The Young Intruder (12 page)

“Well,” he said, “naturally, if you want to stay, I will not persuade you to do otherwise, but I assure you I am very disappointed.”

“Oh, not very,” she said, smiling at him.

“Yes,” he said. “Very. I had looked forward to seeing, with you, places that were your old .haunts as well as mine.”

For a moment, she saw herself with Peter in the old Italian villages, the sun pouring down, both of them in cool summer clothes, exploring the places that had meant much to them in their separate old days; and she regretted her decision. Then she remembered Lydia,
and she knew that Lydia would not permit of excursions that did not include herself, and she knew that she had done the right thing.

“Perhaps,” she suggested gently, “another time.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “it will be too late another time.”

He thought that if she were engaged to Douglas, she would prefer to go with him. She thought that he was telling her that this was her last opportunity.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said.

“I’m sorry, too; but if that’s the way you want it, I suppose that’s the way it has to be.”

She
hesitated even then. It certainly did not sound
as if Peter were prompted solely by a sense of duty and obligation. It sounded far more as if Lydia was wrong in what she said. Almost, Alison changed her mind. Almost. Then she thought that it might even be relief at her not going,
that caused Peter to protest in politeness.

Oh, anyway, it’s too late to change back again, she thought: I can’t be for ever changing my mind. I’ll stay here with Douglas; and I suppose Lydia will work like a slave to have Peter well and truly caught before they come back. And I hope she doesn’t succeed, because she isn’t half good enough for him.

CHAPTER NINE

ALISON had been quite right in supposing that Lydia would see this holiday in Italy as a splendid—and perhaps, her last—opportunity of securing Peter to herself, and would make the most of such an opportunity. Lydia was hoping for concrete results from so long a period in close proximity to Peter, and she was helped considerably, though unconsciously, by the rest of the party, who seemed to take it for granted that there was a special relationship between them, and gave them many chances of being alone together.

This Lydia of the Italian holiday was certainly a different Lydia—at least outwardly. Gone were the town clothes in which she appeared so elegant, aloof, and cool; and although her beach clothes and summer dresses and frivolities were designed by the same Paris couturieres or by Madame Roseanne, they made her appear younger, freer, more approachable. She did not swim, but she allowed Peter to take her on the sea on fragile floats, or lazed beside him in the sailing boat. She changed her beach suits half a dozen times a day, lying on a thick towel under a wide sunshade, refusing the temptation to acquire a tan; smoking innumerable cigarettes while she watched the others playing with a big ball in the water, or tipping each other off the raft. She was naturally a very lazy person, and it suited her very well to lie and bask in the warmth of the Mediterranean beach; suited her better, in fact, than those other days when the whole party went off on expeditions in the cars. It was well enough as long as they were driving, but too exhausting when they left the cars and climbed up to castles, or walked through the hot and narrow streets of old Italian villages.

Peter, as he walked through these same narrow streets, found himself thinking often of the two young people he had left behind in England. They would have enjoyed all this, he thought; they would have brought to it all the freshness of their youth and vivid imaginations; would have been excited by the glimpses into history, thrilled by the ancient beauties, and would have revelled gloriously in the simple pleasures of the beach and the sea. Lydia was a little bored by these things, although he had been agreeably surprised by her gayer and more youthful appearance and outlook on this holiday.

They drove, one day, to Vado to see
Il
se Gerhardt, who had recently returned to her villa, from Salzburg. They had almost filled Peter’s car with carnations from San Remo, and these they presented to Use as congratulations upon her success at Salzburg. For a long time, the talk turned upon her own career, and the careers of mutual friends, until Peter said at last:

“By the way,
Il
se, we have another friend in common, whom you will like to have news of.”

“Who is that?” asked
Il
se. “No, do not tell me. Let me guess. We have talked already of Monsieur Rostand and of Yvette and of Elisaveta, and of your nice Charles Winlake. Could it be Marcel? No? No, really I cannot think—you will have to tell me.”

“Do you remember Alison Vale?”

“Alison,
ma
ch
è
re
Alison? But of course. Tell me, where did you meet Alison? Last time I heard from her, she was in Lisbon.”

“Well, now she is in London—living with me.”

“Che! But you amaze me! Why should she live with you? Is that not, even in London, perhaps a compromising thing to do?”

Peter laughed.

“She is my ward,” he said, and had to explain to
Il
se what that meant, and was led further into imparting the news of the death of Alison’s mother and all that had happened since.

“Such nice people, those two,” said Ilse. “Alison and her mother; how sad she must have been; but how nice to have you to look after her. And tell me, you cruel man, why you do not bring her to Italy with you, when you are her guardian?”

Lydia did not care for the turn the conversation had taken, but she appeared to listen with good grace; and Peter replied:

“I wanted to bring her, and my young brother too, but they decided that they preferred to stay in England.”

“Ah, the dear Douglas, isn’t it? who had so bad an air crash. Tell me, he gets better?”

“He is almost back to normal, walking very well, and anxious to begin working. Alison has been a tremendous help to him.”

“Ah yes, she was always so sympathetic. Tell me, are they just a little bit in love, these two?”

She looked from Peter to Lydia and back again; and it was Lydia who answered:

“Oh, more than a little, Ilse. Much more.”

“So?” Ilse beamed at them both. “Now, that is very good to hear. The best thing for Alison would be to have a good husband. She has not a career, and now she has no family and no home—except of course that our dear Peter is so good to her—so if she marries Peter’s brother, it will be perfect.”

Lydia laughed at Ilse’s impulsiveness, though she was very pleased to hear all this put into words. And what Ilse next said pleased her even more. For Ilse, looking again from one to the other of them, said:

“And you two. Have you no news for me yet? Every time I see you, or I see our mutual friends, there are rumours, and I expect to hear that something is at last decided.”

“Ilse darling,” said Lydia, “you aren’t being very tactful.”

“Oh, tactful! Are we not old friends? Why are you so long making up your minds?”

“You are incorrigible,” said Lydia, but laughing still. “You must ask Peter. My mind was made up long ago.”

“Then I will ask Peter,” said Ilse.

“You have to remember that Peter has had many co
mmi
tments.”

“But nothing that prevents him from having a wife. Peter, my dear
...”

“No,” interrupted Peter, firmly, “I will not have my most private affairs discussed so publicly. When there is news, Ilse, you will hear it, never fear.”

Well, thought Lydia, nothing could have been more brutally frank than that, from Ilse. Nothing could have posed the question more clearly; and surely he cannot simply ignore it; and if he does, then I will refuse to. I will drag it up in our conversation, and try to clinch the whole thing.

For a while, she was offered no opportunity, and when an occasion did arise, she found her task much harder than she had imagined. Their relationship had always been a formal one, and looking back over the time she had known Peter, she realized that the formality had been partly of her own making, for she invariably maintained a somewhat reserved and aloof attitude, but also partly of Peter’s making. It was she who had pressed the acquaintanceship that had slowly ripened into friendship, not Peter. It was she who had gone to considerable lengths to meet him at concerts and parties and receptions. He had acquiesced. It was a passive acceptance of the relationship on his part, rather than an active or enthusiastic response; and the formality had always existed between them. Lydia, who averred that she preferred a civilised relationship to a passionate and
u
nordered one, now rather regretted her words. For Peter, this somewhat cold, civilised relationship apparently bore no connection with marriage.

One day, Peter begged his friends to excuse him while he went to visit an old friend in Bordighera. The others decided to make the long drive to Venice, intending to start early and return late; and Lydia saw this as a good opportunity to have a few horns with Peter, undisturbed, and declared that such a long drive would be too exhausting, and that, anyway, she knew Venice very well already and hated it at this time of year. She would stay back by herself, having a wonderfully lazy day while they were all getting unbearably
hot. She knew that Peter would be back for dinner, and planned that they should have it together.

He was rather late in returning from Bordighera, but she had waited for him.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said.

“I enjoy it much more dining with you, than by myself,” she said, “so it was a self-indulgence to wait.”

After the large dining party to which they were accustomed on this holiday, there was a special intimacy in the dinner-for-two. Afterwards, they walked along the sea-shore in the quiet and restful evening, Peter smoking, Lydia’s hand through his arm; two well-to-do, well-groomed, civilised people. Lydia wondered how she could possibly get round to saying what she wanted to say.

They paused at the end of the made-up promenade, before going back. At this point, the rocks were rugged, well clothed with vegetation, and softly mysterious in the evening dusk. The sea lay smooth and silver before them.

“Something about this evening reminds me of Archachon,” said Lydia. “Wasn’t that the first trip abroad that we made in a party?”

“Yes. Wasn’t that where we went ski-ing on pine needles?” asked Peter.

“You did. I was never so energetic. We have known each other quite a long time now, Peter.”

“Yes.”

There was a silence between them for a while. Lydia determined to break it, and in her own way.

“Perhaps too long,” she said softly.

His reply was unexpected.

“I have thought that myself,” he said.

“Oh?” she queried in quick surprise. “Why do you say so?”

“You tell me,” he answered, “why you said so.”

“Well,” said Lydia slowly, “perhaps we are in danger of taking each other too much for granted. Perhaps we are becoming a habit with each other, allowing ourselves to drift. You heard what Ilse said the other day.”

“Yes.”

“And she is right. All our friends have been expecting news about us for a long time, Peter. They can’t understand why we wait so long. And dare I say this, I wonder?
...”

He waited without reply. She went on:

“Sometimes, I wonder, too, why we wait so long.”

“Lydia,” he said, “what am I supposed to say to that?”

“Isn’t there anything that you feel you
want
to say?”

“In the way you mean, Lydia, I don’t think there is. I’m terribly sorry to say this. I knew it would have to come after what Ilse said the other day, and so I gave the matter a good deal of thought. Shall I tell you what I was thinking of, when you said that perhaps we had known each other too long?”

“Please,” said Lydia.

“I was thinking that, if there was ever going to be, between us, a foundation on which we could build a good marriage, we would have known it by now. If there were to be a question of love, Lydia, it would not have waited so long. People don’t drift casually into love.”

“I didn’t drift casually,” she said.

“Lydia, my dear, a one-sided love isn’t enough.”

“You have known, of course,” she said.

“For a long time. But you wouldn’t want a man who couldn’t give you the most important thing.”

“If that is love, then plenty of good marriages are made without it.”

“Are there, I wonder?”

“Many,” she said. “And there is nobody else, or you would have done something about her. We are very well suited to each other, Peter; and surely you do not always want to live alone?”

“I don’t live alone,” he said. “In fact, sometimes my house seems very full.”

“That is only for the moment, though. Douglas and Alison are obviously very much in love; and when he is quite recovered and beginning to work, they will want to be married. The house will not be full then, Peter.”

“I shouldn’t keep it on, I think,” he said. “Too big.” He was silent for a few moments. They turned back, her hand once more in his arm, but when he began to speak again, they stopped once more, facing each other on the deserted end of the promenade.

“It is all too cool,” he said. “Too civilised and cold and thin. A man doesn’t always want to be so formal, Lydia, and so civilised.”

“But I am not cold,” she said. “Surely, Peter, you must know that. Only on the top, a little. A protective covering against strangers. Never cold to you.”

He wondered. He thought that she was intrinsically cold; but it was possible that he was wrong. It was possible that underneath this cool and aloof exterior, she was warm and loving, although it was difficult to believe. Certainly when she spoke again, her voice was warm enough.

“Why don’t we try it; Peter dear?” she asked. “Why don’t we become engaged? It would make me very happy. It would delight all our friends. And I’m sure it would make you happy, too, once you got used to it
...
And you will feel lonely, Peter, when the two young ones have gone. You have given a lot of your life to Douglas, and a lot of your thoughts and your loving care. When he is married to Alison, there will be a big gap. Let me fill it, Peter; I’m sure that I could.”

“You seem very sure,” he said, “that Douglas will marry Alison.”

“Well, aren’t you?” she asked in surprise.

“I haven’t been told anything,” he said.

“Oh,” she exclaimed in quick impatience, “nor have I. But I have eyes in my head. Haven’t you? Why aren’t they here with us now? Why have they stayed so happily together in the cottage all the summer? Peter, you are wilfully blinding yourself.” She was tempted to throw in one or two doubts as to their behaviour there in the cottage all summer; but she thought that, with Peter, it was better not. She went on: “But why are we talking about Alison and Douglas? It is you and myself I want to talk about, Peter dear. Won’t you let me fill the gap?”

“The gap doesn’t exist yet,” he said gently. “The gap isn’t important. What is important is whatever is definite and positive between us.”

She turned once more to walk beside him. She had satisfactorily reminded him of the attachment between Alison and Douglas; had put the thought of marriage into the forefront of his mind.

“There is very much that is positive, Peter. We have the same circle of friends, the same tastes, the same cultivated outlook. I have for you a very strong love; that is very positive; and even if you do not love me in the same way, you have always been very fond of me, and I am sure that I could make you happy.”

Have I, wondered Peter, always been very fond of her? I have liked her company, we have certainly shared the same friends and tastes and outings. I suppose I should miss her if she went away. Or would I, he asked himself. Isn’t she rather just what she said herself? Isn’t she a habit with me?

All the same, if Douglas marries Alison, there is going to be a pretty bleak prospect before me. For some years now, Douglas has occupied a large part of my mind; and it has been necessary to plan for him, think of him, consider him. Douglas I shall certainly miss
...
And Alison, too, bless her. She’s a dear child. And I suppose it isn’t much good blinding myself to the state of affairs there: they could have been here in Italy with us, but preferred to stay behind where they could be sure of greater privacy. Everything points to growing romance between them. Nothing cool and civilised and thin there. All the glowing, blossoming quality of youthful love.

“Well, Peter?” asked Lydia softly, beside him.

He had to drag his mind back to the last thing she had said: that he had always been very fond of her and she was sure she could make him happy. He said: “Let us think about it, Lydia. It doesn’t seem, to me, quite a strong enough base for marriage.”

“Oh, we have drifted long enough,” she cried. “And you don’t want to drift any longer?”

“No, no, no. I want my future to be settled, assured, and with you, the man I love.”

“Lydia, it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.”

“What nonsense! Why would it?”

“To give ourselves a better chance to think it over.”

“I don’t need to think it over. I have thought of it for years.”

“Then I need time,” said Peter.

“How can you need tune? You have known for a long time how I feel. Why cannot you tell me now?”

“Lydia, it isn’t enough for marriage.”

“It is. It is. Many people make it enough.”

“That implies its deficiencies.”