The Place of the Lion Read Free Page B

very annoying if she made enemies—not, of course, the translator—but … well, anyone. And on top of all that had come that crash of thunder, every now and then echoing all through the black sky. No lightning, no rain, only—at long intervals, just whenever she was going off to sleep at last—thunder, and again thunder. She had been unable to work all the morning. It looked, now, as if her afternoon would be equally wasted.
    â€œWe hear,” Mrs. Rockbotham said, “that he’s quite comatose.”
    â€œDear me,” Damaris said coldly. “More tea?”
    â€œThank you, thank you, dear,” Miss Wilmot breathed. “Of course you didn’t really know him well , did you?”
    â€œI hardly know him at all,” Damaris answered.
    â€œSuch a wonderful man,” Miss Wilmot went on. “I’ve told you, haven’t I, how—well, it was really Elise who brought me into touch—but there, the instrument doesn’t matter—I mean,” she added, looking hastily over at Mrs. Rockbotham, “not in a human sense. Or really not in a heavenly. All service ranks the same with God.”
    â€œThe question is,” Mrs. Rockbotham said severely, “what is to be done to-night?”
    â€œTo-night?” Damaris asked.
    â€œTo-night is our monthly group,” Mrs. Rockbotham explained. “Mr. Berringer generally gives us an address of instruction. And with him like this——”
    â€œIt doesn’t look as if he would, does it?” Damaris said, moving the sugar-tongs irritably.
    â€œNo,” Miss Wilmot moaned, “no … no. But we can’t just let it drop, it’d be too weak. I see that—Elise was telling me. Elise is so good at telling me. So if you would——”
    â€œIf I would what?” Damaris exclaimed, startled and surprised. What, what could she possibly have to do with these absurd creatures and their fantastic religion? She knew, from the vague gossip of the town, from which she was not altogether detached, that Mr. Berringer, who lived in that solitary house on the London Road, and took no more part in the town’s activities than she did herself, was the leader of a sort of study circle or something of that kind; indeed, she remembered now that these same two ladies who had broken in on her quiet afternoon with Abelard had told her of it. But she never attended to their chatter with more than a twentieth of her mind, no more than she gave to her father’s wearisome accounts of his entomological rambles. Religions and butterflies were necessary hobbies, no doubt, for some people who knew nothing about scholarship, but they would not be of the smallest use to Damaris Tighe, and therefore, as far as possible, Damaris Tighe very naturally left them out of her life. Occasionally her father’s enthusiasm broke through her defences and compelled attention; it always seemed extraordinary to Damaris that he could not in her politeness realise her boredom. And now …
    Mrs. Rockbotham interrupted Miss Wilmot’s lengthier explanation. “You see,” she said, “we meet once a month at Mr. Berringer’s, and he gives us an Instruction—very instructive it always is—about thought-forms or something similar. But I suppose he won’t be able to this time, and none of us would like—I mean, it might seem pushing for any of us to take his place. But you, as an outsider.… And your studies are more or less about methods of thought, I understand?”
    She paused, and Damaris supposed they were.
    â€œI thought, if you would read us something, just to keep us in touch with—well, the history of it, at least, if nothing else,” Mrs. Rockbotham ambiguously concluded, “we should all be greatly obliged.”
    â€œBut,” Damaris said, “if Mr. Berringer is … incapacitated, why not suspend the meeting?”
    â€œNo, I don’t