These Delights by Sara Seale Page B

what would you call the important things, Miss Victoria?”
    His voice was indulgent, and he ran an idle finger down her forehead and nose. She made a snap at it as it passed over her lips.
    “The little things,” she said. “Larks singing, the way light strikes things, the sun on your skin and somebody whistling in the early morning. And then there are things like cocoa, when it’s so hot, to drink is exquisite agony, and the smell of wood-smoke, and tar on a hot day, and manure, though Cousin Hester says not indoors. So many things like that, but if you do not relax you miss them.”
    “Yes,” he said, sighing.
    “Can you not share such things with Diana?” she asked. “No, you cannot for she doesn’t notice them, but then, you cannot have everything. A marriage of convenience does not allow for the little things.”
    “What on earth are you talking about, child?” he said sharply.
    “You and Diana. We all understand that you make the practical marriage, and in a way you are lucky, for she is very good-looking besides being rich.”
    Vicky was not looking at him as she spoke so she missed the look of horrified amazement which came into his face.
    “Do the three of you think I’m marrying Diana for her money?” he asked in an odd voice.
    “But of course,” she said, “we have often discussed it . ”
    He took her by the hands and pulled her up to a sitting position.
    “I’ve never in all my life heard such a monstrous suggestion!” he exclaimed.
    She looked at him bewildered, the fair hair tumbled over her face.
    “But, Luke, why are you angry?” she said. “It is perfectly understandable. She will bring you a handsome dot to improve your farm—she is always talking of it . To us it’s quite simple. It is the French way.”
    “Well, it’s not my way,” he said shortly. “So the sooner you get that idea out of your head, the better. Have you ever talked to Diana like this?”
    “Oh, no, of course not . That would be different altogether.”
    “I’m glad you think so. Now don’t let me ever hear you talk like that again, to me or anyone else.”
    Tears hung on her lashes, then fell, unheeded. It was the first time she had known anger in him, and, as with most gentle people, it was the more startling.
    “I didn’t mean to be impertinent,” she said. “I only thought I spoke the truth. We did not think you loved her.”
    “Certainly I love her,” he said quickly. “Diana is a fine person, and if it’s any consolation to you, I should much prefer to marry her without her money.”
    “If she had no money, then she would not marry you ,” said Vicky, pursuing her own logic even in her distress.
    He gave her a little shake.
    “Sometimes you talk the most complete rubbish I’ve ever heard,” he told her. “Now, we’ll forget all about this conversation—understand?”
    “Yes, Luke,” she said, and sniffed.
    His anger left him as quickly as it had come. He should have known better than to take the child seriously.
    “There, Vicky, don’t cry,” he said kindly. “We all get silly ideas in our beads sometimes.”
    She flung her arms round his neck in an agony of remorse.
    “Oh, Luke, dear Luke,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me. I do not understand these things at all.”
    “Of course you don’t,” he said soothingly. “You’re much too young. Now dry your eyes, and blow your nose, and then come and help me mend a gate.”
    Vicky soon recovered herself and happily held hammers and passed nails to Luke until she tired of it, then sat on an upturned box close by and returned to her book, but the conversation had left an odd little sense of disquiet in Luke. He wondered how many other people thought as Vicky had. Tom Bowden, the farm hands, all local men who knew just how much money Diana was proposing to spend on the farm —even the Sales themselves, who certainly had never troubled much with the Merrits until Diana had suddenly become engaged to