lap.
âI love her so frightfully,â he whispered.
Rose Ellen saw his shoulders heave. Her soft mouth trembled a little, but she did not speak. After a minute or two she dropped her little ring of plaited grass and laid a small brown hand on Peterâs head.
CHAPTER XII
In 1914, Peter was twenty and Rose Ellen sixteen. Peter was in the Argentine on a horse ranch, and Rose Ellen was at a finishing schoolâa most expensive finishing school.
Mrs. Mortimer was a good deal relieved when she heard that Peter had left the country after a flaring row with his uncle.
The cause of the row was Peterâs unqualified refusal to enter his uncleâs office. Matthew Waring behaved as many another man has behaved in like circumstances. His own disappointment blinded him; he became incapable of seeing anything else. He accused Peter of ingratitude, and paraded his hurt feelings, his loneliness, and his affection for Peter, and ended with an unconditional surrender, an introduction to people of repute in the Argentine, and some really generous financial backing.
Peterâs twenty-first birthday found him in France.
At twenty-five the war was behind him, and he had inherited eight hundred a year from Matthew Waring.
The years had brought odd changes. Mrs. Mortimer had turned Merton Clevery into a convalescent home. In the second year of the war she married one of her patients, an excellent, dull, jocose man of the name of Gaisford. Rose Ellen, thrilled to the depths of an unselfish heart, had shared in Dearestâs happiness. It was only when she discovered that it was going to be impossible to break Major Gaisford of his habit of calling her Rosie that her romantic feelings received a slight chill.
Mrs. Gaisford continued to love Rose Ellen, but Rose Ellen was no longer the one supreme object of her existence. In 1917 her cup of happiness overflowed; she became the proud mother of a remarkably fine little boyâa healthy, red-faced, jolly infant, whom everyone pronounced to be the living image of his father. Rose Ellen adored the baby. The news, broken to her with much tact, that she must no longer consider herself the heiress of Merton Clevery left her quite unruffled. Only, after four years, instead of being at the centre of the family, she found herself, as it were, upon its edge.
During the years of the war she only saw Peter four times. At twenty she was a little lonely, without knowing it.
A week before his twenty-fifth birthday Peter went down to Merton Clevery for a few days. His affairs had kept him busy during the month that had elapsed since he had been demobilized, but he responded now to quite a gracious invitation from Mrs. Gaisford. The situation had changed: she was no longer jealous; Rose Ellen was no longer an heiress; and Peter was no longer quite ineligible.
Peter took the train, not to Merton, but to Hastney Mere. It was a fine spring day, and he had a fancy to cross the water-meadows and climb up through the beech woods to the heathery upland beyond, as he had done thirteen years before with little Rose Ellen.
The road that had seemed so long then was nothing of a tramp to Peter now. He came out on the heath in full sunshine, and walked along the grassy track until he came to the hollow where he had left Rose Ellen in the wind and the rain whilst he went forward to spy out the land. He hesitated a moment, and then turned off the path and went down into the hollow.
Rose Ellen was sitting thereânot the little Rose Ellen of whom he had been thinking, with her cropped head and drenched sweater, but a quite grown up Rose Ellen in a green linen dress and a wide rush hat. She was singing under her breath.
Peter stood and looked at her. She was nice to look at. He decided approvingly that Rose Ellen grown up was a very pretty girl. He called out to her, and she jumped up and came to meet him.
For the first time, Peter did not kiss her. He had always kissed Rose Ellen. He had certainly
âI love her so frightfully,â he whispered.
Rose Ellen saw his shoulders heave. Her soft mouth trembled a little, but she did not speak. After a minute or two she dropped her little ring of plaited grass and laid a small brown hand on Peterâs head.
CHAPTER XII
In 1914, Peter was twenty and Rose Ellen sixteen. Peter was in the Argentine on a horse ranch, and Rose Ellen was at a finishing schoolâa most expensive finishing school.
Mrs. Mortimer was a good deal relieved when she heard that Peter had left the country after a flaring row with his uncle.
The cause of the row was Peterâs unqualified refusal to enter his uncleâs office. Matthew Waring behaved as many another man has behaved in like circumstances. His own disappointment blinded him; he became incapable of seeing anything else. He accused Peter of ingratitude, and paraded his hurt feelings, his loneliness, and his affection for Peter, and ended with an unconditional surrender, an introduction to people of repute in the Argentine, and some really generous financial backing.
Peterâs twenty-first birthday found him in France.
At twenty-five the war was behind him, and he had inherited eight hundred a year from Matthew Waring.
The years had brought odd changes. Mrs. Mortimer had turned Merton Clevery into a convalescent home. In the second year of the war she married one of her patients, an excellent, dull, jocose man of the name of Gaisford. Rose Ellen, thrilled to the depths of an unselfish heart, had shared in Dearestâs happiness. It was only when she discovered that it was going to be impossible to break Major Gaisford of his habit of calling her Rosie that her romantic feelings received a slight chill.
Mrs. Gaisford continued to love Rose Ellen, but Rose Ellen was no longer the one supreme object of her existence. In 1917 her cup of happiness overflowed; she became the proud mother of a remarkably fine little boyâa healthy, red-faced, jolly infant, whom everyone pronounced to be the living image of his father. Rose Ellen adored the baby. The news, broken to her with much tact, that she must no longer consider herself the heiress of Merton Clevery left her quite unruffled. Only, after four years, instead of being at the centre of the family, she found herself, as it were, upon its edge.
During the years of the war she only saw Peter four times. At twenty she was a little lonely, without knowing it.
A week before his twenty-fifth birthday Peter went down to Merton Clevery for a few days. His affairs had kept him busy during the month that had elapsed since he had been demobilized, but he responded now to quite a gracious invitation from Mrs. Gaisford. The situation had changed: she was no longer jealous; Rose Ellen was no longer an heiress; and Peter was no longer quite ineligible.
Peter took the train, not to Merton, but to Hastney Mere. It was a fine spring day, and he had a fancy to cross the water-meadows and climb up through the beech woods to the heathery upland beyond, as he had done thirteen years before with little Rose Ellen.
The road that had seemed so long then was nothing of a tramp to Peter now. He came out on the heath in full sunshine, and walked along the grassy track until he came to the hollow where he had left Rose Ellen in the wind and the rain whilst he went forward to spy out the land. He hesitated a moment, and then turned off the path and went down into the hollow.
Rose Ellen was sitting thereânot the little Rose Ellen of whom he had been thinking, with her cropped head and drenched sweater, but a quite grown up Rose Ellen in a green linen dress and a wide rush hat. She was singing under her breath.
Peter stood and looked at her. She was nice to look at. He decided approvingly that Rose Ellen grown up was a very pretty girl. He called out to her, and she jumped up and came to meet him.
For the first time, Peter did not kiss her. He had always kissed Rose Ellen. He had certainly
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