Then She Fled Me

by Sara Seale

  “Kathy always does the tree,” Sarah said. “She’s the artistic one of the family.”

  “You know,” said Adrian, “there’s something quite different about a tree lit with candles. The modern variety with their colored electric lights lose something. I hadn’t realized it before.”

  “Perhaps,” said Kathy, “it’s because a tree is an old-fashioned custom, so old-fashioned ways are best.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, and looked round the library. This is a fine room. Why don’t you use it more?”

  “We like the snug,” said Sarah briefly, and flipped a branch of the tree, setting all the shining decorations dancing and shimmering in the light.

  “Do you remember how you always wanted the star when we were little, Sarah?” Kathy laughed.

  “Because it was always out of reach,” Sarah said absently. “You were the lucky one. You were always happy with the things on the lower branches.”

  The things within grasp. Yes, thought Adrian tenderly, Sarah would always set her mind on the star that was out of reach.

  Nonie’s voice from the doorway bade them “come on out of that or the turkey-bird will spoil,” and everyone went in to dinner.

  “You know,” Brian Kavanagh said, stooping over a candle-flame to light his cigar, “I think the experiment has worked so far.”

  “The experiment?” Adrian looked enquiring. The two men were still lingering over their port, but Joe had already left them to join the others in the library.

  “Sarah’s hare-brained scheme to take in boarders.”

  “Oh, I see. You weren’t in favor of the idea, then?”

  “Oh, yes. I backed her up and talked the others round as it happened. It seemed to me a less impossible scheme than some of her previous ideas, and something had to be done if they were to stop on at Dun Rury.” He smiled at Adrian with sudden charm. “I wonder if Sarah realizes how lucky she’s been in her first resident.”

  Adrian’s eyes twinkled.

  “I doubt if she would put it that way. As a lodger I gather I wasn’t wholly satisfactory.”

  Brian smiled.

  “She’s like her father, hot-headed, stubborn, and no sense of business.”

  “She tells me she’s the practical one of the family.”

  “God save the others, then! I sometimes think it’s a case of the halt leading the lame, though, mind you, they listen to her. For all her youth and her scatter-brained notions, she runs her family, and they look to her, young as she is. Emma has never had any mind of her own, and Kathy—well, Kathy was brought up to be a young lady and fold her hands. It wasn’t her fault, it was her father’s.”

  “Yet he left the place to Sarah. Surely an unusual action.”

  Brian looked thoughtfully down the long table laden with glass and the heavy, old-fashioned silver he had remembered for years.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Denis thought he hadn’t been fair to the girl—in his affections, I mean. You can’t help being fonder of one child more than another, I suppose, but he showed it. Besides, he knew Kathy would marry and leave home, and he wanted to leave provision for Sarah in case.”

  “In case she didn’t marry? But why should he presume she wouldn’t?”

  “Ah, well, she was only just sixteen when he died, a thin little slip of a girl, the tomboy of the family, and his eyes were always blinded by Kathy—she was so like her mother, you see. I used to try and persuade him to send her to school, and he said he would when Kathy came home, but I doubt it, and when he died there was no money, anyway. He had overspent his income for years. Sarah ought to sell, of course—not that the place would fetch much now.”

  “There’s some good stuff here,” Adrian said, glancing round the room.

  “Ah, sure there’s good stuff, and bad stuff, too. Denis had no taste at all. It was Kathleen who had the taste, and most of what she bought has gone. Sarah has been selling these past two years. We couldn’t stop her, it’s her own stuff. If I protested she’d just give me one of her crusading looks and say the house was all that mattered.”

  Adrian smiled. He knew Sarah’s crusading look.

  “It seems a pity,” he said carefully, “that she should make a fetish of the place. I imagine it’s all mixed up with her feelings for her father.”

  “Maybe, though, myself, I think it’s most stubborn pride. But she’ll be forced to it in the end.”

  “Do you think so? It strikes me that hanging on to Dun Rury is the one thing she’s certain of.”

  “Ah, she’s a child! She sacrifices too much to a lost cause. Kathy will marry soon, but there’s still Danny. He can’t go to the village school all his life. Denis owed him something, too. And what’s the future? You’ll go and others will come, if she’s lucky, and as soon as they annoy her in any way she’ll throw them out with never a thought for the money. She’s not cut out for the job.” He gave Adrian a quick glance. “I wonder was it Sarah’s need or Kathy’s pretty face that made you change your mind about stopping.”

  “The place suited me,” Adrian replied a little stiffly. “It didn’t matter to me where I went.”

  “Is that so? Well, there’s no telling what will please anyone, but for a man of your type—”

  Danny poked his head round the door.

  “Aren’t you ever coming, Uncle B.?” he said. “We want to start the carols.”

  Kathy was already at the piano, a lighted candle on either side of the music-rest. They had put out the lamps, and only the tree stood in a little circle of light, its shining tinsel winking in the shadows of the branches. The turf fire threw a soft glow over the shabby furniture, and on Sarah standing, slim and expectant, by the piano.

  “Now we can begin,” Joe said. “But first the old tradition.”

  He held a sprig of mistletoe over Kathy’s head, kissed her and passed it to his father.

  “Denis instituted that the year after Kathleen died,” Aunt Em told Adrian. “He called it Christmas homage to the loveliest face in the room. The men have done it ever since. It’s your turn, now.”

  Brian was holding out the sprig of mistletoe to him, and he took it and bent over Kathy.

  “To the loveliest face in the room,” he said gravely, and she raised a face into which the bright, rich color suddenly flooded.

  “She’s blushing!” shouted Danny delightedly. “Joe never makes her do that.”

  They all laughed, but Joe’s eyes were thoughtful as he turned away. Sarah, standing silently by the piano, looked at Adrian under her lashes. He was idly twirling the mistletoe in his fingers, and as he made a sudden move to toss it on the fire she darted away from him. He followed her more slowly, and stood grinning down at her.

  “I hadn’t got designs on you, you know,” he said softly.

  She looked at him warily.

  “I didn’t suppose you had.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. You were off like a startled fawn. But, really, I wouldn’t presume to kiss my landlady under the mistletoe. I might be thrown out.”

  Her mouth curved up in a reluctant smile, but there was an odd hurt look in her green eyes, not, he thought, because of his teasing, but at her father’s thoughtless little tradition. “Will you sing The Spanish Lady for me later?” he asked.

  “If you like,” she replied indifferently, and moved back to the piano.

  They sang all the well known carols, while Adrian listened, his eyes on the lighted tree and his thoughts with those other Christmas days so barren of the simple things of the season. He remembered years ago including a group of old carols in a Christmas Eve recital, and the critic who had written “brilliant execution was shown in the Scarlatti and Liszt groups, but Mr. Flint did not seem to have the tender simplicity essential to his carols.” Yes, tenderness and compassion were lacking in him then. Such qualities had never been demanded of him by life. It was the one flaw in every performance.

  He was aware suddenly of Sarah sitting beside him. The carols were over and Kathy was playing h
er favorite Schumann. Warum ... Traumerei ... he had not had the tenderness for those, and neither, he thought, had Kathy, She played correctly, but without understanding, an echo of the painstaking schoolmistress who must have placed such importance on tempo and style. He had been unconsciously rubbing his finger joints and he felt Sarah’s cool hand close firmly over his.

  “Don’t,” she whispered and smiled at him. When the piano stopped, she said quietly, “Kathy’s playing irritates you, doesn’t it?”

  “No—no, Sarah,” he replied awkwardly. She plays very nicely.”

  “But she’s an amateur.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. You are an amateur with little or no voice, but your singing pleases me very much.”

  “Kathy has been well taught—”

  “Oh, yes.” He glanced at her, and said a little helplessly: “The trouble is she’s not really musical.”

  “I know,” she said unexpectedly, and got up and left him.

  “Adrian wants The Spanish Lady,” she told Kathy. He would like to have played it for her, sharing with her the gaiety of music. Instead he watched her face with its changing expressions, the smile which touched her lips at the charming words and found only pleasure in her unskilled performance.

  “When she saw me then she fled me,

  Lifting her petticoat over the knee ...”

  Kathy stumbled over a phrase and his fingers itched to correct it. The candles flared in a sudden draught and the song was over.

  “Bravo!” cried Brian. “Let’s have some more of the old favorites.”

  She sang Eileen Oge and Trottin to the Fair and that lovely gentle melody, The lark in the clear air. The candles on the Christmas tree burned down and Aunt Em sat listening, carried back to the days of her girlhood, and thought how odd it was that Sarah should be singing those old songs and not Kathy. The songs were Kathleen’s and the voice was Kathleen’s, too, as she had sung to Denis Riordan in the days of their courtship.

  “That was very like Kathleen,” Brian said with a sigh as Sarah finished, and Aunt Em nodded.

  “You felt it, too?” she said.

  Sarah came back and sat beside Adrian. “Your mother sang those songs?” he asked.

  “They were all mother’s,” she said. “That’s how I learnt them. I remember she used to try and teach them to Kathy, but Kathy always went off the note.” She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps,” she said quietly, “my father would have liked to hear me sing.”

  He did not answer, but thought suddenly of Brian saying: “His eyes were always blinded by Kathy, she was so like her mother, you see.”

  “Well, all good things come to an end. It’s getting late and we ought to be on our road,” Brian said, looking at his watch.

  “Oh, must you go just yet?” Kathy said. She always hated a party to end.

  “By the time we’re home it will be long past midnight,” Brian said. “Come along, Joe.”

  They made their farewells and left. Kathy went with them into the hall. Brian would be some time finding his overcoat and muffling himself up.

  “It’s getting colder,” she said, opening the front door. “Look at the frost on the lawn.”

  Joe held her two hands in his.

  “Have you enjoyed your Christmas?” he asked.

  “Oh, very much. I think Adrian enjoyed it, too, don’t you? He’s quite human and sociable now.”

  He smiled but did not answer, and she said: “And you, Joe? Did you enjoy Christmas?”

  “Yes, Kathy,” he said then, “not as much as I had hoped, perhaps, but—well, there’s still New Year’s Eve, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” she said, and gently drew her hands away. “We’ll meet you there, Joe, as we arranged. I’m glad Sarah’s coming after all.”

  “How did you manage to persuade her?”

  “Adrian persuaded her. At least I gather he practically ordered her to come.”

  Joe laughed.

  “Ordered our Sarah and she obeyed! Well, times are changing! Are you ready, Father?”

  “Yes, yes, just coming. Thought I’d give you two young people a minute to yourselves, eh, Kathy?” Brian patted her cheek. “By the way, Joe, did you notice the way young Flint was looking at Sarah this evening?”

  “At Sarah?” said Kathy a little sharply.

  “Yes. I had a talk with him after dinner. Seems a decent chap, and sound, too. Well! Come on, Joe. Goodnight, my dear, and, if I don’t see you before, a happy New Year.” He kissed Kathy and hurried out to his car, and she shut the door quickly and ran back to the library. Sarah was snuffing out the candles on the tree, and Adrian stood by the piano idly turning over a sheet of music.

  “Sarah,” Kathy said, “I’ll finish that if you want to go to bed.”

  “It’s nearly done,” said Sarah. “And I’m not sleepy.”

  Aunt Em was already urging Danny to bed and Kathy went and peered over Adrian’s shoulder to see what he was looking at. “Those are the second set of Irish airs. Do you know them?” she asked.

  “Some of them.” He smiled down at her flushed face. “I must thank you for a delightful evening, Kathy,” he said a little formally. “A very delightful Christmas altogether.”

  “The nicest you’ve ever had?” she exclaimed childishly. “Oh, but of course that’s nonsense.”

  “Not nonsense at all,” he replied. “I can quite safely say it’s the nicest Christmas I’ve ever spent.”

  “Oh!” she said softly and glanced over her shoulder at Sarah, who was emptying ashtrays into the fire. “Sarah ... don’t bother, darling ... Mary will do it in the morning.”

  “It’s no bother,” said Sarah, and Adrian straightened his long back.

  “Well, if there’s nothing I can do, I think I’ll go to bed,” he said. “Goodnight, both of you, and thank you.”

  “You might,” Kathy said tearfully as soon as the door had closed, “have left us alone.”

  Sarah frowned into a dirty glass.

  “Left you alone?” she repeated. “Whatever for?”

  “Well—I—I wanted to ask him something about my music.”

  “You can ask him tomorrow.”

  “I suppose so, only—”

  Sarah put down the glass and looked across at her sister with a puzzled expression.

  “Are you upset?” she asked, then added softly: “What about Joe, Kathy? You said you would decide at Christmas. I hope you’ve been kind to Joe.”

  “Oh, mind your own business!” flared Kathy and slammed out of the room.

  Sarah was troubled. It was so unlike Kathy to lose her temper, and there had been something about Joe that had worried her all day. Had Kathy put him off yet again? But she had promised—she had promised that at Christmas she would give him his answer, and Kathy would keep a promise. The next day, however, there was no sign of that brief ill-humor. Kathy seemed her usual serene self, and although she did not apologize in so many words for her sharpness, she conveyed in countless little ways that she had not meant it.

  The next few days seemed to be given up to dress-making. Sarah was demanded for constant fittings which tried her very much, and Kathy, her mouth full of pins, would plead: “We’ve less than a week. Sarah, please stand still.” But when the dress was nearly finished and Sarah looked at herself in Aunt Em’s old-fashioned pier glass, she had to admit that her sister’s labors were rewarded. The leaf-green velvet clung to her slender body with a loving grace which hid the sharpness of her still growing young bones, and she had never thought her skin so white until she saw her uncovered neck and shoulders.

  “It’s exactly right,” Kathy pronounced, sitting back on her heels. “And now I see the fuller skirt would have been a mistake even if we’d had enough stuff. It makes you look very slender but that narrow Empire line suits you. Is it comfortable?”

  Sarah took a careful step.

  “I think so. It won’t split, will it?”

  “There should be plenty of width to dance. Try.”
Sarah took another step, and another, and soon she was turning and twisting round the room, waltzing, breaking into reel steps, singing any tune that came into her head.

  The door was open, and Adrian on his way to the nursery paused to watch, Sarah did not see him, but Kathy did and she beckoned him in.

  “Come and admire,” she said. “I’m rather proud of my latest creation.”

  Sarah came to an abrupt halt and as she stood there without speaking for a moment while his cool eyes travelled slowly over her, the color crept under her skin.

  “You’ve been extremely clever, Kathy,” he said slowly. “She looks like some picture in an old book of fairy tales. She only needs one of those tall head-dresses Dulac was so fond of.”

  “Well,” said Sarah, feeling a little embarrassed under his eyes, “I’m not going to dance in a tall head-dress for anyone. As it is Kathy won’t let me wear a vest and I shall freeze.”

  He smiled but his eyes were grave.

  “I’m glad I persuaded you to come,” was all he said.

  The weather got colder still as the year drew to its close, and Nonie said it wouldn’t surprise her if it snowed. The lawns were white with frost each morning and Aunt Em started chilblains. Sarah was busy on the farm getting in fodder against a possible cold snap that would cut them off from provisions for a while, and Adrian borrowed the car one day and drove into Knockferry.

  “You’d better go by the north road,” Aunt Em said on New Year’s Eve. “It looks very like snow and the south road may be icy.”

  “And you’d better let me drive,” Adrian observed with a lifted eyebrow, and they were all surprised when Sarah meekly said she would.

  Dressing for the dance that evening, Adrian remembered the last time he had worn dress clothes. It must have been the Albert Hall benefit concert at which he was the soloist, the night of the fog and the accident. His last public appearance, he thought grimly as he tied his white tie. White tie and tails, symbol of gaiety, of special occasions all over the world, but for him the uniform of his profession, the reminder of waits in draughty artists’ rooms all over Europe, of concert platforms, of the raised batons of conductors, of applause sweeping across a full house. And tonight? Tonight he was putting on the recognized uniform of the reveller, a man who was going to a dance in an obscure little town in the west: of Ireland where no one had ever heard of Adrian Flint the pianist.