days before—before it is official.”

“Very well,” he said. “If that will help you. And, Diana—whatever story you think fit to tell, I will, of course, back you up.”

Thank you. She raised eyes that were fain
tl
y puzzled, then said like an injured child: “I never knew you could be so strong.”

He smiled.

“No, you used to call me stubborn. Well, I’ll be getting along. Let me know when you’ve come to a decision.
”

“Good-bye
...”
she said, and, still turning her ring, stood watching him through the glass doors of the flower-room, as he crossed the lawn to his car and drove away.

Luke spoke to Hester that evening about sending Vicky away for a little.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that for her own sake, she should get away. What’s your opinion, Hester?”

She was darning one of Lou’s socks and she did not look up as she answered.

“Yes, I
think
that’s wise, but the problem is where to send her. We’re peculiarly devoid of relations or convenient friends with spare rooms.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking of that
.
W
hat about the Hallets in Somerset? We’ve always had a standing invitation to go there.”

“The Hallet daughters are grown up now, with babies and no homes of their own,” smiled Hester. “I imagine the house is pretty full up.”

“Yes, one forgets how time goes on. We’ve always been very bad at keeping in touch with people.”

“Yes, I’m afraid we have. Old Mrs. Barnstable over at Exeter might take her. She likes young people about now that her grandchildren have grown up and married.”

“A little deadly,” said Luke dubiously. “Unless Pauline went, too. Perhaps it might be better not to separate them, anyway.”

“Pauline starts school next week,” Hester said. “It would be a pity to let her miss the beginning of her first term.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s rather difficult, isn’t it?”

She looked up and smiled.

“Oh, we’ll think of something,” she said. “If the worst comes to the worst, I could take the child away somewhere and leave you and
Pa
uline
to the tender mercies of Corky.”

“Yes,” said Luke, relieved. “That would probably be the best plan, and Vi
ck
y would be happier than going amongst strangers. I saw Diana today, Hester.”

“
Yes?”

“I’ve ended the engagement.”

A softness came into Hester’s face, making it young again.

“I’m glad, Luke,” she said. “I’m more glad than I can possibly tell you. She was never right
for
you, and I always thought you rather drifted into the engagement. Does Vicky know, yet?”

“No,” said Luke firmly. “And she’s not to know—no one is. Diana asked for a few days in which to concoct some story, and it was the least I could do for her.”

“Saving face,” said Hester with an odd little smile. “Yes, that would be Diana’s way. I’m afraid you will come out of it with a tarnished reputation, my dear.”

“Does it matter?” he said wearily.

“No, not really—as long as Vicky isn’t involved.”

“Vicky? But you don’t thin
k—”

“
Probably not, but she’s a convenient scapegoat, isn’t she?”

Luke’s face hard
e
ned.

“I told Diana I’d back her up in whatever story she liked to put out, but I’m not standing for that,” he said. “The sooner we get the child away, the better.”

“Will it matter very much in the long run what is said?” she asked gently. “You and Vicky, eventually—it
is
Vicky, isn’t it, Luke?”

He looked suddenly very tired, and she saw that his face was thinner than it had been and the lines round his eyes were more marked.

“O
h
,
Hester, those things are so much in the future,” he said. “As Diana kindly pointed out, I’m fifteen or more years older, and is that fair?”

“I told you once before that I don’t
think
age has anything to do with it,” she said. “Vicky is quite mature in the things that matter, and you, Luke, dear, are very young in others.”

He smiled

“Dear Hester! But I don’t really know how the child feels. She loves me, yes, but she loves Corky and Tom Bowden and probably Ted Smale and a host of others. She has a gift for loving. How am I to know that I’m not just old Cousin Luke, the beloved companion?”

Her eyes were suddenly bright.

“You old silly, that’s up to you,” she said softly. “And I wouldn’t, myself, cavil at being the beloved companion.”

“
You’re very fond of her, aren’t you, Hester?”

She put on her glasses and took up her darning again. “Yes,” she said, with a small soft sigh. “I’m very fond of her—I’m very fond of them all.”

Luke had no word from Diana for a week. He met Frank Tregenna once in Tavistock, who, he thought, looked at him a little oddly, and he wondered idly if Diana would end by marrying him. It would scarcely be to Lady Sale’s taste, but then she had hardly approved of Luke himself, and on the whole, Tregenna and Diana were not ill-suited.

The day he decided to tell Vicky of his immediate plans for her, he took her for a long walk over the moor. It was a project which, he felt, might need delicate handling. He did not want to make too much of the fact that he was sending her away, but he also did not want to hurt her. He glanced at her happy face as she strode out beside him against the wind, and, with every mile, put off telling her. He could not bear to see the radiance go from her, as he knew it must, and it was not until they crossed Scaw Down on the homeward journey that
h
e could bring himself to broach the subject.

She gave him the opening herself by stopping suddenly and saying:

“You are worried, Luke. I have been chattering far too much, and you have not been listening.”

“I’m sorry, Vicky,” he said. ‘Yes, I am a bit worried. There’s something I have to tell you, and I don’t quite know how to manage it.”

“Papa—he is worse?” she said quickly.

“No, no, nothing like that. Come and sit down.
”

They sat on one of the Druid stones, and listened to the river Scaw run noisily over the boulders, and the old heron rose, flapping from the water, and flew away from them.

She did not speak, but sat watching him with eyes which were suddenly strained, and he took her hands and gently flexed and unflexed the fingers in his own.

“Vicky,” he said then, “I’m going to send you away for a bit.”

She looked bewildered.

“Send me away?” she echoed. “You mean back to France with Lou?”

“No, no. Lou doesn’t go till next month. I’m going to send you away with Hester to stay somewhere for a little while.”

“But why?”

“We think it’s best, Hester and I. When you come back, everything will be different.”

He was doing this badly, he knew, and the look in her eyes hurt him unbearably.

“I see,” she said. “You mean you want me out of the way.”

“No, darling child—it’s for your own sake, really. It won’t be for very long.”

“When?” she asked simply.

“As soon as we can arrange matters. Next week, I think.”

He had expected tears, arguments even, but not this strange quiet.

“We had thought of sending you to friends, but that seemed difficult, and you’d rather go with Hester, wouldn’t you?” he said.

“I will do anything you arrange for me,” she replied, and traced the pattern on the sleeve of his coat with a careful forefinger.

“I don’t want you to go—you know that, don’t you?
”
he said rather helplessly. “We just
think
it’s best.”

“We?”

“Hester and I.”

“Oh, yes. Who will look after you, Luke?”

“Oh, Corky will manage, and Pauline’s a very good
needle-
woman. She’ll mend my socks,” he said with an attempt at lightness.

She suddenly pulled her hand away.

“Oh, don’t, don’t
...”
she cried, and jumped up and ran down to the river.

He watched her standing there with her back to him, the wind blowing the fair hair back from her face, which he could not see, and she suddenly pressed her hands to her temples in a curiously primitive gesture of torment.

He got up and went to her, standing behind her and covering those anguished hands with his own.

“Vicky
...
don’t take it so hard, darling,” he said, “there’s nothing very dreadful about going on a visit with Hester, is there? You’ll stay in a hotel and make friends with people and the change will do you good.”

It was just as she had talked to Lou about going to France, and she turned to fling her arms round him.

“Oh, don’t, don’t send me away from you,” she cried. “I will not be in the way; I will not interfere with your plans. Only let me stay until we all have to go.”

She was weeping now, and he put his arms round her and held her
close
.

“Don’t make it harder for me, darling,” he said. “I have to do this, Vicky, believe me, for your sake. Don’t make it harder.”

Her hands slackened about his neck, and she drew away from him.

“No, I won’t,” she said. “I won’t make it harder.”

She turned from him and stared into the river while she rubbed the tears from her eyes with her knuckles.

“Y
ou never showed me how to ti
ckl
e trout,” she said. “Do you remember? I was going to get up very early one morning, and c-catch some for your breakfast.”

He felt his own eyelids pricking.

“Come along,” he said a little unsteadily.
“We
must go home to tea. One day, Vicky, we’ll ti
ckl
e trout together, and both of us have them for breakfast. Come along
.”

Luke was kept busy with farm affairs for the rest of the week, and saw little of the children except at meal-times. Lou practised still more assiduously now that he was so soon to return to his master’s critical ear, and Pauline came home from her first day at school well pleased with herself and her new school hat.

“I do not think, Vicky,” she said, “that Miss Crump and Miss Trumpington can have taught us very well. The mistress says I am definitely below standard. But I have found a girl who will do my arithmetic exercises if I will do her French, so that will be very satisfactory.”

Vicky, left much by herself, went for long walks on the moor. Reading had temporarily lost its charm for her in the conflict of her own emotions, and she returned from her walks, physically and mentally exhausted, and as often as not fell asleep by the fire after supper.

“It’s a good thing she’s going away,” Luke told Hester, but Hester privately wondered what sort of a job her brother had made of this business that day on Scaw Down, when Vicky had politely avoided him for the rest of the evening.

And it was on Scaw Down that Vicky met Diana on Sunday morning. This place is an omen for me; I must not come
h
ere, she thought with despair, as she watched Comet cantering towards her. There was no escape, for Diana had called to her, and she stood waiting in the wind while Diana reined in her horse beside her.

“Good morning, Vi
ck
y,” she said. “This is a fortunate meeting. I had been wanting to see you.”

“Good morning, Diana,” Vi
ck
y replied. “Why should you wish to see me?”

Diana smiled.

“To apologize, of course, for the other day. I lost my head as well as my temper. I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.”

Vicky smiled immediately.

“
That did not matter,” she said. “I too said things for which I am sorry.”

“Well, then, since we’re both sorry, that’s all right, isn
’
t it? How—how is Luke?”

“A
little tired, I think. Are you not coming to see him?”

Diana leant from her saddle.

“Well, you see—Luke hasn’t mentioned me—us at all?”

“No.”

“I see. Let’s sit down on the stones out of the wind and have a chat while I smoke a cigarette.”

“If you like,” said Vicky politely. She did not in the least want to talk to Diana. She only wanted to get back to the farm as fast as she could.

Diana dismounted and hitched Comet’s reins to a thorn bush.

“He’ll stand,” she said. “Let’s sit over here.

She lighted a cigarette, then remarked:

“
Luke tells me you’re going away.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon—next week, I think.”

“And do you know why?”

“Why?” repeated Vicky guardedly. “Luke thinks it would be best.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad he let you down ligh
tl
y.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Diana leant back, her hands clasped round her crossed knees. She
s
eemed quite at ease.