almost at once from the cold shadows of the lower cleft. The warm air of evening met them, with its turf scents and juniper scents, and its caressing undertones of mountain breeze. Behind them the roar of the river sank to a murmur, and was finally lost under the darkness of its tossed boughs.
They found a low wall spanning the meadow, and there, sitting on the still-warm stone, with her eyes upon the grass at her feet, she told him. She told him of her reception at the convent, of her growing premonition of disaster, and then of Doña Francisca's bald announcement of Gillian's death.
"Dead?" said Stephen, in a shocked voice, and then gently, "Poor Jenny. I'm sorry.
What a rotten thing to happen—and for you to run into it as you did. Damn it all, even if Gillian was about to retire from the world, they might at least have taken the trouble to tell you about that! "
Jennifer pressed her hands tightly together, and said, on a caught breath, "That's just it, Stephen. Listen. . . ."
And she went on to tell him the rest of the fantastic business; of the color blindness and the gentians; of the dying woman's extraordinary reticence; of the interviews that she herself had had and the things that she had seen. And through it all, like a black thread through a colored tapestry, ran the voice and actions of the Spanish woman, now lying outright, now merely obstructive, but all the time palpably calculating and apprehensive of—what?
The moon was up now, full sail among the stars, like a swan serene on a lotus pool.
Mountain and meadow had withdrawn a little into the darkness. The wind moved silently, invisibly, across the turf. So quiet was the valley that they could hear the stirring of the tiny flowers at their feet.
Stephen spoke at last, and his words were sufficient of an anticlimax. He said, "It seems you've had a fairly trying afternoon, all things considered. Cigarette, Jenny?"
Across the flame of his lighter her eyes, wide and strained, studied him. "Stephen.
You can't not believe me."
"I do believe you—up to a point."
"A point? What point?"
"The point where you start to make Grand Guignol out of facts—queer enough, admittedly—which will eventually prove to have quite simple explanations."
"You think so?" Her voice was tight, brittle, a danger signal. He grimaced to himself as he heard it.
He said flatly, "My darling girl, look at what you're postulating: two young women, of similar appearance, somehow get interchanged. One dies, even on her deathbed pretending to be the other. The other one, a respectable and responsible Englishwoman, disappears without trace. You're left with two sticky problems: one
—who was the dead woman? two — where is Gillian?" He shook his head. "It won't wash."
"Why not?"
He was deliberately brutal. "Because it's more reasonable to take, instead of two improbabilities, the one possibility that everyone else accepts, that Gillian is dead and buried."
She said, after a while, in a small shaken voice, "And I thought you'd help me, Stephen."
He made an involuntary little movement. "That's what I'm trying to do, Jenny, can't you see? I don't want you to go building up some fantastic story—and perhaps getting yourself into an excessively awkward jam—by imagining accusations against people who're hardly likely to be the sort of criminals your story makes of them."
"It's only Doña Francisca, and she------"
"Fair enough. She lied to you, and you don't like her. That doesn't make her a criminal."
"I didn't say she was a criminal! But if you'd seen her today and talked to her, Stephen, you'd be convinced, as I am, that she's not all she should be!"
"Just who is the woman, anyway? What's she doing in the convent?"
She related what Sister Louisa had told her. "And later on I tried to pump the novice who showed me out of the convent. She was a nice girl and obviously in terrific awe of Doña Francisca. I gathered that she—Doña Francisca—pretty well runs everything
They found a low wall spanning the meadow, and there, sitting on the still-warm stone, with her eyes upon the grass at her feet, she told him. She told him of her reception at the convent, of her growing premonition of disaster, and then of Doña Francisca's bald announcement of Gillian's death.
"Dead?" said Stephen, in a shocked voice, and then gently, "Poor Jenny. I'm sorry.
What a rotten thing to happen—and for you to run into it as you did. Damn it all, even if Gillian was about to retire from the world, they might at least have taken the trouble to tell you about that! "
Jennifer pressed her hands tightly together, and said, on a caught breath, "That's just it, Stephen. Listen. . . ."
And she went on to tell him the rest of the fantastic business; of the color blindness and the gentians; of the dying woman's extraordinary reticence; of the interviews that she herself had had and the things that she had seen. And through it all, like a black thread through a colored tapestry, ran the voice and actions of the Spanish woman, now lying outright, now merely obstructive, but all the time palpably calculating and apprehensive of—what?
The moon was up now, full sail among the stars, like a swan serene on a lotus pool.
Mountain and meadow had withdrawn a little into the darkness. The wind moved silently, invisibly, across the turf. So quiet was the valley that they could hear the stirring of the tiny flowers at their feet.
Stephen spoke at last, and his words were sufficient of an anticlimax. He said, "It seems you've had a fairly trying afternoon, all things considered. Cigarette, Jenny?"
Across the flame of his lighter her eyes, wide and strained, studied him. "Stephen.
You can't not believe me."
"I do believe you—up to a point."
"A point? What point?"
"The point where you start to make Grand Guignol out of facts—queer enough, admittedly—which will eventually prove to have quite simple explanations."
"You think so?" Her voice was tight, brittle, a danger signal. He grimaced to himself as he heard it.
He said flatly, "My darling girl, look at what you're postulating: two young women, of similar appearance, somehow get interchanged. One dies, even on her deathbed pretending to be the other. The other one, a respectable and responsible Englishwoman, disappears without trace. You're left with two sticky problems: one
—who was the dead woman? two — where is Gillian?" He shook his head. "It won't wash."
"Why not?"
He was deliberately brutal. "Because it's more reasonable to take, instead of two improbabilities, the one possibility that everyone else accepts, that Gillian is dead and buried."
She said, after a while, in a small shaken voice, "And I thought you'd help me, Stephen."
He made an involuntary little movement. "That's what I'm trying to do, Jenny, can't you see? I don't want you to go building up some fantastic story—and perhaps getting yourself into an excessively awkward jam—by imagining accusations against people who're hardly likely to be the sort of criminals your story makes of them."
"It's only Doña Francisca, and she------"
"Fair enough. She lied to you, and you don't like her. That doesn't make her a criminal."
"I didn't say she was a criminal! But if you'd seen her today and talked to her, Stephen, you'd be convinced, as I am, that she's not all she should be!"
"Just who is the woman, anyway? What's she doing in the convent?"
She related what Sister Louisa had told her. "And later on I tried to pump the novice who showed me out of the convent. She was a nice girl and obviously in terrific awe of Doña Francisca. I gathered that she—Doña Francisca—pretty well runs everything
Similar Books
