and felt about things. He liked that about her… He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting.
Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk to—altogether the most charming of companions.
He thought complacently to himself:
‘I’m damned lucky to have got her. Can’t think what she sees in a chap like me.’
For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him.
Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon—that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she’d rather put it off for a bit. He mustn’t rush her. They’d be a bit hard-up at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldn’t die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing.
His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didn’t like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearly… But—er—afterwards—well, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn’t care enough about money to make too much of it.
He thought: ‘No, there’s nothing to worry about—whatever happens!’
He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.
Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him—a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: ‘There’s something—something I haven’t got—something I want—I want—I want…’
The golden green light, the softness in the air—with them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.
A girl came through the trees towards him—a girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin.
He thought, ‘How beautiful—how unutterably beautiful.’
Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!
The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fish-like, his mouth open.
She said with a little hesitation:
‘Don’t you remember me, Mr Roderick? It’s a long time of course. I’m Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.’
Roddy said:
‘Oh—oh—you’re Mary Gerrard?’
She said: ‘Yes.’
Then she went on rather shyly:
‘I’ve changed, of course, since you saw me.’
He said: ‘Yes, you’ve changed. I—I wouldn’t have recognized you.’
He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind him. Mary did and turned.
Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said:
‘Hello, Mary.’
Mary said:
‘How do you do, Miss Elinor? It’s nice to see you. Mrs Welman has been looking forward to you coming down.’
Elinor said:
‘Yes—it’s a long time. I—Nurse O’Brien sent me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs Welman up, and she says you usually do it with her.’
Mary said: ‘I’ll go at once.’
She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement.
Roddy said softly: ‘Atalanta…’
Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or two. Then she said:
‘It’s nearly lunch-time. We’d better go back.’
They walked side by side towards the house.
‘Oh! Come on, Mary. It’s Garbo, and a grand film—all about Paris. And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it once.’
‘It’s frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really won’t.’
Ted Bigland said angrily:
‘I can’t make you out nowadays, Mary. You’re different—altogether different.’
‘No, I’m not, Ted.’
‘You are! I suppose because you’ve been away to that grand school and to Germany. You’re too good for us now.’
‘It’s not true, Ted. I’m not like that.’
She spoke vehemently.
The young man, a fine sturdy specimen, looked at her appraisingly in spite of his anger.
‘Yes, you are. You’re almost a lady, Mary.’
Mary said with sudden bitterness:
‘Almost isn’t much good, is it?’
He said with sudden understanding:
‘No, I reckon it isn’t.’
Mary said quickly:
‘Anyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!’
‘It doesn’t matter like it did—no,’ Ted assented, but thoughtfully. ‘All the same, there’s a feeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a duchess or a countess or something.’
Mary said:
‘That’s not saying much. I’ve seen countesses looking like old-clothes women!’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:
‘Afternoon, Mrs Bishop.’
Mrs Bishop inclined her head graciously.
