Roger never fought his battle-royal with Clare, for at the turn of
Friar's Lane he met Alwynne herself, dragging wearily along the
cobblestones, weighed down by paper parcels and the heavy folds of the
waterproof hanging on her arm. Her hair was roughened by the wind that
tugged and strained at her loosened hat; her face was drawn and shadowy;
she had an air of exhaustion, of indefinable demoralisation that Roger
recognised angrily. He had seen it in the first weeks of her visit to
Dene. Her thoughts were evidently far away, and she would have passed
him without a look if he had not stopped her. She started violently as
he spoke--it was like rousing a nightmare-ridden sleeper--then her face
grew radiant.
"Roger!" she cried, and beamed at him like a delighted child.
He possessed himself of her parcels and they walked on, Alwynne's
questions and exclamations tumbling over each other. Roger at
Utterbridge! Why had he come? How long was he staying? How were The
Dears and how did Dene spare him? When had he arrived?
Roger dropped his bomb.
"Yesterday. I went to supper with Elsbeth. We had a long talk."
His tone conveyed much. The brightness died out of Alwynne's face. She
looked surprised and excessively annoyed.
"She knew you were coming?"
"She did."
"Why on earth didn't she let me know? Why, she doesn't know you! She
hasn't seen you since you were a kid! It's extraordinary of Elsbeth."
"I wouldn't let her."
"Wouldn't let her?" Alwynne looked at him blankly. "Roger--I think
you're cracked."
"Terse and to the point! Don't you worry. Elsbeth and I understand each
other. Besides, we've been corresponding."
"You and Elsbeth?"
"Yes. That's partly why I came. I wanted to get to know her. You see,
your description and her letters didn't tally. So I came. We got on
jolly well. I burst in on her again at breakfast this morning. She
didn't fuss--took it like a lamb. I fancy you underrate our cousin--in
more ways than one. She knows it too; she's no fool! I found that out
when we talked about you."
"Elsbeth discussed me?--with you?" Alwynne's tone foreboded a bad
half-hour to Elsbeth.
"Why not? You're not sacred, are you?" Roger chuckled.
Alwynne felt inclined to box his ears. Here was a new Roger. Roger--her
own property--to take such an attitude--to ally himself with Elsbeth--to
leave her in the dark! Roger! It was unthinkable.... And she had been so
awfully glad to see him ... absurdly glad to see him ... he had made her
forget even Clare.... Clare.... She began to occupy her mind once more
with the scene of the previous day, recalling what she had said;
contrasting it with what she had intended to say; stabbed afresh by
Clare's manner; writhing at her own helplessness; when Roger's slow
voice brought her thoughts back to the present.
"You've been away from Elsbeth a fortnight," he said accusingly, as they
entered the Town Gardens.
She flared anew at his tone.
"Certainly. I've been staying with friends. Have you any objection?"
"A friend," he corrected.
She flushed.
"Clare Hartill is my best friend----"
"Your worst, you mean."
She turned on him.
"How dare you say that? How dare you speak of my friends like that? How
dare you speak to me at all?"
He continued, quite unmoved--
"Don't be silly, Alwynne. Your best friend is your Aunt Elsbeth--you
ought to know that. You don't treat her well, I think. You've been away
a fortnight with that--friend of yours; you stayed on without consulting
her----"
"I telephoned," cried Alwynne, in spite of herself.
"Since then you've sent her one post card. She isn't even sure that
you're coming back to-day; she's just had to sit tight and wait until
it's your--no, I'll give you your due--until it's your friend's pleasure
to send you back to her, fagged out, miserable--just like my dog after a
thrashing. And Elsbeth's to comfort you, and cosset you, and put you to
rights--and then you'll go back to that woman again, to have the
strength and the spirit drained out of you afresh--and you walk along
talking of your best friend. I call it hard luck on Elsbeth."
Alwynne's careful dignity was forgotten in her anger. She turned on him
like a furious schoolgirl.
"Will you stop, please? How dare you speak of Clare? If Elsbeth chooses
to complain----What affair is it of yours anyhow? I'll never speak to
you again--never--or Elsbeth either." Her voice broke--she was on the
verge of tears.
Roger took her by the arm, and drew her to a seat.
"You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more
than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over
in the open--far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I
know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag
and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne. He produced a clean
silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with
undignified haste.
"'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung
in the balance. Then--
"Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it.
Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile.
"At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right
to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not
my cousin."
"I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending."
Alwynne laughed.
"You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast
sometimes to her, you're quite right--but she doesn't really need
defending. Honestly."
"Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your
friend--I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth
was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see
hurt."
Alwynne looked at him wistfully.
"Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to
me--hurt me--hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose--would you
defend me? Would you care at all?"
"I shouldn't let 'em," he grunted.
"If you couldn't help it?"
"I shouldn't let 'em," he repeated doggedly.
"But should you care?"
"Of course I should. What rot you talk. Of course I should. But I
shouldn't let them."
"Oh, Roger," she cried, suddenly and pitifully, "they do hurt me
sometimes--they do, they do."
Roger looked around him with unusual caution. The Gardens were empty.
There was not even a loafer in sight. He put his arm round her, and drew
her clumsily to him. She yielded like a tired child, and lay quietly,
staring with brimming eyes at the gaudy tulip-bed on the further side
of the walk.
"I believe you're about fed up with that school of yours," he said,
after a time, as if he had not followed the allusion to Clare.
She nodded.
"I'm not lazy, Roger; you know it's not that. It's just the atmosphere,
and the awful crowding. Such a lot of women at close quarters, all
enthusiasm and fussing and importance. They're all hard-working, and all
unselfish and keen--more than a crowd of men would be, I believe. But
that's just it--they're dears when you get them alone, but somehow, all
together, they stifle you. And they all have high voices, that squeak
when they're keenest. D'you know, that was what first made me like you,
Roger--your voice? It's slow, and deep, and restful--such a reasonable
voice. You mustn't think me disloyal to the school. The girls are all
frightfully interesting, and the women are dears, and there's always
Clare--only we do get on each other's nerves."
"A boys' school is just the same."
"Is it? I've only seen Compton. I don't know how co-education affects
the boys, but I'm sure it's good for the girls, and the mistresses too.
Of course, they're not really different to my lot, but they seemed so.
They had room to move. They weren't always rubbing up against each other
like apples in a basket. It all seemed so natural and jolly. Fresh air
everywhere. And since I've been back, I've felt I couldn't breathe. I
believe it's altered me, just seeing it all; and I can't make Clare
understand. She thinks I liked Dene because I wanted to flirt."
"That type would."
"Yes, I know you think that," she answered uneasily, "but she
isn't--that horrid type. That's why it hurts so that she can't
understand. As if I ever thought of such a thing until she talked of it!
Only I like talking to men, you know, Roger; because they've often got
quite interesting minds, and it's easier to find out what they really
think than with women. But they bore Clare."
"Do they?" Roger had his own opinion on the question. But he found that
it was difficult to refrain from kissing Alwynne when she looked at him
with innocent eyes and made preposterous statements; so he stared at the
tulips.
"You see, she thinks--we both think, that if you've got a--a really real
woman friend, it's just as good as falling in love and getting married
and all that--and far less commonplace. Besides the trouble--smoking,
you know--and children. Clare hates children."
"Do you?" Roger looked at her gravely.
"Me? I love them. That's the worst of it. When I grew old, I'd meant to
adopt some--only Clare wouldn't let me, I'm sure. Of course, as long as
Clare wanted me, I shouldn't mind. To live with Clare all my life--oh,
you know how I'd love it. I just--I love her dearly, Roger, you know I
do--in spite of things I've told you. Only--oh, Roger, suppose she got
tired of me. And, since I've been back, sometimes I believe she is."
"Poor old girl!"
"It's a shame to grizzle to you; it can't be interesting; and, of
course, I don't mean for one moment to attack Clare; only everything I
do seems wrong. When she sneers, I get nervous; and the more nervous I
get, the more I do things wrong--you know, silly things, like spilling
tea and knocking into furniture. And she gets furious and then we have a
scene. It's simply miserable. We had one yesterday, and again this
morning. It's my fault, of course--I get on her nerves."
"You never get on my nerves," said Roger suggestively.
"Not when I chop up your best pink roses?" She looked at him sideways,
dimpling a little.
"As long as you don't chop up your own pink fingers--you've got pretty
fingers, Alwynne----"
"Roger, you're a comforting person. I wish--I wish Clare would treat me
as you do, sometimes. You pull me up too, but you never make me
nervous. I'm sure I shouldn't disappoint her so often, if she did."
"Alwynne," he returned with a twinkle, "stop talking. I've made a
discovery."
"Well?"
"You're ten times fonder of me than you are of that good lady. Now, own
up."
"Roger!" Alwynne was outraged. She made efforts to sit upright, but
Roger's arm did not move. It was a strong arm and it held her, if
anything, a trifle more firmly. "You're talking rot. Please let me sit
up."
"You're all right. It's quite true, my child, and you know it. Ah,
yes--they're a lovely colour, aren't they?"
For Alwynne was gazing at the tulips with elaborate indifference.
Secretly she was a little excited. Here was a new Roger.... He was quite
mad, of course, but rather a dear.... She wondered what he would say
next....
"To examine our evidence. You were very glad to see me--now weren't
you?"
"I'm always pleased," remarked Alwynne sedately to the tulips, "to see
old friends."
"Yes--but we're not old friends exactly, if you refer to length of
acquaintanceship. If to age--I was thirty last March. I'm not doddering
yet."
"I wasn't speaking of ages. Thirty is perfectly young. Clare's
thirty-five. You do fish, Roger."
"Yes. I'm going to have a haul some day soon, I hope. But to resume.
Firstly, you were jolly glad to see me. Secondly, you took your lecture
very fairly meekly--for you! and you've already had one talking-to
to-day during which, I gather, you were anything but meek."
"I never told you----"
"But there was a glint in your eye----You've no idea how invariably
your face gives you away, Alwynne. Thirdly, you've hinted quite
half-a-dozen times that Miss Hartill would be all the better for a few
of my virtues. Tenth, and finally, you've made my coat collar
thoroughly damp--you needn't try to move--and I don't exactly see you
spoiling your Clare's Sunday blouse that way, often, eh?"
Alwynne was obliged to agree with the tulips.
"I thought so. Therefore I say, after considering all the evidence--in
your heart of hearts you are ten times fonder of me than of Miss Clare
Hartill."
The trap was attractively baited. Impossible for an Alwynne to resist
analysis of her own emotions. She walked into it.
"I don't know--I wonder if you're right? Perhaps I am _fonder_ of you. I
love Clare--that's quite a different thing. One couldn't be fond of
Clare. That would be commonplace. She's the sort of wonderful person you
just worship. She's like a cathedral--a sort of mystery. Now you're like
a country cottage, Roger. Of course, one couldn't be fond of a
cathedral."
"A cottage," remarked Roger to the tulips in his turn, "can be made a
very comfortable place. Especially if it's a good-sized one--Holt
Meadows, for instance. My tenants leave in June, did you know? There's a
south wall and a croquet ground."
"Tennis?"
Roger was afraid the tulips would find it too small for tennis.
"But a court could be made in Nicholas Nye's paddock," Alwynne reminded
them.
Roger thought it would be rather fun to live there, tennis or no
tennis--didn't the tulips think so?
The tulips did, rather.
"One could buy Witch Wood for a song, I believe; you know it runs along
the paddock. Think of it, all Witch Wood for a wild garden."
"And no trespassers! No trampled hyacinths any more! Or ginger-beer
bottles! Oh, Roger!" A delighted, delightful Alwynne was forgetting all
about the tulips; but they nodded very pleasantly for all that.
"A footpath through to The Dears' garden, and my glass-houses. And
chickens in a corner of the paddock. You'd have to undertake those."
"All white ones!"
"Better have Buff Orpingtons. Lay better. Remember Jean's troubles:
'Really, the Amount of Eggs----'"
"Dear Jean. And besides, I shall want some for clutches. I adore them
when they're all fluff and squeak; and ducklings too, Roger. We won't
have incubators, will we?"
"Rather not. Lord, it will be sport. You're to wear print dresses at
breakfast, Alwynne--lilac, with spots."
"You're very particular----"
"Like that one you wore at the Fair----you know."
"Oh, that one! Do you mean to say----All right. But I shall wear
tea-gowns every afternoon--with lace and frillies. Elsbeth says they're
theatrical."
"All right! We'll eat muffins----"
"And read acres of books----"
"May I smoke?"
"It'll get into the curtains----"
"I'll get you a new lot once a week----"
"And we won't ever be at home to callers----"
"Just us two."
Alwynne sighed contentedly.
"Oh, Roger, it would be rather nice. You can invent beautifully."
He laughed.
"Then we'll consider that settled."
He bent his head and kissed her.
A very light kiss--a very airy and fugitive attempt at a kiss--a kiss
that suited the moment better than his mood; but Roger could be Fabian
in his methods. Alwynne rather thought that it was a curl brushing her
forehead: the tulips rather thought it wasn't. Roger could have settled
the matter, but they did not like to appeal to him. They were all a
little disturbed--more than a little uncertain how to act. The tulips'
attitude was frankly alarming to Alwynne, who (if the kiss had really
happened) was prepared to be dignified and indignant. The tulips,
however, appeared to think a kiss a pleasant enough indiscretion. "To
some one, at any rate, we are worth the kissing," quoth the tulips
defiantly, with irreverent eyes on a vision of Clare's horrified face.
Then, veering smartly, they reminded Alwynne, that from a patient,
protective Roger it was the most brotherly and natural of sequels to
their make-believe. Alwynne was not so sure; Roger was developing
characteristics of which the kiss (had it taken place) was not the least
exciting and alarming symptom. He was no longer the Roger of Dene days,
not a month dead; or rather, the Dene Roger was proving himself but a
facet of a many-sided personality--big, too--that was more than a match
for a many-sided Alwynne, with moods that met and enveloped hers, as a
woman's hands will catch and cover a baby's aimless fist. More than his
strength, his gentleness disturbed her. So long a prisoner to Clare,
ever bruising herself against the narrow walls of that labyrinthine
mind--she would have been indifferent to any harshness from him; but his
kindliness, his simplicity, unnerved her. He had been right--she had her
pride. Clare did not often guess when her self-control was undermined.
But with Roger--what was the use of pretending to Roger? It had been
comforting to have a good cry. His kiss had been comforting too. She
remembered the first of Clare's rare kisses--the thin fingers that
gripped her shoulders; the long, fierce pressure, mouth to mouth; the
rough gesture that released her, flung her aside.
But Roger--if, indeed, she had not dreamed--had been comforting. Here
the tulips broke in whimsically with the brazen suggestion that it would
be delightful to put one's arms round Roger's neck and return that
supposititious kiss. A remark, of course, of which no flower but a
flaunting scarlet tulip could be capable. Alwynne was horrified at the
tulips. Horrified by the tulips, worried by her own uncertainties,
puzzled by the imperturbable face smiling down at her. Certainly not a
conscience-stricken face. Probably the entire incident was a wild
imagining of the tulips. She had watched those nodding spring devils
long enough. Time to go home: at any rate it was time to go home.
It puzzled her anew that Roger's arm was no longer about her, that he
should make no effort to detain her, or to reopen the conversation; that
he should walk at her side in his usual fashion, originating nothing.
Once or twice, glancing up at him, she surprised a smile of inscrutable
satisfaction, but he did not speak; he merely met her eyes steadily,
still smiling, till she dropped her own once more. A month ago she would
have challenged that smile, cavilled and cross-examined. To-day she was
quaintly intimidated by it. Indeed a new Roger! She never dreamed of a
new Alwynne.
Yet for all her perplexity and very real physical fatigue, Alwynne
walked with a light step and a light heart. As usually she was absurdly
touched by his unconscious protective movements--the touch on her arm at
crossings--the juggle of places on the fresh pathway--the little
courtesies which the woman-bred girl had practised, without receiving,
appealed to her enormously. She felt like a tall school-child,
"gentleman" perforce at all her dancing lessons, who, at her first ball,
comes delightedly into her own.
She gave Roger little friendly glances as they walked home, but no
words; though she could have talked had he invited. But Roger was
resolutely silent, and for some obscure reason this embarrassed her more
than his previous loquacity. Gradually she grew conscious of her
crumpled dress and loosened hair; that a button was missing on her
glove! trifles not often wont to trouble her. She wondered if Roger had
noticed the button's absence; she hoped fervently that he had not. She
glanced obscurely at shop-windows, whose blurred reflections could not
help her to the conviction that her hat was straight. Also it dawned
upon her that Roger was weighed down by preposterous parcels; that the
parcels were her own. She was sure the string was cutting his fingers.
She was penitent, knowing that she would not be allowed to relieve him,
and hugely annoyed with herself. She had been scolded often enough for
her parcel habit, and had laughed at Elsbeth; and here was Elsbeth
proved entirely right. Weighing down Roger like this! What would he
think of her? He had not spoken for ten minutes.... Of course--he was
annoyed.... They had better get home as quickly as might be....