ome day. Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases:
“Some day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews. They are a little gloomy, perhaps!”
“One might have a water garden here. Some day, perhaps, you will.”
And Roddy? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury.
And they would have been together there. They would have been together here—now—not packing up the house for selling, but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden, walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happy—yes, happy together—but for the fatal accident of a girl’s wild-rose beauty….
What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothing—less than nothing! What did he care for her—for the real Mary? She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy know anything about them? It was the old story—Nature’s hoary old joke!
Hadn’t Roddy himself said it was an “enchantment?”
Didn’t Roddy himself—really—want to be free of it?
If Mary Gerrard were to—die, for instance, wouldn’t Roddy some day acknowledge: “It was all for the best. I see that now. We had nothing in common….”
He would add, perhaps, with gentle melancholy:
“She was a lovely creature….”
Let her be that to him—yes—an exquisite memory—a thing of beauty and a joy forever….
If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard, Roddy would come back to her—Elinor… She was quite sure of that!
If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard…
Elinor turned the handle of the side door. She passed from the warm sunlight into the shadow of the house. She shivered.
It felt cold in here, dark, sinister… It was as though Something was there, waiting for her, in the house….
She walked along the hall and pushed the baize door that led into the butler’s pantry.
It smelt slightly musty. She pushed up the window, opening it wide.
She laid down her parcels—the butter, the loaf, the little glass bottle of milk. She thought:
“Stupid! I meant to get coffee.”
She looked in the canisters on a shelf. There was a little tea in one of them, but no coffee.
She thought: “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”
She unwrapped the two glass jars of fish paste.
She stood staring at them for a minute. Then she left the pantry and went upstairs. She went straight to Mrs. Welman’s room. She began on the big tallboy, opening drawers, sorting, arranging, folding clothes in little piles….
III
In the Lodge Mary Gerrard was looking round rather helplessly.
She hadn’t realized, somehow, how cramped it all was.
Her past life rushed back over her in a flood. Mum making clothes for her dolls. Dad always cross and surly. Disliking her. Yes, disliking her….
She said suddenly to Nurse Hopkins:
“Dad didn’t say anything—send me any message before he died, did he?”