Pilgtim's Inn

  “Well, you’ve done it,” said Nadine to the house. “You pulled them in here to yourself just as you pulled in George and the children. You’ve got to defend us all now . . . ‘from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul.’ ”

  She realized that she was praying and was astonished at herself, for it was not her habit to pray, and far away, like an answer to her prayer, came the distant chiming of bells. This faint chiming was now one of the special sounds of this place, a part of it, like the slap of the ripples against the river wall, the crying of the gulls, and the beat of the swans’ wings overhead. It came from the bunch of bright bells that hung on the top of the mast on Malony’s boat. Sometimes the wind made them chime, and sometimes Malony tramping about and rocking the boat. The sound was extraordinarily beautiful, and to Nadine at this moment reassuring.

  — 4 —

  That was not the last of Nadine’s shocks that afternoon. A mere half hour later there came the sound of a car, and then George’s genial voice raised in welcome. Mary, barking wildly, exploded into a white fountain of fur in her basket. However deep her slumber, the advent of strangers never failed to explode her like a match set to a fuse. “Be quiet, Mary!” said Nadine, as Mary leaped from her basket, ricocheted across the room, and started bouncing herself back and forth against the door, but she spoke only automatically, for Mary, set off, was like one of those old-fashioned alarm clocks that cannot be stopped until they have finished. Nadine took her powder compact and her lipstick from her bag and attended carefully to her face before the mirror. She always refused to be hurried. Hurry was so aging. Then she opened her door, and with Mary bouncing about her passed with her loveliest grace and dignity down the gracious curve of the stairs to greet her guests. They were laughing and talking with George in the bar parlor, now called the hall, where he was shaking cocktails, for a free drink on the house upon arrival was a tradition that George delighted to keep up. The strangers looked up and saw her, and paid her beauty that homage of a quick surprised silence that she was now so used to that she hardly noticed it.

  “My wife,” said George, with his customary pride.

  Oddly enough, it was the girl whom Nadine saw first, and saw with a pang of utterly unreasonable fear, followed immediately by a pang of equally unreasonable dislike. For what could there be to fear in this child, or to dislike either? She looked a thoroughly nice girl, Nadine decided on second thought, and though with her height, her big bones, and her haphazard features she couldn’t in her hostess’ opinion be called beautiful, her hair and her tawny eyes were lovely. And though she had no style she had her own charm, Nadine thought, as she shook hands with her. In her golden-brown tweeds and honey-combed jumper she looked like some loving, faithful sort of animal, a retriever or a lion cub who had been born without carnivorous propensities.

  “I hope you’ll be happy here,” she said to the shy, friendly Sally.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” said Sally. “Sort of—set apart. It’s like seeing a picture in an exhibition of some strange shining dream place and stepping over the sill of the frame and finding yourself safe inside it.”

  Safe. She too used the word safe. What a lovely deep voice she had, a singer’s voice, its charm increased by the Scotch lilt. Yes, she was attractive.

  “We’ve met before, Mrs. Eliot,” said John Adair.

  Even while she was speaking to Sally she had known that, had been aware in all her quickened senses of his compelling vitality. Now she turned to him. “In the train once,” she said. “What a coincidence!”

  “I’m no believer in coincidence,” he told her, holding her hand in a warm friendly grasp, his strong ugly face creased with amusement. “And I don’t leave things to chance.”

  So he had come here because of her. How in the world had he found out who she was, where she lived? In her youth she had been used to being the happy quarry of many cheerful huntsmen, and she had played the game of enticement, evasion, and withdrawal with a wicked glee, but the bitter pain of her break with David had left her no heart for love as a game, and her power of attraction had been weakened by her indifference. But now something of the old delight stirred in her again. Her answering laugh had in it the ring of genuine amusement, a ring that had been absent for so long that it positively startled George, and for a moment she looked a girl again. Recovering from the shock George smiled broadly. A little amiable flirtation would do Nadine as much good as a bottle of tonic. He had no fear of this man. Though George was unaware of the subtleties of character or of situation he could sum up the general layout pretty shrewdly. He recognized in John Adair a man very happily possessed of an exceedingly successful career; and a successful careerist in the late fifties, hoarding his strength and his powers for the one purpose, had no use for the damaging emotions, only those that refresh and invigorate. Nadine might think the fellow had fallen for her. . . . Well, he obviously had, but probably only because he wanted to paint her.

  Nadine gently withdrew her hand and became the perfect hostess of a guesthouse. “Let’s sit down while we have our cocktails. Then I’ll show you your rooms. In there is the drawing room. Tea will be served presently. It’s so warm I believe you could have it in the garden. We put up tables among the Michaelmas daisies, by the river wall. You are our only guests for a couple of days, and then there are two men coming for a week’s fishing, and some week-end people. We never take more than six guests, though people come and go for meals and drinks. You have come for as long as the Herb of Grace gives satisfaction, haven’t you?”

  “You see before you two homeless vagabonds,” said John Adair cheerfully. “Lease of flat fallen in. Couldn’t find another. Furniture stored.”

  “What about your painting, sir?” asked George.

  “I’ve kept the studio. The owner of the flat didn’t want it. I can go backwards and forwards to Town when I need to. But, as it happens, I’ve finished my commissioned portraits and I’m going to take a bit of a holiday.”

  “That doesn’t mean that he’s going to stop painting,” said Sally. “He can’t. The back of the car is so full up with all his painting things that we could hardly bring any clothes or books. He means that he’s just going to paint what he wants to paint.” John Adair’s eyes went to Nadine’s face and he appeared to be pondering upon it.

  “And where is he going to paint?” asked Nadine, with a suspicion of dryness, for his look now as he regarded her had become slightly impersonal; he might have been a window dresser wondering how to arrange the goods to the best advantage.

  “Have you an attic with a north light?” he asked.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, we have,” said Nadine, slightly outraged, “but—”

  “Never say ‘but,’ ” said John Adair with twinkling eyes. “It is not only one of the ugliest words in the language; it is also a singularly depressing word, connoting irresolution, and heard upon the lips of those who are halfhearted in their undertakings, unhappy people who never go the whole hog, and with whom I should be most grieved to see you ally yourself. . . . This is an extremely good drink, General; you’ve gone all out with this cocktail. . . . Mrs. Eliot, have you an attic with a north light?”

  “It’s yours,” laughed Nadine. “I’d wanted it to store the apples in, but I can’t have it.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s a bit dusty, but Malony, our houseman, will sweep it out.”

  “Thank you very much. This evening? I’d like to settle in as soon as possible.”

  Yet though his words were brusque, his tone was courteous, and his twinkling eyes upon her were now once more so full of animation and delight that she did not resent being stampeded. When one is very tired, she thought, the masterful people who tell you what to do can be very restful.

  On their way upstairs she showed them the drawing room, which she had now made a pl
ace of tranquil beauty. It was very simple. She had been lucky enough to get hold of some old green brocade for the curtains, which she had lined with peach color. The armchairs were upholstered in pale green and Lucilla had given her a couple of Persian rugs from Damerosehay for the floor. There was some old glass on the Adam mantelpiece, plenty of books in a tall glass-fronted bookcase, an old rosewood piano, and bowls of flowers. The only picture was a painting of Ben’s. He had not showed it to her, but she had found it in the little room next door where Ben painted when Tommy was not at home to litter it up with his bones, and to please him, for she was full of sorrow just then for her neglect of his cough, she had framed it and hung it in the drawing room. It showed a herd of red deer racing through a village street at night under the light of the moon. . . . and leading the red deer was one white one. . . . He had drawn the street from the one at the Hard, and he had got very well the contrast between the peaceful old houses dreaming under the moon and the swift movement of the deer. The flying clouds overhead seemed no swifter in flight than the red deer, and the white one was like a fallen moonbeam; indeed, the light in the picture came from him rather than from the moon. But Nadine did not think it was very good; the anatomy of the deer seemed a bit odd in places.

  But after just one delighted glance around the room John Adair was in front of it. “Who did that?” he demanded.

  “Ben, my eldest boy,” said Nadine. “You know, in old days, it was a common occurrence for people in these parts to wake up in the night and hear the deer from the forest galloping down the village street. When he heard it, that captured Ben’s imagination. Also we’ve got in the house a funny little stone image of a deer that was dug up in the garden, and that has captured his imagination too. But I’m afraid the picture is not very good.”

  “It’s damn good,” said John Adair, almost with violence.

  “But the drawing—”

  “Faulty, of course, he’s had no teaching. But he’s got it—the light.”

  “Yes, the moonlight is lovely,” said Nadine.

  John Adair snapped his fingers impatiently, for that was not the light that he had meant. “How old is this boy?” he asked.

  “Sixteen,” said Nadine.

  “At school, of course?”

  “Actually he’s at home just now. He’s not too strong, I’m afraid. The doctor said he must have a term or two off, and keep out in the air as much as possible. It’s so bad for him, missing school like this.”

  “For this boy, probably the best thing possible,” said John Adair, tapping the picture with his finger. “I’ll soon correct the faulty drawing.”

  “You mean—?” asked Nadine.

  “We’ll share my studio, your son and I. You, too, of course. I’m going to paint you for next year’s Academy.”

  Nadine looked the picture of incredulity. “I’ve no time for such nonsense,” she laughed.

  “You’ll find the time,” he assured her, “and you knew the moment you saw me here that I had come to paint you.”

  She did not deny it. What was the use? No conventional insincerities would deceive this man. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.

  “That day in the train you dropped a letter headed ‘The Herb of Grace.’ Then when Sally and I were searching for a roof to put over our heads she showed me the advertisement of your inn in some paper or other. I made a few inquiries and heard that General Eliot had an exceedingly beautiful wife. Then I put two and two together. And here I am.”

  Sally, at the window, had been gloating over the view. Now she gave an incredulous cry of delight. “It’s the twins!” she cried. John Adair and Nadine joined her at the window and beheld the twins and Jill coming through the garden. “You’re the mother of my children,” she said, turning eagerly to Nadine. “Of the Chevalier, the Pirate, Kate Greenaway, and the twins! I used to see them in the greengrocer’s shop at Chelsea.”

  “Was it you who sent me the bunch of violets?” asked Nadine.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Thank you,” said Nadine. “It’s odd, isn’t it, that we should be together here? That is a coincidence, if you like.”

  They looked at each other, and Nadine saw a tiny shadow of fear in Sally’s eyes. It was gone in a moment, but unmistakable. So Sally was a little bit afraid too, and was probably as unaware of the reason as she was herself.

  “I say again there’s no coincidence,” said John Adair behind them. “You stepped into a picture, Sally, so you said, when you came into this house. The great masters, no matter how densely populated their canvases, never get a single figure there without deliberate intention.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  — 1 —

  John Adair and Sally had been at the Herb of Grace for a fortnight, though it seemed longer, so much a part of its life had they become, and so quick was Sally at making herself useful wherever she might happen to be. She liked being useful, especially when it meant minding the twins. This morning she had been aware of a slight atmosphere of strain in the house. The two fishermen were now in residence, and though they were quiet elderly men, absorbed in fish, they nevertheless ate a lot and seemed dissatisfied if fed only upon the fish they caught. And today a relative of General Eliot’s, who had been ill and was visiting Lady Eliot at Damerosehay, was expected to lunch. . . .

  And Nadine still had no cook. . . . Sally had already offered to cook for the period of her stay, but Nadine had received this offer a little brusquely; her pride would not let her accept quite all that much help from a guest. Sally could understand that, and so this morning she had just offered to look after the twins while Nadine cooked and Jill did the children’s washing. Nadine’s pride permitted Sally the flowers, minding the twins, and exercising Mary, for these were holiday employments that took her out of doors. And she loved the twins. It was convenient for a woman to be born as naturally selfless and maternal as was Sally, thought Nadine. She would make a good wife and mother with very little effort on her part.

  Sally gave the twins their morning lessons in the drawing room first. They did not like acquiring information and generally behaved like demons in the process, but she promised them that if they were good they should take her afterwards a long way inside the wood, whose real name, Jill said, was Knyghtwood, and consequently, they gave quite a good imitation of a couple of cherubs. They’d have given a good imitation of anything to go to Knyghtwood . . . right deep in. When they went with Jill, though they went a good way, they never seemed to have time to go just quite far enough; she always had to get home to do something or other. And Father and Mother never had time to explore more than just the fringe. And with Ben they never got far enough because he was making a picture of a part of the wood that he liked especially, and as soon as he got there he stuck. But Sally, they felt, being both leisured and inartistic, could be relied on to go right deep in . . . right past Ben’s place to the place where the Fairy Person lived.

  Lessons finished, she took them upstairs to their lovely nursery and put on their stout little walking shoes and their Fair Isle cardigans. They could have done this for themselves, but she loved to do it. She liked the feel of their wriggling little feet in her hands, and the warmth of their bodies in her arms made her feel even gladder than usual that she was alive. Holding a child in your arms gave you much the same feeling as pushing your fingers down into the earth when you were gardening, or having your horse nuzzle the palm of your hand for sugar. Quite suddenly you felt that your life was not an isolated thing, but existed in all other lives, as all other lives existed within yours. There wasn’t anything anywhere to which you could say, “We don’t need each other.”

  Taking her arms from around José she looked up and her eyes met those of Annie-Laurie, who was making the twins’ beds. In the older girl’s face there was a look of anguish, immediately and quickly sealed in again when she saw herself observed. And not only angu
ish, but something rather like hatred. Sally suddenly felt rather shaky at the knees. Nadine, she knew instinctively, did not really like her, and now it appeared that Annie-Laurie actually hated her. She was not surprised at Nadine’s dislike, but the hatred did surprise her, and horrified her too, for that glimpse of it had been like a brief glimpse of darkness. Then her shock, her horror, were forgotten in a surge of compassion. Did Annie-Laurie live in that darkness? Annie-Laurie was answering her compassion now with a look that said, “I don’t need you.” But that wasn’t true. They were together in the picture.

  “Annie-Laurie, will you show me your houseboat one day?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing to see,” said Annie-Laurie curtly.

  “Please,” said Sally.

  “It’s our private little home, my father’s and mine. Not even Mrs. Eliot has seen it.”

  The rudeness of this hurt too much for Sally to be able to find any answer. She smiled, her face surprised yet humbly patient, like that of a child when it is hurt, collected the twins, and went downstairs to find Mary and her mackintosh and boots. The care of a snow-white Pekinese in the country was, Nadine had discovered, no sinecure. She had become so tired of having to wash Mary every time she had been in Knyghtwood that she had now made her four little mackintosh top boots, and a curious mackintosh garment that protected her furry undercarriage and tied with bows on top of her back. Mary detested these garments, and rumbled aggressively all the time she was being put into them, her rumbles accompanied by a flash in the eye which led everyone to feel it was just as well that they could not understand what she said.