Dear Dragon

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Dear Dragon Page 18

by Sara Seale


  As Merryn had said, they could be heard upstairs. Alice, on her way back from the bathroom, had stood leaning over the banisters listening, with her heart pounding. Even Keverne had emerged from his own quarters in a dressing-gown, shrugged and gone back again. She heard Merryn race down the stairs, and later saw him escort Trelawny across the hall. When the front door had slammed behind them, the house settled back into silence once more. Alice waited, listening for some sounds that would indicate that Pendragon was on his way to bed and, when none came and the silence grew unbearable, she ran downstairs, not knowing quite why she did so.

  The door of the day-room was still open and she went in. There had been quarrels before, but none quite like this; he had been so very tired, and the memory of that moment on the terrace was still with her, the desire to recapture it over-ruling her common sense.

  "Pendragon . . ." she said, but as soon as she had spoken she regretted the impulse which had made her come downstairs. He looked at her unseeingly for a split second, then his eyes focused in the chill, distant look of appraisal which she had first known in him.

  "What do you want?" he said.

  "I don't know. I couldn't help hearing you and Trelawny quarrelling. I thought—well, I knew you were tired. I—I don't really know why I came."

  "Don't you? Come here, Alice. Let me look at you in that demure blue dressing-gown, with your hair neatly brushed for bed like a good child. What does Keverne call you—Alice-Blue-Gown? And how many times has he seen you like this?"

  She had started towards him but at his final question

  she stopped. There was no mistaking now the savage bite to his voice, the bitterness in his eyes.

  "Never as far as you know—well, that's ambiguous, isn't it? Come closer. I'd like to see for myself how well you wear your mask."

  "I don't understand you," she faltered. "I'm sorry, Pendragon, I'll go away again."

  "I told you to come closer. Do you want me to pick you up and dump you at my feet? Perhaps that's what you do want—very well."

  He took two strides towards her, lifted her roughly off her feet and set her on the rug by the fire.

  "Now, let's look at you," he said.

  He felt her tremble as he put her down, but she did not flinch from him and stood quite still between his hands, staring straight at him. He remembered that she had always stood her ground and even answered back.

  "What pity," he murmured, shaking his head at her. "What a pity you should turn out to be just like all the rest."

  She was afraid of him now, afraid of the ugly mood that was on him, but she refused to yield to her fears.

  "What has Trelawny been saying about me?" she asked.

  "Why should you mind what she's been saying if it wasn't the truth?"

  "How am I to know if it was the truth unless you tell me?"

  "Very well, then. I had thought, foolishly I suppose, that you had grown a little fond of me, but it seems any of us would have done; Keverne—even Merryn, perhaps, in that locked room with the fish. I don't approve of a man striking a woman, but perhaps today there was a certain amount of provocation."

  She had gone very white. At another time he would have felt pity for her, whatever she might have done, but tonight this new-found discovery of a jealousy in him which he had never known before sparked off the ready Pendragon temper to the point of unreason.

  "Well?" he said savagely. "Does that answer you?"

  "Yes," she said quietly. "But if you care nothing yourself, why should it trouble you?"

  It was not the answer he had expected.

  "You don't deny it, I notice," he said.

  "Why should I?" she replied, her eyes suddenly very green and bright. "It's obvious that it's easier for you to believe Trelawny and that I suppose is natural, since you're going to marry her."

  "Once and for all, I am not going to marry her," he snapped.

  "Not. . ." for the first time she faltered, "then were you quarreling about me?"

  "Our quarrel was age-old," he retorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Alice; you've broken up nothing of importance."

  "Then it was about me."

  All at once he turned away from her, and when he next spoke the anger had gone out of his voice, though the bitterness remained.

  "Trelawny said I've been a fool and, indeed, it's evident I have," he said. "I should have let you go when you wanted to at the end of that first month. Well, we all make mistakes. It seems I've spent the best part of my life making mine, but I suppose one learns in time."

  "Do you want me to go?" she asked, and her lips felt dry and stiff. He had his back to her now, and she saw him shrug his shoulders, that casual, indifferent shrug so typical of all of them.

  "There's Doone to be considered," he said, and she felt her hands beginning to shake.

  "Doone is perfectly fit to take her place with the rest of the household now. At the end of the summer, she can go to school if you've a mind to send her," she said, and he turned to look at her.

  "There's more to it than that," he said slowly. "She has a deep affection for you. Now, thanks to you, I suppose, she is turning to me because Keverne has let her down. If I send you away I shall be back where I started."

  The fight was beginning to go out of her and she felt rather sick.

  "Don't my feelings matter?" she asked and he replied absently:

  "No, I don't, think so. It won't hurt you to see us through the summer, now we all know where we stand."

  "I don't at all know where I stand," she retorted with a last flash of spirit, and he smiled.

  "Don't you?" he said, and suddenly took her face between his hands. "You could have meant so much if you'd only played your game differently, but I'm forgetting, possibly, how young you are. One can't expect wisdom all the time as a legacy from Aunt Brown."

  The tears sprang to her eyes then. She would have no defences against him should he soften towards her. Perhaps he understood this, for he thrust his hands into his pockets and moved away.

  "Go back to bed. In the morning we'll both have clearer heads," he said.

  But in the morning he had left for the mine before she was down and his two half-brothers with him. Emma, whatever she had gleaned of last night's happenings, made no mention of it and appeared disinclined for confidences.

  Later in the day Alice wandered along the headland by herself, trying to decide where her immediate course should lie. When she had asked Keir if he wanted her to leave, he had not denied it, and only Doone, she thought, had made him hesitate. Could she bear, she wondered, to continue living under the same roof with him day after day, knowing that he held her in contempt, and knowing, too, that the state of her own heart must be forever kept secret from him? She could have meant so much, he had told her, but he had never denied that he did not care himself; he had accepted her refusal to refute his accusations because it had never occurred to him that they might be false.

  She walked back to the house, knowing that nothing had been resolved. The lonely headland and the soft sky of early summer arching tenderly to the sea had no longer any comfort for her. Beauty could shut you outside, as well as welcome you in, she thought, remembering Merryn gazing at the perfection if his fish and desiring Trelawny.

  When she reached the house, the sight of the doctor's car standing in the drive sent her hurrying indoors, her thoughts going at once to Doone, but in the hall the family were gathered together in conclave and Doone, herself, ran to Alice, clasping her round the waist.

  "Alice . . . Alice . . . they've killed him!" she cried dramatically and began to sob.

  "What's happened?" Alice asked, her own heart missing a beat at their solemn faces.

  Keverne stood, snapping his fingers at the dogs and looking defiant. Merryn, dusty and dishevelled with a cut on one cheek, glowered at his brother, and Emma, who had been dabbing iodine on the cut, glanced over her shoulder with a frown of annoyance at this fresh interruption.

  "It's Pendragon," she said. "Ther
e's been some trouble at the mine and he got hurt. Dr. Mackinnon's with him now. If you would take Doone to her room and stay with her, Alice, that would help us all."

  "How badly hurt?" asked Alice, going a little white.

  "Only a crack on the head which knocked him out for a time," Keverne answered impatiently. "What a fuss you're all making!"

  "You didn't help, standing by and doing nothing," Merryn snapped and Doone's wails grew louder.

  Alice took the weeping child to her room and tried to calm her.

  "Is Pendragon badly hurt?" she asked.

  "I don't know. They carried him in and he looked awful. Alice, why weren't you here? Why weren't you here to bind up his wounds like you did before?"

  "He wouldn't have wanted me to, poppet."

  "Why—have you quarrelled?"

  "In a way, I suppose, but if Dr. Mackinnon's been sent for, I wouldn't have been much use, anyway. Now, Doone, stop crying. Quite soon, I expect, they'll let you see Pendragon, and you won't want to upset him, will you?"

  "No," Doone sniffed, her tears abating. "Will you come too, Alice?"

  "If I'm sent for, but I imagine he'll want to be quiet for a time."

  "Oh, Alice, I wish I hadn't been so nasty . . ." the child cried, and Alice smiled above her head with wry compassion. How easy to be a child, she thought, and spill one's emotions haphazardly and know they will never be rejected.

  The time passed slowly for Alice, kept in the dark like Doone as to what was happening in the house. The doctor seemed to stay a long time but presently they heard his

  brisk voice in the hall, and a moment later his grizzled head appeared round the door.

  "Well, now, let's have a look at you before I go, young lady," he said to the child, and made a small grimace at Alice. "Been a change of heart, so I'm told, and high time too. Och, well, you're no so bad except for a dirty face. You don't look so good, though, Alice."

  "How bad is he?" Alice asked, and he met her wide, green stare with an enquiring expression.

  "Och, not bad at all," he said cheerfully. "He'll have a sore head for a day or two, but there's no lasting concussion. He's a tired man, though. It'll do no harm to keep to his bed for a couple of days. Are you a good nurse, Alice?"

  "Not for Pendragon."

  "No? I seem to remember you did a good job over that dog bite. Ah, well, he won't need nursing, and if I know Pendragon, he'll not bide in that bed of his for long."

  Alice went with the little doctor into the hall which was now deserted except for the greyhounds in their usual place on the hearth.

  "Can Doone see him for a moment?" she asked. "I don't think she'll go to bed till she has. You see—there's been a transfer of allegiance."

  "So I believe. Well, it'll, do no harm to look in for a minute. And do you want to go too, Alice?"

  "No."

  "H'm. . . . Well, I'll be looking in again tomorrow, but after that it won't be necessary. Don't let these Pendragons get you down, lassie, their barks are worse than their bites. Good day!"

  Emma took Doone up to her half-brother's room before she went to bed, and she came downstairs a little later, looking round-eyed and solemn.

  "He didn't look like Pendragon at all, Alice," she said. "All pale and quiet and a great bandage round his head. Do you think he's going to die?"

  "Of course not!" said Alice. "Did he—did he—ask for any of us?"

  "He said to tell you he was sorry."

  "Sorry ... He didn't—didn't want to see me?"

  "No. I said you might like to, but he said there was

  never any good in going over old ground. What do you suppose he meant?"

  "Just that he hasn't forgiven me, I suppose," said Alice wearily, and wished that it could be as easy to make one's peace as a child did.

  "You did quarrel, then?" said Doone reproachfully.

  "I suppose so—it was all a misunderstanding, really, but one can't argue with Pendragon."

  "I can!"

  "Yes, poppet, but that's different."

  "How different? Tomorrow—tomorrow I shall tell him —what shall I tell him, Alice?" Doone's head began to nod with sleep as Alice unbuttoned her dress.

  "Nothing, darling," said Alice gently, and was wretchedly aware of the soreness of her own heart as she finished putting Doone to bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT I

  SHE awoke the next morning to grey skies and a sad steady downpour of rain. It seemed fitting that the skies should weep and the sunshine vanish, and the dragons on the tapestry looked dark and forbidding.

  Emma was drawing the curtains as usual, and Alice struggled to sit up in bed.

  "How is Pendragon?" she asked.

  "He had a reasonable night. Dr. Mackinnon left a sedative."

  "And he's going to be all right?"

  "Of course. It would take more than a knock on the head to lay Pendragon low for long."

  There seemed to be a change in Emma's manner. She was still withdrawn as she had been in the nursery and Alice wondered uneasily what sort of story Keverne had made out to soften his behaviour in the eyes of his wife.

  "Emma-" she said. "What has Keverne told you?"

  "What would you expect him to tell me?" Emma asked. "I'm sorry he hit you, Alice — incidentally, Pendragon told me that—but perhaps you asked for it."

  "Do you believe what Pendragon believes?"

  "What does Pendragon believe?"

  "That I—that I allowed Keverne to make love to me?"

  Emma turned slowly to look at her.

  "If Pendragon believes that then you can hardly be surprised that he doesn't want to see you," she said, and Alice blinked at the unusual note of censure in her voice.

  "But do you believe it, Emma?" she said.

  "It can hardly matter what I think," Emma replied. "I knew, of course, that Keverne pestered you at times. It means nothing—he's just made like that. But you— well, I thought you were protected by your own inno-cense—and loyalty."

  "Loyalty?"

  "To Pendragon. If you had fallen in love with Pendragon, as you led me to believe, how could you have played around with another man under the same room?"

  "Is that what Keverne told you?"

  Emma was silent.

  "Trelawny, too," said Alice slowly, and knew for certain now that Trelawny had been responsible for the bitter things Pendragon had said.

  "Trelawny wouldn't trouble to make mischief of that sort," Emma replied indifferently. "She takes sex in her stride."

  "If she knew she was losing what she wanted she might be capable of anything," Alice said shrewdly. "He's not going to marry her."

  "Yes, I know. Whatever the quarrel between them, Alice, it could have had nothing to do with you."

  "I think it had. Perhaps you didn't know that after she'd gone I went downstairs and—and then Pendragon quarrelled with me."

  Emma's smooth brow creased in a frown.

  "No, I didn't know that," she said. "Pendragon doesn't talk about his private affairs. You were rather foolish to have intruded, I should have said."

  "Yes, I was, wasn't I?" Alice replied forlornly. "Things were said—oh, well, it's too late now."

  "It's so often too late, Alice," Emma said gently and went out of the room.

  It was an unpropitious beginning to the day, and Alice

  dressed and came down to the day-room for breakfast, thankful that at least Pendragon would not be present There was in fact nobody there. Keverne and Merryn had already left for the mine and Alice's breakfast awaited her as a solitary afterthought under the baleful eye of Horace, the shark. She sat eating without appetite, listening to the rain pattering relentlessly on the windows, and pres-ently Doone slipped into the room and sat down beside her.

  "Have you seen Pendragon, yet?" she asked, and Alice shook her head. "He'll send for you soon." "Why should he?"

  "Oh, I don't know—perhaps he has things to say. You quarrelled, Alice, didn't you?"

  "Everybody quarrelled. You sho
uld be used to that," Alice said with some tartness, and Doone looked doubtful.

  "But you and Pendragon—that's different," she said. "You don't quarrel like the others, Alice—I thought you liked him."

  "Oh, Doone," said Alice helplessly. "Liking is so different from other things. How could you possibly understand?"

  Doone looked smug.

  "I understand at lot of grown-up things," she said. "If Pendragon isn't going to marry Trelawny, after all, it must be because of you."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know, but—well, Pendragon's never been like this with any of the other Zombies." "Like what?"

  "Oh, you know! Careful and rather fierce—minding things . . ."

  "He minded your treatment of him much more," Alice said, determined to steer the child away from such dangerous ground. "You will have to be very nice to him in future, Doone, to make up for all your horrid tantrums."

  "Yes!" said Doone, her black eyes alight with a new fervour. "When they've all gone, there'll just be you and me and Pendragon."

  "What do you mean?" asked Alice, startled.

  "Keverne and Emma are going to emigrate—Trelawny's buying him out. Didn't you know?"

  "No, I didn't. And Merryn—is he emigrating, too? I think that must be another of your inventions, Doone."

  "Oh, Merryn!" said Doone calmly. "Who cares about him? And I didn't invent it, Alice. Ask Emma:"

  It was strange, Alice thought, that Emma had not mentioned such a momentous change of plans this morning, but the omission was, perhaps, a mark of her sudden lack of trust.

  "And won't you mind?" she asked curiously, because to her Doone's change of heart, though satisfactory, still seemed a little callous.

  "No!" the child exclaimed aggressively, then her eyes slid away from Alice's and she began drawing angry patterns on the tablecloth with a fork.

  "Keverne was my special for so long, but he didn't really care, did he, Alice?" she said forlornly, and Alice stretched out a hand to comfort her. Poor Doone, she thought compassionately, learning so early that one's devotion could be unwanted, one's partisanship misplaced.

  "You have Pendragon now," she said. "He'll never let you down."

  "No, he won't, will he? And when he and you and I are just together, there won't be any more quarrelling, will there?"

 

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