Jane!”
“Good night, Mrs. Tebbitts.”
Out in the market-place they saw Hugh Brandon leaving Swan House, carrying a leather case. He got into his car and drove away. He did not see them as he passed.
“He’s frowning,” Jane remarked. “I suppose he’s rushing off to somebody who’s ill or maybe dying. It must be frightfully depressing, being a doctor.”
Hugh’s frown, however, was not due to worrying over a patient. He was remembering how Lucia had come to meet him and John on their return earlier in the evening, laden with minnows. “Oh, there you are! Who was that girl, Hugh! And the other with pigtails?”
“They live in the flat over the coach-house and stables.”
“The pigtailed one went rushing across the lawn as though the place belonged to her! All very well if they were friends of the Sinclairs, but they must be made to realise that things are different now.”
He had said shortly that he had no objection whatever to the family in the flat using the garden of Swan House as much as they had done before. “The elder girl only came that way to show us the best place for catching minnows, and the younger one was looking for her—wanted her in a hurry. I don’t suppose they’ll make a habit of it. And if they do, what does it matter?”
His sister-in-law had given a disagreeable laugh. “Minnows! What an excuse! My poor Hugh!”—Her voice inferring all she did not say: that Alison was a scheming minx, already setting her cap at Hugh, an eligible, unsuspecting widower, all unaware of woman’s guile, her gold-digging potentialities.
He said, “She said she would look in to see you—ask you to tea one day, or coffee in the morning. If she does, please don’t say anything about the garden.”
Lucia, leading John off to bed, had answered that of course she would not if he didn’t wish it. But he was uneasily aware that Lucia was capable of conveying a great many meanings without putting them into words. It was of this that he was thinking now, as he set out to visit an elderly patient whose condition was causing some anxiety ... remembering the Hamilton girl’s simple friendliness, her gentleness with John, her frank brown eyes. How could he prevent Lucia from implying something that might embarrass or hurt her?
Sherry asked Logie, “What shall we do? Go on the river or in the car?”
Logie considered it. “Let’s go in the car to Lonely House.”
He rose, and took her hands, and drew her to her feet, smiling down at her, muttering, “Too many windows here!”
Her hair blew back in shining tendrils as they left the little town behind. The feeling of isolation, of being a spectator, looking on at her own newfound happiness, left her. Bliss possessed her. This time yesterday she had been wondering secretly how soon the enchantment she was living in must end with Sherry’s going. Then, all her happiness had been tarnished by the knowledge that any day must end it with Sherry’s casual announcement that he was going away. And now, incredibly, he wasn’t going after all. Their lives were going on together ... unbelievable rapture!
By farmland, woods, and open heath they reached the tumbled ruin they had named the Lonely House. Heading one day along by-roads and lanes unknown to either of them, they had come unexpectedly on its roofless walls. Behind, a cluster of ancient pines protected it. In front, bracken and gorse fell in a steep slope to a marsh bordering tidal waters where teal and mallard, widgeon and shelduck raised their families and redshanks rose with melancholy piping at the approach of an invader. Beyond that lay the sea. Those who lived here in bygone days had had a lovely panorama for their pleasure! South of the house lay the remains of a walled garden. Many of the bricks had been removed, doubtless to build cottages and farmhouses, but remnants of the old wall stood there still, and lichened, twisted apple-trees and roses rioting unpruned among the tangle of long
“Good night, Mrs. Tebbitts.”
Out in the market-place they saw Hugh Brandon leaving Swan House, carrying a leather case. He got into his car and drove away. He did not see them as he passed.
“He’s frowning,” Jane remarked. “I suppose he’s rushing off to somebody who’s ill or maybe dying. It must be frightfully depressing, being a doctor.”
Hugh’s frown, however, was not due to worrying over a patient. He was remembering how Lucia had come to meet him and John on their return earlier in the evening, laden with minnows. “Oh, there you are! Who was that girl, Hugh! And the other with pigtails?”
“They live in the flat over the coach-house and stables.”
“The pigtailed one went rushing across the lawn as though the place belonged to her! All very well if they were friends of the Sinclairs, but they must be made to realise that things are different now.”
He had said shortly that he had no objection whatever to the family in the flat using the garden of Swan House as much as they had done before. “The elder girl only came that way to show us the best place for catching minnows, and the younger one was looking for her—wanted her in a hurry. I don’t suppose they’ll make a habit of it. And if they do, what does it matter?”
His sister-in-law had given a disagreeable laugh. “Minnows! What an excuse! My poor Hugh!”—Her voice inferring all she did not say: that Alison was a scheming minx, already setting her cap at Hugh, an eligible, unsuspecting widower, all unaware of woman’s guile, her gold-digging potentialities.
He said, “She said she would look in to see you—ask you to tea one day, or coffee in the morning. If she does, please don’t say anything about the garden.”
Lucia, leading John off to bed, had answered that of course she would not if he didn’t wish it. But he was uneasily aware that Lucia was capable of conveying a great many meanings without putting them into words. It was of this that he was thinking now, as he set out to visit an elderly patient whose condition was causing some anxiety ... remembering the Hamilton girl’s simple friendliness, her gentleness with John, her frank brown eyes. How could he prevent Lucia from implying something that might embarrass or hurt her?
Sherry asked Logie, “What shall we do? Go on the river or in the car?”
Logie considered it. “Let’s go in the car to Lonely House.”
He rose, and took her hands, and drew her to her feet, smiling down at her, muttering, “Too many windows here!”
Her hair blew back in shining tendrils as they left the little town behind. The feeling of isolation, of being a spectator, looking on at her own newfound happiness, left her. Bliss possessed her. This time yesterday she had been wondering secretly how soon the enchantment she was living in must end with Sherry’s going. Then, all her happiness had been tarnished by the knowledge that any day must end it with Sherry’s casual announcement that he was going away. And now, incredibly, he wasn’t going after all. Their lives were going on together ... unbelievable rapture!
By farmland, woods, and open heath they reached the tumbled ruin they had named the Lonely House. Heading one day along by-roads and lanes unknown to either of them, they had come unexpectedly on its roofless walls. Behind, a cluster of ancient pines protected it. In front, bracken and gorse fell in a steep slope to a marsh bordering tidal waters where teal and mallard, widgeon and shelduck raised their families and redshanks rose with melancholy piping at the approach of an invader. Beyond that lay the sea. Those who lived here in bygone days had had a lovely panorama for their pleasure! South of the house lay the remains of a walled garden. Many of the bricks had been removed, doubtless to build cottages and farmhouses, but remnants of the old wall stood there still, and lichened, twisted apple-trees and roses rioting unpruned among the tangle of long
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