The trees encircled her, watching. From far away there came once more a sound of footsteps.
Roger set out at a quick pace for the wood, the basket rattling lightly on his arm; but the track of Alwynne's shoes was lost in the deep grass of the paddock, and he hesitated, wondering where he should look for her. Followed a cupboard-love scene with Nicholas Nye, who accompanied him to the boundary of his kingdom, snuffling windily in the empty bodge. He brayed disgustedly when Roger left him, his ancient lips curling backward over yellow stumps, in a smile that was an insult. He had the air of knowing exactly where Roger was going, and of being leeringly amused.
For ten minutes Roger wandered about, starting aside from the pathway half a dozen times, deceived by a swaying branch, or the deceptive pink and white of distant birch bark. He tramped on into the thickness of the wood, till at last, through a thinning of trees, a hundred yards to his left, he caught a glimpse of gold, that could only, he told himself, be Alwynne's hair. He frowned. It was just like the girl to go floundering into the only boggy bit of the wood, when two thirds were drained and dry, and thick with flowers.... It was sheer spirit of contradiction! She would catch cold of course; and he would, not to mince matters, be stunk out with eucalyptus for the next ten days ... and The Dears would fuss ... he knew them! His fastidiousness was always revolted by a parade of handkerchiefs and bleared eyes. He was accustomed to insist that disease was as disgraceful as dirt: and that there was not a pin to choose between Dartmoor and the London Hospital as harbourage for criminals. But he could always dismount from his hobby-horse for any case of suffering thatcame his way. He could give his time, his money, or his tenderness, with a matter-of-course promptitude that relieved all but a tender-skinned few of any belief that they had reason to be grateful to him.
Roger, his eye on the distant halo, crashed through the undergrowth at a great rate, emerging into a little natural clearing, to find Alwynne facing him, a bare half-dozen yards away.
The full sight of her pulled him up short.
She was standing—lying upright, rather, for she seemed incapable of self-support—flattened against a big grey oak. One arm, flung backwards, clutched and scrabbled at the bark; the other, crooked shelteringly, supported a mass of bluebells. Her face was grey, her mouth half open, her eyes wide and pale. Very obviously she did not see him.
"Alwynne!" he exclaimed.
She cowered. He exclaimed again, astonished and not a little alarmed——
"Alwynne! Are you ill? What on earth has happened?"
She flung up her head, staring.
"Roger?" she said incredulously.
Then her face began to work. He never forgot the expression of relief that flowed across it. It was like the breaking up of a frozen pool.
"Why, it's you!" cried Alwynne. "It's you! It's only you!" The flowers dropped lingeringly from her slack hands, and she swayed where she stood. He crossed hastily to her and she clung helplessly to his arm. She looked dazed and stupid.
"Of course it is," he said. "Who did you think it was?"
Alwynne looked at him.
"Louise," she said, "I thought it was Louise. She's come before, but never in the daytime. A ghost can't walk in the daytime. But this place is so dark, she might think it was night here, don't you think?"
He gave her arm a gentle shake.
"Let's get out of this, Alwynne," he began persuasively. "I think you're rather done for. There's been a hot sun to-day, and you've been stooping till you're dizzy. Come on. What a lot of flowers you've picked! Come, let's get out of this place."
"Yes," she said; "let's get out of this place."
"What about your bunch?" he questioned, glancing down at the hyacinths' heaped disorder. "Don't you want it?"
He felt her shiver.
"No," she said, "no." She hesitated. "Could we hide it? Cover it up? It ought to be buried. I can't leave it—just lying there——" There was a catch in her voice.
He concealed his astonishment and looked about him.
"Of course not," he said cheerfully. "Here—what about this?"
A huge tussock of bleached grass, its sodden leaves as long as a woman's hair, caught his eye. He parted the heavy mass and showed her the little cave of dry soil below.
"What about this? They'll be all right here," he suggested gravely.
Alwynne nodded.
"Yes—put it in quickly," she said.
Without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he did as she asked. Then, rising and slipping her arm through his own, he pushed on quite silently, holding back the strong pollard shoots, clearing aside the brambles, till they reached the uneven footpath once more, that led them in less than five minutes to the further edge of the wood. As they emerged into the open fields, he felt the weight on his arm lessening. He glanced at his companion, and saw that there was once more a tinge of colour in her cheek.
She drew a deep breath and looked at him.
"I thought I should never get out again," she said dispassionately, as one stating a bald fact.
"Get where?"
"Out of that wood. You were just in time. I thought I was caught. I should have been, if you hadn't come."
Then she grew conscious of his expression, and answered it—
"I suppose you think I'm mad."
"I do rather."
"I don't wonder. It doesn't much matter——" Her voice flagged and strained.
They walked on in silence.
She began again abruptly.
"Of course you thought I was mad. I knew you would. I do myself, sometimes. Any one would. Even Clare. That's why I never told any one. But it never happened when I was awake before."
"I wonder if you would tell me exactly what happened?"
"I was frightened," she began irresolutely.
"For a moment I wondered if a tramp——"
She laughed shakily.
"I'm a match for the average tramp, I think. I'm head of the games."
He was amused.
"You'd tell him what you thought of him, I'm sure."
But already her smile had grown absent; she was relapsing into her abstraction.
They had crossed the field as they talked, and struck into the little gravelled path that led to the monster glass-houses on the other side of the hedge. A wide gate barred their progress. Roger manipulated the rusty chain in silence for a moment, then, as the gate yawned open, turned to her pleasantly——
"Won't you have a look round, as we've come so far? You're in my territory now, and I've a houseful of daffodils just bursting."
His calm matter-of-fact manner had its effect. Alwynne absorbed in her sick thoughts, found herself listening to his account of his houses and his experiments, as one listens subconsciously to the slur of a distant water-course. Shedid not take in the meaning of his words, but his even voice soothed her fretted nerves.
Roger was perfectly aware of her inattention. He was not brilliant, but he was equipped with experience and common-sense and kindness of heart; and above all he was observant. The Alwynne of his acquaintance, pretty, amusing, clever, had attracted him sufficiently, had even, as he admitted to himself as he went in search of her, been able to entice him from his Sunday comfort to wander quarrelling in wet fields. But the Alwynne he had come upon half-an-hour later was a revelation; at a glance every preconceived notion of her character was swept away.
His first idea was that she had been frightened by roughs, but her manner and expression speedily contradicted it. She was, he perceived, struggling, and not for the first time, with some overwhelming trouble of the mind. He had been appalled by the fear in her eyes. He remembered Jean's account. Elsbeth had been worried about her for a long time: ill-health and depression: she believed there had been some sort of a shock—a child had died suddenly at the school....
Alwynne's gay and piquant presence had made him forget, till that moment, such rudiments of her history as he had heard. But seeing her distress, he was angry that he had been obtuse, and amazed at her skill in concealing whatever trouble it might be that was oppressing her. All the kindliness of his nature awoke at sight of her haunted, hunted air; he bestirred himself to allay her agitation; he resolved then and there to help her if he could.
He had recognised at once that she was in no state for argument or explanation, and had devoted himself to calming her, falling in with her humour, and showing no surprise at the extravagance of her remarks. He had her quieted, almost herself, by the time they had reached his nursery and descended brick steps into a bath of sweet-smelling warmth.
Alwynne exclaimed.
The glass-house was very peaceful. Above a huge Lent lily the spring's first butterfly hovered and was still awhile, then quivered again and fluttered away, till his pale wings grew invisible against the aisles of yellow bloom. The short, impatient barks of Roger's terrier outside the door came to them, dulled and faint. The sun poured down upon the already heated air.
Alwynne walked down the long narrow middle way, hesitating, enjoying, and moving on again, much, Roger thought, as the butterfly had done. She said little, but her delight was evident. Roger was pleased; he liked his flowers to be appreciated. But he, too, said little; he was considering his course of action.
At the end of the conservatory was a square of brick flooring on which stood a table with a tobacco jar, and a litter of magazines; beside it an ancient basket-chair. Roger pulled it forward.
"This is my sanctum," he said. "Won't you sit down? I do a lot of work here in the winter."
Alwynne sank into the creaking wicker-work with a sigh of relief.
"I shall never get up again," she said. "It's too comfortable. I'm tired."
"Of course." He smiled at her. "Don't you worry. You needn't budge till you want to. I'll get some tea."
"You mustn't bother. It'll be cold. It's miles to the house," said Alwynne wearily.
He made no answer, but began to clear away the rubbish on the table. He moved deftly, light-footed, without clumsy or unnecessary noise; in spite of his size, his movements were always silent and assured.
She closed her eyes indifferently. She had said that she was tired; the word was as good as another where none were adequate to express her utter exhaustion. She felt that, in a sense, she was in luck to be so tired that she could not think.... She knew that later she must brace herself to an examination of the nightmare experience of the afternoon,to renew her struggle against the devils of her imagination; but for the moment her weakness was her safe-guard, and she could lie relaxed and thoughtless, mesmerised by the flooding sunshine and the pulsing scents and the quick movements of the man beside her. She wondered what he was doing, but she was too tired to open her eyes, or to interpret to herself the faint sounds she heard. She thought dreamily that he was as kind as Elsbeth. She was grateful to him for not talking to her. He was a wonderfully understanding person.... He might have known her for years.... He made her feel safe ... that was a great gift.... If she, Alwynne, had been like that, kind and reassuring, to poor little Louise—if only she had understood—Louise would have come to her, then, instead of brooding herself to death.... Poor Louise.... Poor unhappy Louise.... And after all she had not been able to kill herself.... She was still alive, lying in wait for her, though she knew that Alwynne could not help her.... She would never go away, though they had left her outside in the cold—in the cold of the wood—and were safe in this warm summerland ... she would be waiting when they came out again.... She shuddered as she thought of retracing her steps. She would ask Roger to take her home another way.... She would not have to explain.... He had not wanted explanation.... She was passionately grateful to him because he had not overwhelmed her with questions at their meeting. She could never explain, of course, because people would think her mad.... They might even send her to an asylum, if she told them.... She longed for the relief of confession, yet who would believe that she was merely a sane woman rendered desperate by evil dreams? Not Clare, certainly—not Elsbeth, though they loved her.... She would just have to go on fighting her terrors as best she could, till she or they were crushed....
She sighed hopelessly and opened her eyes.
"Had a doze? Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully.
She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her.
The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils.
Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her.
"Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?"
He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax.
"I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?"
Alwynne flashed a look at him.
"I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the—the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here."
"Well, Harris—my head-gardener—doesn't approve. Thinks it'sinfra dig. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!"
"I don't take it. Clare—a friend of mine—never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so."
"I did," he said significantly.
She coloured painfully: she would not look at him.
"I was very tired," she said lamely.
"Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?"
He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin—altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him.
"I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought—I'm afraid I was rather silly—in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected—that is—I did not expect——" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone.
He would not understand their appeal.
"Yes, you expected——" he prompted her.
She controlled her voice with difficulty.
"Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes."
"Does one?"
"In the country—I'm town-bred." She smiled at him.
He made up his mind, though he felt brutal.
"You were expecting—Louise?"
There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off.
"No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her—you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind—only in my mind—but if you saw her too——" Her voice failed.
He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation.
"No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her—once or twice, you see."
"Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse——"
He broke in.
"Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly.
"A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips.
Again they were blankly silent.
Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion—
"If you laugh—it will be wicked if you laugh at me."
"I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety.
She met his look and shrugged her shoulders.
"Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember——" Her voice trailed into silence.
"But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought.
The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanicallyhe rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables.
Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly.
"Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?"
"You?"
"Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest."
For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily.
"I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even."
"Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people."
"No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension.
"Of course not. But you see—I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me—because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me—d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly.
She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy.
"Don't you see?" he repeated.
"You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?"
"No, Alwynne," he said gravely.
For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak.
Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations.
She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind—never and impossibly unkind—but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understoodLouise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions....
"Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?"
"Who?"
"Your friend—'Clare'—Miss——?"
"Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?"
"I should have thought—suicide—bad for the school's reputation?"
"Then you think it was—that—too? It was supposed to be an accident."
"How do you mean, 'supposed'?"
"There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge—she had not been well—she must have felt faint—and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful—for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself—after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only—I—of course—I knew. Some of them guessed—Clare—and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it—and I knew. But nobody said anything—nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me—what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain,and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. ButIknow——"
"What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?"
"She did—she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along—I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise—this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out—she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that—it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are—they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it."
Roger's face was expressive—but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly.
"It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else—and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love."
Roger made an inarticulate remark.
"Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently.
"I see." He was carefully expressionless.
"And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness—besides—she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see——Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to haveknown how she felt—I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to—but Louise talked to me sometimes—I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable—and Clare was angry with her—and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody—I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see—I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either—you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge.
He nodded.
"Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy—don't you think?"
"You want to think so?" He considered her curiously.
"It mitigates it."
"That she killed herself?"
"It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe——?"
"No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit—but go on."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now—— There were signs——?"
"Of insanity? No. But she was—exaggerated—too intelligent—too babyish—too brilliant—too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.—sheer overwork—just before."
"I see. Was she ambitious?"
"Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing."
"Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern.
"Oh, no!"
"You're sure?"
"Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything."
He smiled a little.
"How old is your friend?"
She looked surprised.
"Oh—thirty-three—thirty-four—thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for—for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?"
"I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?"
"Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting——"
"Was she?" He was frowning interestedly.
"I'm sure she must have been—it was brilliant, you know."
"She said so?"
"Oh, not actually—but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her—and then ten minutes later——" She shuddered.
"Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly.
"It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction.
"My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings—or you've something to go on?"
She shook her head with a frightened look at him.
"No!" she said hurriedly. "No!"
"Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?"
She averted her eyes.
"I wasn't—I mean—I was nervous, of course."
"You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago."
"Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully.
He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussionwas, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves.
He smiled at her pleasantly.
"Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not."
She subsided at this.
"I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you."
She hesitated, her older self once more supervening.
"Afterwards—when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away—after that ghastly afternoon was over——" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know—so many people—crowding and gaping—I dream of all those crowded faces——"
"Well?" he urged her forward.
"I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone——"
"She fell from that room?"
"She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door—to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted—a baby told me something about Louise falling—lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant—and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window."
"How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder.
"And when I got the door open—an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below—right under me—on the steps."
She was silent.
"But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?"
"I had to. I was afraid already—recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge—there were great scratches. Then I knew."
She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories.
"I don't understand," he said.
She did not answer.
"Alwynne!" he said urgently.
She looked at him absently.
"Scratches? What are you driving at?"
"Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it."
"But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning.
"You mean—she must have stood on the ledge—to make those marks?"
"Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?"
"Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?"
"I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown—like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know—and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?"
He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone.
"It can't have been easy for you—that week," he said gently.
"Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest—I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny."
"I know," he said.
"And when it was over—I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral—I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold—icy cold—in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again.
"Well?" he prompted.
"I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me—and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee—and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person."
"You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock—and the strain——"
"Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think—her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive—she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it—well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind—but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible—indirectly—for the whole thing——" Her voice quavered.
Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead.
She went on.
"But even then, though I had been neglectful—oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented—and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!"
He shook his head.
"Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure—of your facts!"
"How?"
"I mean—you were the last person to see her?"
"Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea."
"Miss Hartill?"
"Clare would have said——"
"Of course," he said, "she tells you everything."
She nodded, in all good faith—
"Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room."
"Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?"
"Quite. Clare would have told me——"
"Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad—which I don't believe, do you?"
"I want to——"
"But you don't—knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane.Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad—something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you."
"But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly.
"I'm not so sure."
"But she said nothing at the inquest, either."
"Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad."
"But Clare's incapable of deceit."
"She might say the same of you."
"But—if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault—all Clare's fault—not mine at all!" she deducted slowly.
"It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her.
"But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time—why not have told me?"
"She might have been afraid—you might have shrunk——"
"From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing."
"Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death."
She flushed.
"You have not the shadow of right to say that."
"I do say it."
She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal.
"Please—won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please—if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare—I'd rather go on being—notnot quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me."
"Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger.
Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness.
"Well?" he said politely.
"I was thinking——" she said lamely.
"Obviously."
"That it was rather queer—that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth."
"Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression—it has no preconception to fight against."
"Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"—she hesitated—"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?"
"In streaks," he admitted. "But why?"
"You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon——Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was—inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me."
"I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way—the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous."
"Do I?" she asked delightedly.
"Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course."
"Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always."
"It is useful," he agreed.
"People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified.You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it.Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy."
"And that you don't like me?"
"Well—I didn't. That's why it's so queer—that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking."
"I knew it would."
"I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?"
He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough.
"No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know."
She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed.
"I think I'd rather go at once—round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils.
"Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth.
"Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here—put your finger here, will you?"
Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her.
"Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her.
"If you dreamed a dream——" she began unwillingly,"night after night—month after month—something ghastly——"
"Yes—" he encouraged her.
"Ah, well—at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day—you dreamt it while you were awake——?"
"Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words—the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them.
"Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him.
"I should jolly well think so."
"For children?" Her tone implored comfort.
"I'm afraid so."
"But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong."
"I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight—used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now—getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though."
She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words——
"In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much—but for a baby that can't understand why——It isn't possible, is it?"
He began to laugh jollily.
"Alwynne—you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?"
"I suppose so," she admitted.
"Of course, if you didn't——"
"Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep—dead—like last year's leaves——"
"But why should God complicate matters?"
"Well—heaven follows—and hell—don't they?Their worm dieth not—and all the rest."
"Oh, I follow."
"Miss Marsham—the head mistress, you know—of course she's very old—but she believes—terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to laugh, but now, since Louise died, it scares me, though I am grown up. I've no convictions—and she is certain—and then I get these nightmares. I hear her calling—for water."
The flat matter-of-fact tone alarmed him more than emotion would have done.
"Water?"
"For I am tormented in this flame.I hear her every night—wailing." Her eyes strained after something that he could not see.
He found no words.
She returned with an effort.
"Of course, when it's over—I know it's imagination. My sense tells me so—in the daytime. Only I can't be sure. If only I could be sure! If some one would tell me to be sure. It's the reasoning it out for myself—all day—and going back to the dreams all night."
"How long has this been going on?" he asked curtly.
"Ever since—when I came home from Clare's—that night. I'd slept like a log. Then I woke up suddenly. I thought I heard Louise calling. I'd forgotten she was dead. Every night it happens—as soon as I go to sleep, she comes. Always trying to speak to me. I hear her screaming with pain—wanting help. Never any words. Do you think I'm mad? I know it's only a dream—but every night, you know——"
"You're not going to dream any more," he said, with a determination that belied his inward sense of dismay. "But go on—let's have the rest of it."
"There isn't much. Just dreams. It's been a miserable year. I couldn't be cheerful always, you know—and I used to dread going to bed so. It made me stupid all day. And Clare—Clare didn't quite understand. Oh—I did want to tell her so. But you can't worry people. I'm afraid Elsbeth got worried—she hates it if you don't eat and have a colour. She packed me off here at last."
She drew a long breath.
"This blessed place! You don't know how I love it. I feel a different girl. All this space and air and freedom. What is it that the country does to one's mind? I've slept. No dreaming. Sleep that's like a hot bath. Can you imagine what that is after these months? Oh, Roger! I thought I'd stopped dreaming for good—I was forgetting——"
"Go on forgetting," he said. "You can. I'll help you. You had a shock. It made you ill. You're getting well again. That's all."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm going mad. To-day, in that wood.... Louise came running after me—and I was awake...."
Suddenly she gave a little ripple of high-pitched laughter.
"Oh, Mr. Lumsden! Isn't this a ridiculous conversation? And your face—you're so absurd when you frown.... You make me laugh.... You make me laugh...."
She broke off. Roger, with a swift movement, had turned and was standing over her.
"Now shut up!" he said sharply. "Shut up! D'you hear? Shut up this instant, and sit down." He put his hand on her shoulder and jerked her back into the chair.
The shock of his roughness checked her hysterics, as he had intended it should. She sat limply, her head in her hand, trying not to cry. He watched her.
"Pull yourself together, Alwynne," he said more gently.
Her lips quivered, but she nodded valiantly.
"I will. Just wait a minute. I don't want to make a fool of myself." Then, with a quavering laugh, "Oh, Roger, this is pleasant for you!"
He laughed.
"You needn't mind me," he said calmly. "Any more than I mind you. Except when you threaten hysterics. I bar hysterics. I wouldn't mind if they did any good. But we've got lots to do. No time at all for them. We've got to work this thing out. Ready?"
Alwynne waited, her attention caught.
"Now listen," he said. "First of all, get it into your head that I know all about it, and that I'm going to see you through. Next—whenever you get scared—though you won't again, I hope—that you are just to come and talk it over. You won't even have to tell me—I shall see by your face, you know. Do you understand? You're not alone any more. I'm here. Always ready to lay your ghosts for you. Will you remember?"
He spoke clearly and patiently—very cheerful and reassuring.
"You've got to go home well, Alwynne. Because, you know, though you're as sane as I am, you've been ill. This last year has been one long illness. You had a shock—a ghastly shock—and, of course, it skinned your nerves raw. My dear, I wonder it didn't send you really mad, instead of merely making you afraid of going mad. If you hadn't put up such a fight——Honestly, Alwynne! I think you've been jolly plucky."
The sincere admiration in his voice was wonderfully pleasant to hear.
Alwynne opened her eyes widely.
"I don't know what you mean," she began shyly.
"I'm not imaginative," he said, "but if I'd been hag-ridden as you have——" He broke off abruptly. "But, at least, you've fought yourself free," he continued cheerfully. "Yes, in spite of to-day." And his complete assuranceof voice and manner had its effect on Alwynne, though she did not realise it.
"You're better already. You say yourself you're a different girl since you got away from—since you came here. And when you're quite well, it'll be your own work, not mine. I'm just tugging you up the bank, so to speak. But you've done the real fighting with the elements. I think you can be jolly proud of yourself."
Alwynne looked at him, half smiling, half bewildered.
"What do you mean? You talk as if it were all over. Shall I never be frightened again? Think of to-day?"
"Of course it's all over," he assured her truculently. "To-day? To-day was the last revolt of your imagination. You've let it run riot too long. Of course it hasn't been easy to call it to heel."
"You think it's all silly imaginings, then?"
"Alwynne," he said. "You've got to listen to this, just this. You say I'm not to talk about your friend, that I don't know her—that I'm unjust. But listen, at least, to this. I won't be unfair. I'll grant you that she was fond of the little girl, and meant no harm, no more than you did. But you say yourself that she was miserable till you relieved her mind by taking all the blame on yourself. Can't you conceive that in so doing you did assume a burden, a very real one? Don't you think that her fears, her terrors, may have haunted you as well as your own? I believe in the powers of thought. I believe that fear—remorse—regret—may materialise into a very ghost at your elbow. Do you remember Macbeth and Banquo? Do you believe that a something really physical sat that night in the king's seat? Do you think it was the man from his grave? I think it was Macbeth's thoughts incarnate. He thought too much, that man. But let's leave all that. Let's argue it out from a common-sense point of view. You said you believed in God?"
"Yes," she said.
"And the devil?"
"I suppose so."
"Well—I'm not so sure that I do," he remarked meditatively. "But if I do—I must say I cannot see the point of a God who wouldn't be more than a match for him: and a God who'd leave a baby in his clutches to expiate in fire and brimstone and all the rest of the beastliness——Well, is it common sense?" he appealed to her.
"If you put it like that——" she admitted.
"My dear, would you let Louise frizzle if it were in your hands? Why, you've driven yourself half crazy with fear for her, as it is. Can't you give God credit for a little common humanity? I'm not much of a Bible reader, but I seem to remember something about a sparrow falling to the ground——Now follow it up," he went on urgently. "If Louise's life was so little worth living that she threw it away—doesn't it prove she had her hell down here? If you insist on a hell. And when she was dead, poor baby, can't you trust God to have taken charge of her? And if He has—as He must have—do you think that child—that happy child, Alwynne, for if God exists at all, He must exist as the very source and essence of peace and love—that that child would or could wrench itself apart from God, from its happiness, in order to return to torment you? Is it possible? Is it probable? In any way feasible?"
Alwynne caught her breath.
"How you believe in God! I wish I could!"
Roger flushed suddenly like an embarrassed boy.
"You know, it's queer," he confided, subsiding naïvely, "till I began to talk to you, I didn't know I did. I never bother about church and things. You know——"
But Alwynne was not attending.
"Of course—I see what you mean," she murmured. "It applies to Louise too. Why, Roger, she was really fond of me—not as she was of Clare—of course—but quite fond of me. She never would have hurt me. Hurt? Poor mite! She never hurt any one in all her life."
"I wonder you didn't think of that before," remarkedRoger severely. "I hope you see what an idiot you've been?"
"Yes," said Alwynne meekly. She did not flash out at him as he had hoped she would: but her manner had grown calm, and her eyes were peaceful.
"Poor little Louise!" said Alwynne slowly. "So we needn't think about her any more? She's to be dead, and buried, and forgotten. It sounds harsh, doesn't it? But she is dead—and I've only been keeping her alive in my mind all this year. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," he said. "And if it were not as I think it is, sheer imagination—if your grieving and fear really kept a fraction of her personality with you, to torment you both—let her go now, Alwynne. Say good-bye to her kindly, and let her go home."
She looked at him gravely for a moment. Then she turned from him to the empty house of flowers.
"Good-bye, Louise!" said Alwynne, simply as a child.
About them was the evening silence. The sun, sinking over the edge of the world, was a blinding glory.
Out of the flowers rose the butterfly, found an open pane and fluttered out on the evening air, straight into the heart of the sunlight.
They watched it with dazzled eyes.
Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it. The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their eyes.
"Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two.
"Good-night," said Roger, without moving.
She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the balustrade.
"Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand.
"You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively.
She nodded. Then, with a rush—
"Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much."
"That's all right," said Roger awkwardly.
Alwynne went upstairs.
He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the drawing-room.
He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they? Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction that no one understood Alwynne but himself.
He caught her name as he re-entered the room.
"Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?"
"Think what?"
"That Alwynne's a new girl? It's the air. Nothing like Dene air. But, of course, you didn't see her when she first came. A poor white thing! She'd worked herself to a shadow. How Elsbeth allowed it——"
Jean caught her up.
"Overwork! Fiddlesticks! It wasn't that. I'm convinced in my own mind that there's something behind it. A girl doesn't go to pieces like that from a little extra work. Look at your Compton women at the end of a term. Bursting with energy still, I will say that for them. No—I'm inclined to agree with Parker. I told you what she said to me? 'She must have been crossed in love, poor young lady, the way she fiddle-faddles with her food!'"
Alicia laughed.
"When you and Parker get together there's not a reputation safe in the three Denes. If there had been anything of the kind, Elsbeth would have given me a hint."
"I should have thought Elsbeth would be the last person——" Jean broke off significantly.
Roger glanced at her, eyebrows lifted.
"What's she driving at, Aunt Alice?"
"Lord knows!" said Alicia shortly.
Jean grew huffed.
"It's all very well, Alicia, to take that tone. You know what I mean perfectly well. Considering how reticent Elsbeth was over her own affairs to us—she wouldn't be likely to confide anything about Alwynne. But Elsbeth always imagined no one had any eyes."
Alicia moved uneasily in her chair.
"Jean, will you never let that foolish gossip be? It wasn't your business thirty years ago—at least let it alone now."
Jean flushed.
"It's all very well to be superior, Alicia, but you know you agreed with me at the time."
Roger chuckled.
"What are you two driving at? Let's have it."
Alicia answered him.
"My dear boy, you know what Jean is. Elsbeth stayed with us a good deal when we were all girls together—and because she and your dear father were very good friends——"
"Inseparable!" snapped Jean. She was annoyed that the telling of the story was taken from her.
"Oh, they had tastes in common. But we all liked him. I'm quite certain Elsbeth was perfectly heart-whole. Only Jean has the servant-girl habit of pairing off all her friends and acquaintances. I don't say, of course, that if John had never met your dear mother—but she came home from her French school—she'd been away two years, you know—and turned everybody's head. Ravishing she was. I remember her coming-out dance. She wore the first short dress we'd seen—every one wore trains in those days—white gauze and forget-me-nots. She looked like a fairy. All the gentlemen wanted to dance with her, she was so light-footed. Your father fell head over ears! They were engaged in a fortnight. And nobody, in her quiet way, was more pleased than Elsbeth, I'm sure. Why, she was one of the bridesmaids!"
"She never came to stay with them afterwards," said Jean obstinately, "always had an excuse."
"Considering she had to nurse her father, with her mother an invalid already——" Alicia was indignant. "Ten years of sick-nursing that poor girl had!"
"Anyhow, she never came to Dene again till after John died. Then she came, once. When she heard we were all going out to Italy. Stayed a week."
"I remember," said Roger unexpectedly.
"You! You were only five," cried Jean. The clock struck as she spoke. She jumped up. "Alicia! It's teno'clock! Where's Parker? Why hasn't Parker brought the biscuits? You really might speak to her! She's always late!"
She flurried out of the room.
Roger drew in his chair.
"Aunt Alice, I say—how much of that is just—Aunt Jean?"
Alicia sighed.
"My dear boy! How should I know? It's all such a long while ago. Jean's no respecter of privacy. I never noticed anything—hate prying—always did."
"She never married?"
"She was over thirty before her mother died. She aged quickly—faded somehow. At that visit Jean spoke of—I shall never forget the change in her. She was only twenty-six, two years older than your mother, but Rosemary was a girl beside her, in spite of you and her widow's weeds. And then Alwynne was left on her hands and she absorbed herself in her. She's one of those self-effacing women—But there—she's quite contented, I think. She adores Alwynne. Her letters are cheerful enough. I always kept up with her. I'd like to see her again."
"Why didn't you ask her with Alwynne?"
"I did. She wouldn't come. Spring-cleaning, and one of her whimsies. Wanted the child to have a change from her. That's Elsbeth all over. She was always painfully humble. I imagine she'd sell her immortal soul for Alwynne."
"Well—and so would you for me," said Roger, with a twinkle.
"Don't you flatter yourself," retorted Alicia with spirit. Then she laughed and kissed him, and lumbered off to scold Jean up to bed.
Roger sat late, staring into the fire, and reviewing the day's happenings.
There was Alwynne to be considered.... Alwynne in the wood.... Alwynne in the daffodil house.... Alwynnehanging over the bannisters, a candle in her hand.... And Elsbeth.... Elsbeth had become something more than a name.... Elsbeth had known his mother—had been "pals" with his father.... He chuckled at the recollection of Jean's speculations.... Poor old Jean! She hadn't altered much.... He remembered her first horror at Compton and its boys and girls.... But Elsbeth was evidently a good sort ... appreciated Alwynne.... He would like to have a talk with Elsbeth.... He would like to have her version of that disastrous summer; have her views on Alwynne and this school of hers ... and that woman ... what was her name?... Hartill! Clare Hartill! Yes, he must certainly get to know Alwynne's Elsbeth.... In the meantime....
He hesitated, fidgeting at his desk; spoiled a sheet or two; shrugged his shoulders; began again; and finally, with a laugh at his own uncertainty, settled down to the writing of a long letter to his second cousin Elsbeth.
Elsbeth, opening a boot-boxful of daffodils on the following evening, had no leisure for any other letter till Alwynne's was read.
I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you would like him, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you would like him, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.