grass and flowers, self-sown, descendants of those set there in Anne’s reign or even Elizabeth’s, survived the onslaught of the weeds. A stack of twisted chimneys, still standing, a curved Dutch gable, mullioned windows, gave evidence that the house had been of Tudor origin.
“I wonder why it’s been deserted?” Logie whispered, with an uncanny feeling that all about them thronged the ghosts of other days, watching the intruders on their privacy. “Perhaps some bride died tragically and her husband couldn’t bear that anyone should live where they had been so happy. Or there may have been a murder and it’s haunted.”
“More probably a fire or trouble with a well!” said Sherry practically, but Logie preferred her own more romantic theories as she pictured crinolines sweeping through the wide door, the bustle of serving-maids and men as a great coach and four came clattering to the door, the faces framed in monstrous powdered wigs, or the bunched curls of Jane Austen’s days, or old demure Victorian ringlets, that must have looked out from the windows.
Leaving the car, they followed a faint track to the garden, made most probably by country boys in search of apples. Among a tangle of rose-bushes was an ancient stone seat, grown with moss and lichen. Here they sat, breathing the bouquet of the roses’ second blooming, sweet old-fashioned cabbage roses and little clustered creamy ones; and that of herbs, lost in the weeds but fragrant still, and spicy currant-bushes putting up a gallant struggle for existence against the smothering grass. Sherry slid his arm behind her, with his other hand tilted her face to meet his lips. For Logie time stood still for an enchanted interlude...
The golden moment ended. Sherry lit a cigarette, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, leaned back and looked at her. “Now let’s get down to making plans. How soon will you marry me? Next week? Next month?”
“As soon as that?”
“Can’t be too soon as far as I’m concerned.”
“How about the beginning of October? Andrew’s coming home on leave then.”
“Two whole months?”
“It’s not very long to be engaged out of a lifetime!”
“We’ll cable Andrew, then, and ask if he’ll be my best man. You won’t want an enormous wedding, will you? Crowds of people neither of us know, and bridesmaids seething everywhere?”
She laughed. “Oh, goodness, no! And even if I did, we can’t afford it.”
“Good. I should loathe a huge tamasha. But it’s time you stopped saying you can’t afford things. As things go nowadays, I’m rather well off. We can afford most things you’re likely to set your heart on, including another house if you don’t care for Crail. And that reminds me—you’d better come and stay and see what you think of it. My mother’s in Italy, but she’ll be back there at the end of next week. We could go north a couple of days after she gets back.”
Logie was taken aback. “Your mother! I didn’t realise you had a mother.”
“It’s quite usual, you know!”
She laughed. “Yes, but you’ve never mentioned her. Somehow I thought you were an orphan or that she—that she—”
“That she had abandoned me as a small, helpless chee-ild and run off with a dashing cavalryman, and been divorced? Nothing like that! She and my father didn’t exactly see eye to eye, but they kept up appearances pretty well. She lives at Crail most of the time, though if we settle there she’ll be perfectly pleased to go elsewhere. She’s never believed in growing roots.”
“Roots!” Logie mused, “It seems so odd that you know all about my roots—the way I’ve lived, my home and everything—and I don’t know the first thing about yours. I don’t know any of your friends, except of course Andrew. You know all my relations; I’ve not seen a single one of yours. And I can’t begin to picture how you’ve lived!”
“What am I to tell you? I was born in Belgrave Square with a silver spoon
“I wonder why it’s been deserted?” Logie whispered, with an uncanny feeling that all about them thronged the ghosts of other days, watching the intruders on their privacy. “Perhaps some bride died tragically and her husband couldn’t bear that anyone should live where they had been so happy. Or there may have been a murder and it’s haunted.”
“More probably a fire or trouble with a well!” said Sherry practically, but Logie preferred her own more romantic theories as she pictured crinolines sweeping through the wide door, the bustle of serving-maids and men as a great coach and four came clattering to the door, the faces framed in monstrous powdered wigs, or the bunched curls of Jane Austen’s days, or old demure Victorian ringlets, that must have looked out from the windows.
Leaving the car, they followed a faint track to the garden, made most probably by country boys in search of apples. Among a tangle of rose-bushes was an ancient stone seat, grown with moss and lichen. Here they sat, breathing the bouquet of the roses’ second blooming, sweet old-fashioned cabbage roses and little clustered creamy ones; and that of herbs, lost in the weeds but fragrant still, and spicy currant-bushes putting up a gallant struggle for existence against the smothering grass. Sherry slid his arm behind her, with his other hand tilted her face to meet his lips. For Logie time stood still for an enchanted interlude...
The golden moment ended. Sherry lit a cigarette, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, leaned back and looked at her. “Now let’s get down to making plans. How soon will you marry me? Next week? Next month?”
“As soon as that?”
“Can’t be too soon as far as I’m concerned.”
“How about the beginning of October? Andrew’s coming home on leave then.”
“Two whole months?”
“It’s not very long to be engaged out of a lifetime!”
“We’ll cable Andrew, then, and ask if he’ll be my best man. You won’t want an enormous wedding, will you? Crowds of people neither of us know, and bridesmaids seething everywhere?”
She laughed. “Oh, goodness, no! And even if I did, we can’t afford it.”
“Good. I should loathe a huge tamasha. But it’s time you stopped saying you can’t afford things. As things go nowadays, I’m rather well off. We can afford most things you’re likely to set your heart on, including another house if you don’t care for Crail. And that reminds me—you’d better come and stay and see what you think of it. My mother’s in Italy, but she’ll be back there at the end of next week. We could go north a couple of days after she gets back.”
Logie was taken aback. “Your mother! I didn’t realise you had a mother.”
“It’s quite usual, you know!”
She laughed. “Yes, but you’ve never mentioned her. Somehow I thought you were an orphan or that she—that she—”
“That she had abandoned me as a small, helpless chee-ild and run off with a dashing cavalryman, and been divorced? Nothing like that! She and my father didn’t exactly see eye to eye, but they kept up appearances pretty well. She lives at Crail most of the time, though if we settle there she’ll be perfectly pleased to go elsewhere. She’s never believed in growing roots.”
“Roots!” Logie mused, “It seems so odd that you know all about my roots—the way I’ve lived, my home and everything—and I don’t know the first thing about yours. I don’t know any of your friends, except of course Andrew. You know all my relations; I’ve not seen a single one of yours. And I can’t begin to picture how you’ve lived!”
“What am I to tell you? I was born in Belgrave Square with a silver spoon
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