‘Oh.’ Alison looked down, extremely moved.
‘Well, Alison?’
‘What?’ She looked up in that startled little way, to find his smile on her.
‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Why, of course.’ Alison smiled too.
‘Thank you,’ he said very gravely then.
There was a moment’s silence, and then he said, ‘I am sorry to have seen so little of you since that first evening, but you always seem to be out when I come. Then Rosalie explained to me how much in demand you were with your own set and-’
‘Rosalie told you that?’ Alison couldn’t keep her colour down.
‘Yes.’ He looked at her penetratingly and then said sharply, ‘Why not?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Alison said, looking away from him.
After a long moment he said quietly, ‘I see.’ And Alison felt perfectly certain that he did.
But he made no other comment. He merely said, ‘Are you doing anything to-morrow, Alison?’
‘Oh, no.’ Alison’s surprise that he should suppose such a thing was more illuminating than she knew.
‘Then will you come for a drive with me? We could start early, and be right out in the country before the real heat of the day.’
Alison was silent, her hands locked together. The temptation to say ‘Yes’ was overwhelming, but some obscure instinct told her she was playing with particularly dangerous fire.
Julian looked faintly put out at her hesitation.
‘I thought I’d been forgiven,’ he reminded her teasingly, but she saw that he flushed slightly.
It was that flush which did it. Rosalie might hurt and humiliate him, thwart him and make him unsure of himself. It was beyond Alison to do the same for any reason, good or bad.
‘I’d love to come,’ she told him eagerly. ‘I’d simply love it.’
‘Very well.’ He smiled at her unexpected vehemence, and she could see he was wondering what had been behind her hesitation. ‘Is half-past eight too early for you?’
‘Oh, no. I’ll go to bed early,’ she told him.
‘All right. Go to bed early.’ He laughed kindly. And she had no idea that he carried away with him a picture that reminded him rather pathetically of a child on the day before a party.
When he had gone, Alison walked quietly up and down the library because she was too excited to sit still.
It was all wrong, of course, feeling like this because she was to spend a day with Rosalie’s fiancé. Only that afternoon she had reproached herself for her pleasure in the thought of an hour with him. Now she was brazenly rejoicing because she was to spend a whole day with him.
‘But I don’t care,’ she told herself passionately. ‘It’s only one day out of all his life. One day-and all the rest are Rosalie’s.’ And then, in a flash of unconvincing remorse, she thought, ‘Besides, perhaps it will rain.’
But she knew it wouldn’t rain-it couldn’t rain. Not on this one day out of all his life.
CHAPTER III
ALISON was ready and waiting when Julian arrived next morning-a morning which had dawned in cloudless perfection.
As they left London, the faint mist of morning still clung about the houses of the outer suburbs, like the last vestige of sleep about waking eyes. And Alison, sitting very quiet beside Julian in the big grey Daimler, thought how perfect life was.
Then, just as she was beginning to wonder if she ought to make some sort of conversation, he said:
‘What kind of breakfast did you have, Alison?’
‘Nothing very much. Why?’ Alison looked a little surprised.
‘I thought so. We will stop at the next place and you’ll have a proper meal.’
‘But I really don’t need it,’ she protested.
‘No? Well, perhaps I do,’ he said carelessly, and Alison was pleasantly aware that the matter had been taken out of her hands. It was a very long while since anyone had bothered about her having proper meals.
At the next likely-looking place he drew the car to a standstill, and they went in to have breakfast.
There was nothing overbearing about his attitude-in fact, most of the time he gave the impression of the most casual supervision. But, just as on that first evening, Alison was conscious of quiet, deliberate care for her behind that half indifferent manner.
And she was glad that it should be so.
Afterwards they went on, Julian driving fast, but with a sureness that left Alison without a qualm.
Along the white, dusty roads they sped, past fields where the corn was slowly turning golden, where poppies danced in the wind and cornflowers nodded to marguerites. And over it all hung the thick, sweet scent of clover lying warm in the sunshine.
Across the fields the cloud shadows trooped, following each other in endless procession on and on to the west. And, watching them, Alison thought, ‘Whenever I smell clover, and whenever I watch sun and shadow together, I shall think of this day again and be happy.’
‘Do I drive too fast for you, Alison?’ he said at last. ‘You’re very quiet.’
She roused herself a little. ‘No. I like it. Ought I to be talking?’
‘No, my child.’ He gave that thoughtful smile, but without turning his head to look at her. ‘You’re a very restful little presence, sitting there beside me. I only wondered what you were thinking of that kept you so silent.’
‘Oh.’ Alison coloured slightly at the compliment. ‘I was just trying to impress it all very clearly on my mind,’ she explained slowly, ‘so that afterwards I can be happy all over again when I think about it.’
Julian laughed softly.
‘There isn’t anything very dramatic for you to remember, I’m afraid. Just a car drive. You’ll soon forget it.’
‘Oh, no. Such a very happy car drive,’ she said shyly. ‘And I think happiness is the most lasting thing in the world.’
He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I agree with you there.’
But Alison nodded firmly.
‘It’s true. Just think how you take out a pleasant memory and look at it over and over again; and it’s always bright. But the tragic ones grow dim and lose their outlines. I used to think when I first lost Mother and Daddy that I should never forget the shock and misery, but I very seldom think of that part of it now. Instead, I remember odd, delightful things, like going with my mother to buy my first party frock when I was a little girl, or hearing Daddy say he was proud of me when I passed my first school exam, or seeing them both trying not to look too brazenly gratified when I won a ridiculous cup for rather indifferent swimming.’
Julian turned his head for a moment and gave her a quick, kindly smile.
‘You are a good little philosopher, Alison. But, all the same, I think temperament has a lot to do with your argument. I’m afraid what I remember are the hard, bitter things. The times when I’ve been wildly angry or-’
‘Hurt,’ finished Alison quietly as he hesitated.
‘I wonder why you said that?’ He spoke thoughtfully. ‘I’m not very easily hurt, you know. I’m really rather insensitive!’
‘Oh, no.’ It was Alison who smiled then. ‘You’re not in the least insensitive.’
‘But I don’t think you really know much about me, Alison,’ he said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What, for instance?’
She was amused to see that he found himself a not at all disagreeable topic of conversation.
‘Well-that, for one thing. You’re sensitive, very proud, rather on the look-out for slights, extremely determined, easily hurt, and unusually passionate.’
‘Good God!’ said Julian slowly. ‘And I’ve been thinking of you as a nice, unobservant little schoolgirl.’
‘Well, don’t,’ Alison advised him curtly.
‘What makes you think that I’m passionate?’ he asked with sudden stiffness, as though her final words had only just penetrated.