These Delights (22 page)

“Oh, come now, Vicky, I don’t want to start unpleasantness all over again, but you must know the real reason Luke’s sending you away.”

Vicky sat very still.

“No,” she said. “He told me it was for my own sake.”

Diana smiled.

“But of course. Luke is a very kind person, he wouldn’t want you to be hurt unnecessarily. You see, he must know you are rather—fond of him, and he wants to give you a break—let you get over this—this
little
infatuation. After all, when you come back—if you come back—he would want you to have got over things sufficiently to be sensible about our marriage.”

Vicky’s eyes widened.

“Are you and Luke to be married soon—perhaps while I am away?” she asked.

Diana gave her a quick look, then shrugged.

“It depends how long you stop away,” she said carelessly, “But soon, I hope, yes. Possibly that’s what Luke had in mind.”

“He would have told me,” said Vi
ck
y.

Diana drew at her
ci
garette with enjoyment.

“No, Vicky, I don’t think he would. After all, you must remember things have been rather strained on all sides of late. Personally, I think he wanted to let you down as lightly as possible.”

Vicky felt the wind grow more chill and shivered. She had always supposed that Luke would many Diana until that day in the
barn
, and afterwards it was so hard to know what he thought with any certainty. But not like this
...
not like this, bundling her out of the way with no explanation, as if she was a child
...

“What shall I do?” she whispered to herself.

Diana stamped out her
ci
garette-end in the turf.

“Do you know what I would do, if I were you?” she said. “I’d go back to France.”

“To France?” Vicky repeated stupidly.

“Yes, I’d take Pauline and Lou, and sneak off one morning without telling anyone, and take the burden off Luke’s shoulders myself for once.”

France ... it was home, even if the apartment was let to strangers. There was Louis, and there was Marthe with her old parents in the south.

“But how?” she said. “We have no money.”

“Well, that’s easily remedied,” said Diana. “I have.”

“
You would pay our fares?”

“I should be delighted to pay your fares. Will you do
it?”

“Yes
...
yes!” said Vicky. “It is the best way. We go back to France and Luke has no more problems.”

“What an extremely sensible point of view,
”
said Diana. “It would have saved so much trouble if we
’
d thought of it before, wouldn’t it? When will you go?
”

“T
omorrow,” said Vicky with decision. “It is always
best to do things at once.”

“Well, that’s a very good idea,” said Diana, slightly taken aback at such rapid surrender. “But it will have to be the afternoon to allow me time to get to the bank in the morning. You’d better meet me in the village at twelve o’clock and I’ll give you the money. I’ll also find out
about trains and boats.”

“That is very kind of you, Diana. I will send Lou.
I
will now be going if you don’t mind.”

Diana got up and walked back to her horse.

“
No word of this to anyone, remember,” she said.

“Naturally not,” replied Vicky simply. “We should not
be allowed to go.”

“Well, good-bye, Vicky. I don
’
t suppose were likely to
meet again. I’m sorry we haven’t got on better, but it
’
s
understandable, isn’t it? I hope you have a pleasant
journey.”

“Thank you, Diana”—Diana looked over her shoulder,
one foot in the stirrup—“please be good to Luke.”

“Of course. We’ll send you some wedding-cake. Goodbye.” She swung herself into the saddle and cantered away.

Vicky walked back to the farm, planning what she must do. The bracken was brown and dry now, and the heather bare of bloom, and when the gorse flowered again she would be gone. She looked at the river with sad eyes. Never, now, would she tickle trout with Luke and eat them for breakfast, or see the new calf to be born at Christmas. But she was glad she would not see all the changes that Diana would bring to the fa
rm
. She could still think of the old shippon, sweet with the smell of hay and rich meadow grass, and Ted Smale’s coaxing voice as the milk slipped through his gentle fingers; she could think of the house, shabby and friendly, and the firelight on Luke’s books. She would not see the look in his eyes when
Diana h
urt
him,
or his first child which might comfort
him. She knew the pain of all these things, but he
r
spirit was released in the knowledge that this must be her way
...

She gathered Lou and Pauline into the
barn
before tea and told them what was to be done. Pauline was inclined to protest, for she liked her new school, but Lou did not mind. He would prefer to return to France with his sisters than by himself.

“But where will we live when we get there?” asked Pauline, the practical one.

“T
hings will arrange themselves,” said Vicky vaguely. “Louis will know what to do, and there’s always Marthe.”

“And Papa Dupont,” giggled Lou. To him it was an adven
t
ure.

“And the luggage?” said Pauline. “How will we leave the house with luggage and nobody notice? Corky sees everything.”

“We cannot take luggage,” said Vicky. “They will send it on later.”

“Well, enough for our needs,” said Pauline reprovingly. “Really, Vicky, you do not make the practical plan. I wi
ll
take our night things in my school satchel, and you will call for me at the s
ch
ool when you have made your plans. I don’t approve of this running away, but you are the eldest, and, of course, have your reasons.”

“Yes,” said Vicky wearily, “I have my reasons. When we get to France, I will explain them to you, Pauline.”

“I will put my music in Bibi’s basket, and they will think it is a picnic,” Lou said, also being practical, then his face suddenly crumpled, “Oh, poor Bibi, we must leave him behind under the English violets. Never will he see France again.”

He wept and they wept with
him.
They did not want to go.

They were very quiet for the rest of the day, and sometimes they touched things with lingering fingers as if in silent farewell. It hurt them that they could not say goodbye. Tom Bowden came as usual for Sunday supper, and afterwards they played Nap and Beggar-my-neighbor until it was time for Lou to go to bed, while Luke sat reading by the fire. Once or twice he glanced up and would find them staring at
him
with mournful eyes, and even Tom remarked, with a twinkle, that Corky’s macaroni cheese must have been too
much
for their digestions. He was surprised, when it was time for
him
to go, that they all three shook hands with him solemnly, and still more surprised when Vicky suddenly reached up and gave him a kiss.

“Good night, dear Tom,” she said. “You have been very kind to us and we love you.
”

“Well, that’s very handsome of you, Miss Vicky.” he said, looking puzzled and pleased at the same time. “If you come down to my cottage one of these days for tea, I’ll have a little surprise for you.”

He did not see the stricken face she turned from him, but Luke did, and when the foreman had gone, he suggested that Vicky and Pauline should go to bed.

“You both seem tired,” he said, “and Pauline’s got to be up early for school.”

“Not just yet, please,” Vicky said. She could not bear to leave the lamplight and the dear, familiar objects of Luke’s home.

He shut his book and prodded the fire with his foot
.
“What on earth’s the matter with you all tonight?” he said jokingly.
“
You behave as if you were never going to see me again.”

“Oh,
Luke
!”
cried Pauline, and, bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.

“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Luke. “What’s got into the child? Isn’t she happy at school, Vicky?”

“
Yes,” said Vicky, curling up on the rug at his feet.
“
Yes, she is happy. It’s just that—well sometimes one doesn’t know why one cries.”

She sounded a little like crying herself, and Hester put away her work and got up.

“
You need a change, my dear,” she said with understanding. “Have you told her, Luke, that you’ve made arrangements with the hotel at Torquay?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve booked your rooms from next Friday, Vicky. The sea should do you both good.”

Her expression was indifferent and she made no reply, and Hester said briskly:

“Well, I
think
I’m going to bed. Don’t keep her up too late, Luke.”

“You ought to be going, too, you know,” Luke said when they were alone. “You look very tired tonight.”

“Presen
tl
y,” said Vicky. “Luke, would you read me that poem—the one that starts ‘Come live with me and be my love’ ?”

“ ‘The Passionate Shepherd to his Love?’
”

“
Yes, please.”

“Very well.”

He got up and fetched the book, and she listened, her eyes on the fire while he read.

“ ‘If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love
...
’ ”

she repeated slowly when he had finished. She leaned against his knee, and he put a hand on her head.

“Is anything troubling you, Vicky?” he asked gently. She closed her eyes.

“No ... no, nothing troubles me,” she said.

“When you come back from Torquay,” he said, “we will talk, you and I.”

“When I come back
...
” For a moment the pain was almost too much, and she turned swif
tl
y to look up at him.

“Will you miss me, Luke?” she said passionately. “Will you miss me when I’m gone?”

He smoothed her puckered forehead with tender fingers and touched the shadows beneath her eyes.

“Very much, you know that. You really do look dreadfully
ti
red, my darling child. You should go to bed.”

“Yes,” she said a
little
pitifully. “I will have to go some time, won’t I?”

She stretched out her arms to draw him down to kiss her, and for a long moment pressed her cheek to his.

“Good night, my dear, dear love
...”
she whispered, and it was as if she said good-bye.

CHAPTER TWELVE

L
uke
had to go into Tavistock the next day, and Hester, who had lost the stopping out of a tooth, decided to go with him and have it filled. Luke’s business took longer
than
he had expected, so they had lunch in the town and drove home in time for tea.

The house had an empty air when they returned and Hester called to Corky.

“Where are the children?” she asked, stripping off her gloves in the hall.

“I dunno, Miss Hester,” said Corky, coming out of the kitchen with a shoe he was polishing.
“
They wasn’t in to lunch, and if you ask me, they’ve been acting very strange. Miss Pauline went off to school all right, though I see she’s left all her school books be’ind, but them other two were up to something. They went off with that old basket wot the ra
b
bit come in, and they wouldn’t let me see inside. They
said
it was a picnic, but
I
was never asked for no vittles, and they didn’t raid my larder, ‘cos I looked, see?”

“All right, Corky,” smiled Hester. “I expect they’ll be back soon, it’s nearly tea-time. Bother, it’s raining again and I wanted to do a bit of weeding before it was dark.”

“Oh, Miss Sale rang up for Mr. Luke. Said she was coming over to see him tomorrow.”

“Who rang up?” asked Luke, coming in from the porch.

“Diana,” Hester said briefly. “She’s coming over to see you tomorrow.”

“Thank heavens for that,” he replied, “I dislike this messing about intensely. Is Vicky out?”

“They’re both out, but I expect they’ll be in soon, unless they’re going to meet Pauline’s train later and walk up with her.”