Priorsford (Historical Novel). O. Douglas
he?' said Alison.
'No.' Peter had been going into the subject of relationship with Ninny. 'To be a real uncle he'd need to be a brother of Mummy or Daddy, and Daddy hasn't any brother and only Aunt Pamela for a sister.'
'But, Peter,' Jean said, 'it's just because Daddy has no brother of his own that Uncle Tim means so much to him. They've been friends all their lives. They played together, worked together, travelled together, and fought together. Out in France, in the great fighting, when Daddy was lying with his leg broken, Uncle Tim, though he was badly wounded himself, managed to drag him into safety. So you see, none of us can ever do enough for Uncle Tim--.' She turned to Ninny--'I think it's the effects of that old wound that trouble him now. He seemed to get over the pneumonia all right, then there came one relapse after another, and now his nerves seem to have gone all to pieces, and that's the worst of all.'
Ninny looked serious. ''Deed it is,' she said. 'Bad eneuch for a woman but a heap waur for a man. I wadna thocht Major Talbot wud hae gone like that, he was aye so blythe and cheery-like.'
'Uncle Tim's my godfather,' Peter reminded the company. 'He sends me a present every birthday--a good one.'
'And you don't even say him in your prayers,' his sister reproached him.
'Oh,' said Peter lightly, 'I might put him next to Mummy and Daddy before I come to--Quentin, let go the puppy's tail.'
Lady Bidborough rose to go, amid protests, Alison remarking bitterly, 'Mummy never stays long enough.'
'I'm so sorry, darling, but Daddy may be back any minute now and I want to be on the doorstep to welcome him. . . . Enjoy your picnic, and perhaps I'll bring Daddy out to the Crow-Wood after tea. Don't overfeed the puppy; it's mistaken kindness. Good-bye, my ducks.'
Jean walked quickly until she reached the rose-garden. From there she could see the bend of the drive and the approach of the car.
As she stood, in the warm delicious afternoon, among the roses, listening to the contented hum of the bees, knowing that every minute was bringing her beloved nearer, she sighed with sheer happiness.
From one rose-laden tree to another she went, bending over the blossoms, blush pink, pale yellow, glowing crimson, revelling in their sweetness, and humming to herself words that had run in her head all day:
'There's comfort for the comfortless And honey for the bee. . . .'
Comfortless! She smiled as she thought of her brimming cup, then sobered, remembering those whose cups were empty of aught but bitterness. How strangely, almost waywardly things were portioned out in this world. Certainly it was not always the most deserving to whom the good things came. Perhaps--but this was not the moment to puzzle over the decrees of fate: the car was coming up the beech avenue.
She was at the door as it drew up, and in a second Lord Bidborough was up the steps.
'Jean, my blessed girl, what a refreshing sight you are! Yes, I am a bit hot and dusty. I'll change, if you don't mind, before tea. I shan't be many minutes.'
Lord Bidborough was forty-two, ten years older than his wife, but as he was neither fat nor bald, he still had the appearance of youth, and certainly he had the spirit.
'Well, this is good,' he said a little later, as they sat together in Jean's own room. She had appropriated it the day she had come as a bride to Mintern Abbas, saying that it reminded her of the living-room at The Rigs. It was a small room, panelled, looking out over lawn and river and away across woods and meadows to the hills, and Jean had given it the touch she was able to give to any room she occupied.
Looking round it, her husband gave a satisfied sigh, saying:
'This room is so like you, Jean. I'd know it for yours anywhere. It's always meticulously neat--like yourself: a trifle austere perhaps.' He nodded towards a bureau on which stood the miniature of an old lady, with white hair and a mouth that folded sternly. 'Great-Aunt Alison dominates it, doesn't she?'
Jean looked at the miniature and smiled.
'Poor Great-Aunt Alison! I don't think she'd think the room very tidy; too many flowers; but I can't resist them against the old oak. . . . Am I very old-maidishly tidy, Biddy?'
'It's part of you: it goes with all the rest. You wouldn't be yourself if you allowed yourself to lounge, or if you smoked, or were loose in speech or manners. I like the hint of austerity.' He leant forward, smiling. '. . . I wonder if you remember a talk we had the day we were married, when you told me you thought it would be stawsome (you translated it as "rather sickening") if we had nothing to do but love all the time.'
Jean blushed and shook her head. 'Did I say that? Surely not.'
'Oh, yes. You said it. I was amused at the time, thinking it rather an unusual remark for a bride to make, but I've often thought of it since, when I saw couples, who began with raptures, shipwreck, or descend to a dreary jog-trot, having obviously lost all interest in each other. I realise the wisdom of having reserves. . . . Well, what have you all been about since I left you?'
'Tim is worse,' thought Jean to herself: 'Biddy dreads beginning to tell me about him. We'll talk about other things till he's rested,' and she began an account of how she had spent the hours while he was away.
'I lunched yesterday with the Maynards: a large hot luncheon. After it the ominous words: "Now you must see the garden." It's dreadful of me, but I am so sick of garden, and oh, I know, it's like saying I'm sick of Spring or the Bible, but I can't help it. This summer has been so hot, and people's gardens are so large, and so similar. You wouldn't think you could get tired of herbaceous borders, but you can. And so many of them are making rock-gardens, and you're expected to poise on boulders and be intelligent. . . . The Maynards spare one nothing. We trailed, quite a party of us, along hot ashy paths, while Mrs. Maynard pointed out how large this blossom was, and what a wonderful colour the other. . . . I managed to ooze away before we reached the vegetables, and rushed home hoping to have tea with the children, but some people arrived--Americans--Doria Manson brought them. They asked to see over the house, and were nice, and interested, but it took so long that I only saw the babes at bed-time. . . . After dinner I sat here and wrote letters--worked off quite a heap--and thought of you in airless, August London.'
Her husband lit a cigarette and remarked: 'It's a very good imitation of the Sahara.'
'And poor Tim lying in that grim Home!' Jean went on. 'I do think if he would only make the effort and come here it would do him good. He could come in an ambulance with his own nurse, and he'd have perfect quiet. This house is so big the noise of the children would never reach him. And at least he would smell roses instead of disinfectants. Don't you think you could persuade him, Biddy?'
Lord Bidborough smoked for a minute in silence.
'No,' he said at last, 'he won't come here. I did suggest it, but I don't think he even listened. He was too full of his own plan. Yes. Something--nobody seems to know what--has roused him from the state of apathy he's been lying in all these weeks. He's taken the most tremendous desire to be on a ship. He would be well, he thinks, if he could wake up and hear the water swishing past. And of course the doctors are only too glad to encourage him in his idea.'
Jean lifted a delighted face to her husband.
'Why, Biddy, that's splendid news! It means that now he will recover, for the sun and the sea will do wonders for him. Of course he'll take a nurse with him, and a doctor too, if he's wise. Oh, Biddy, how glad you must be! And I was thinking from something in your voice that he must be worse.'
Lord Bidborough carefully placed the end of his cigarette in an ashtray as he said: 'You haven't heard it all. Tim's idea is not only to get away from London--you can't wonder he loathes the place--but to get away also from doctors and nurses and everything that would remind him of his illness.'
'But he can't go alone,' Jean said, her hands clenching in her lap.
'No,' said her husband, 'he can't go alone; he wants me to go with him.' He got up and looked out of the window, and came back and sat down beside Jean.