and there was a new filly in the stable for her to ride. Couldn ’ t she make the visit soon? What about the weekend approaching?
Joan put the letter down with a sigh of longing. The Perroses were darlings. She would love to go ... more than anything else in the world she needed a breath of Dipley air. Resolutely she put the thought of Garth aside. Garth, after all, was quite distinct from his mother and father. Dr. and Mrs. Perros had been friends of Joan’s as long as she could remember. Garth’s extraordinary behaviour need not rob her now of that friendship. In fact it must not rob her. She couldn’t afford to lose touch with the older people ... she loved them and they loved her. And most of all, they stood for Dipley.
Dreamily sipping weak tea and munching toast, Joan pondered. Garth hadn’t bothered her in a long while now. Not since that bitter scene in the ward kitchen. She had spoken her mind then and he had accepted, apparently, his dismissal. He had left her alone as she had asked him to. And she told herself she was glad about that, seeing him remote and distant, a correct young surgeon moving about the hospital wards and corridors, nodding to her briefly if an acknowledgment were unavoidable, but otherwise seemingly unaware of her existence. That was the way she wanted it. That was grand.
And now ... well, he needn’t know anything about this visit until it was over. His mother might mention it to him when she wrote to him, but that would not matter. What did matter were the forlorn five days stretching ahead of Joan and the hunger and thirst for the country that was upon her—her own country.
She rushed away as soon as the meal was over and telegraphed her acceptance to Mrs. Perros. After that her excitement steadily mounted, it was wonderful to think that tomorrow she would actually step out of the slow local train on to Dipley’s nasturtium-clad platform! That Cranley the stationmaster would greet her and the sweet air of the marshes blow on her London-pale cheeks. She would hear words of welcome wherever she went—in the post office, in the grocer’s and the butcher’s. She would go into the little church where as a child she had fidgeted through her father’s long sermons and she would linger a while in the churchyard where the new, sad grave stood under the yews.
There were tears in her blue eyes as she packed her suitcase that evening. But they were not unhappy tears altogether. The wound of her father’s death had healed and closed in these last busy, fruitful weeks. She could go back to the old place now with peace in her heart, peace and thankfulness.
Deliberately, as was her habit now, she did not think of Garth as she folded her soft velvet dress for dinner time, her best fluffy negligee for luxurious late mornings in bed. It was Garth’s home she was going to—but that mustn’t count at all. In a way it was her own home also. Mrs. Perros had always been a second mother to her—much closer indeed than the shadowy person who had died in her early childhood and whom she had scarcely remembered.
No, she told herself firmly. Garth must not be allowed to rob this precious holiday of one moment of its sweetness.
Then at last it was tomorrow and Joan was on her way. In the dusty railway carriage she sat tense and keyed up, her glance keen for each familiar landmark as the train neared its destination. She saw the flat green fields of Suffolk, the straight roads with their borders of fine poplars, the wide ribbon of river that laced the marshes, the lonely, empty countryside under an evening sky of clearest frosty green.
Then it was Dipley and she was dragging her suitcase out on to the platform, too impatient to wait for the services of Tom Edmonds, the lame porter, who was still hobbling afar off. There were pink roses of excitement glowing in her fair cheeks, stars in her blue eyes; and standing there hesitant she was so much more lovely than she knew, a tall, slim girl in a suit
Joan put the letter down with a sigh of longing. The Perroses were darlings. She would love to go ... more than anything else in the world she needed a breath of Dipley air. Resolutely she put the thought of Garth aside. Garth, after all, was quite distinct from his mother and father. Dr. and Mrs. Perros had been friends of Joan’s as long as she could remember. Garth’s extraordinary behaviour need not rob her now of that friendship. In fact it must not rob her. She couldn’t afford to lose touch with the older people ... she loved them and they loved her. And most of all, they stood for Dipley.
Dreamily sipping weak tea and munching toast, Joan pondered. Garth hadn’t bothered her in a long while now. Not since that bitter scene in the ward kitchen. She had spoken her mind then and he had accepted, apparently, his dismissal. He had left her alone as she had asked him to. And she told herself she was glad about that, seeing him remote and distant, a correct young surgeon moving about the hospital wards and corridors, nodding to her briefly if an acknowledgment were unavoidable, but otherwise seemingly unaware of her existence. That was the way she wanted it. That was grand.
And now ... well, he needn’t know anything about this visit until it was over. His mother might mention it to him when she wrote to him, but that would not matter. What did matter were the forlorn five days stretching ahead of Joan and the hunger and thirst for the country that was upon her—her own country.
She rushed away as soon as the meal was over and telegraphed her acceptance to Mrs. Perros. After that her excitement steadily mounted, it was wonderful to think that tomorrow she would actually step out of the slow local train on to Dipley’s nasturtium-clad platform! That Cranley the stationmaster would greet her and the sweet air of the marshes blow on her London-pale cheeks. She would hear words of welcome wherever she went—in the post office, in the grocer’s and the butcher’s. She would go into the little church where as a child she had fidgeted through her father’s long sermons and she would linger a while in the churchyard where the new, sad grave stood under the yews.
There were tears in her blue eyes as she packed her suitcase that evening. But they were not unhappy tears altogether. The wound of her father’s death had healed and closed in these last busy, fruitful weeks. She could go back to the old place now with peace in her heart, peace and thankfulness.
Deliberately, as was her habit now, she did not think of Garth as she folded her soft velvet dress for dinner time, her best fluffy negligee for luxurious late mornings in bed. It was Garth’s home she was going to—but that mustn’t count at all. In a way it was her own home also. Mrs. Perros had always been a second mother to her—much closer indeed than the shadowy person who had died in her early childhood and whom she had scarcely remembered.
No, she told herself firmly. Garth must not be allowed to rob this precious holiday of one moment of its sweetness.
Then at last it was tomorrow and Joan was on her way. In the dusty railway carriage she sat tense and keyed up, her glance keen for each familiar landmark as the train neared its destination. She saw the flat green fields of Suffolk, the straight roads with their borders of fine poplars, the wide ribbon of river that laced the marshes, the lonely, empty countryside under an evening sky of clearest frosty green.
Then it was Dipley and she was dragging her suitcase out on to the platform, too impatient to wait for the services of Tom Edmonds, the lame porter, who was still hobbling afar off. There were pink roses of excitement glowing in her fair cheeks, stars in her blue eyes; and standing there hesitant she was so much more lovely than she knew, a tall, slim girl in a suit
Similar Books
