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Regiment of Women

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<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it. The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their eyes. "Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two. "Good-night," said Roger, without moving. She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the balustrade. "Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand. "You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively. She nodded. Then, with a rush— "Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much." "That's all right," said Roger awkwardly. Alwynne went upstairs. He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the drawing-room. He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they? Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction that no one understood Alwynne but himself.[318] He caught her name as he re-entered the room. "Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?" "Think what?" "That Alwynne's a new girl? It's the air. Nothing like Dene air. But, of course, you didn't see her when she first came. A poor white thing! She'd worked herself to a shadow. How Elsbeth allowed it——" Jean caught her up. "Overwork! Fiddlesticks! It wasn't that. I'm convinced in my own mind that there's something behind it. A girl doesn't go to pieces like that from a little extra work. Look at your Compton women at the end of a term. Bursting with energy still, I will say that for them. No—I'm inclined to agree with Parker. I told you what she said to me? 'She must have been crossed in love, poor young lady, the way she fiddle-faddles with her food!'" Alicia laughed. "When you and Parker get together there's not a reputation safe in the three Denes. If there had been anything of the kind, Elsbeth would have given me a hint." "I should have thought Elsbeth would be the last person——" Jean broke off significantly. Roger glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. "What's she driving at, Aunt Alice?" "Lord knows!" said Alicia shortly. Jean grew huffed. "It's all very well, Alicia, to take that tone. You know what I mean perfectly well. Considering how reticent Elsbeth was over her own affairs to us—she wouldn't be likely to confide anything about Alwynne. But Elsbeth always imagined no one had any eyes." Alicia moved uneasily in her chair. "Jean, will you never let that foolish gossip be? It wasn't your business thirty years ago—at least let it alone now." Jean flushed.[319] "It's all very well to be superior, Alicia, but you know you agreed with me at the time." Roger chuckled. "What are you two driving at? Let's have it." Alicia answered him. "My dear boy, you know what Jean is. Elsbeth stayed with us a good deal when we were all girls together—and because she and your dear father were very good friends——" "Inseparable!" snapped Jean. She was annoyed that the telling of the story was taken from her. "Oh, they had tastes in common. But we all liked him. I'm quite certain Elsbeth was perfectly heart-whole. Only Jean has the servant-girl habit of pairing off all her friends and acquaintances. I don't say, of course, that if John had never met your dear mother—but she came home from her French school—she'd been away two years, you know—and turned everybody's head. Ravishing she was. I remember her coming-out dance. She wore the first short dress we'd seen—every one wore trains in those days—white gauze and forget-me-nots. She looked like a fairy. All the gentlemen wanted to dance with her, she was so light-footed. Your father fell head over ears! They were engaged in a fortnight. And nobody, in her quiet way, was more pleased than Elsbeth, I'm sure. Why, she was one of the bridesmaids!" "She never came to stay with them afterwards," said Jean obstinately, "always had an excuse." "Considering she had to nurse her father, with her mother an invalid already——" Alicia was indignant. "Ten years of sick-nursing that poor girl had!" "Anyhow, she never came to Dene again till after John died. Then she came, once. When she heard we were all going out to Italy. Stayed a week." "I remember," said Roger unexpectedly. "You! You were only five," cried Jean. The clock struck as she spoke. She jumped up. "Alicia! It's ten[320] o'clock! Where's Parker? Why hasn't Parker brought the biscuits? You really might speak to her! She's always late!" She flurried out of the room. Roger drew in his chair. "Aunt Alice, I say—how much of that is just—Aunt Jean?" Alicia sighed. "My dear boy! How should I know? It's all such a long while ago. Jean's no respecter of privacy. I never noticed anything—hate prying—always did." "She never married?" "She was over thirty before her mother died. She aged quickly—faded somehow. At that visit Jean spoke of—I shall never forget the change in her. She was only twenty-six, two years older than your mother, but Rosemary was a girl beside her, in spite of you and her widow's weeds. And then Alwynne was left on her hands and she absorbed herself in her. She's one of those self-effacing women—But there—she's quite contented, I think. She adores Alwynne. Her letters are cheerful enough. I always kept up with her. I'd like to see her again." "Why didn't you ask her with Alwynne?" "I did. She wouldn't come. Spring-cleaning, and one of her whimsies. Wanted the child to have a change from her. That's Elsbeth all over. She was always painfully humble. I imagine she'd sell her immortal soul for Alwynne." "Well—and so would you for me," said Roger, with a twinkle. "Don't you flatter yourself," retorted Alicia with spirit. Then she laughed and kissed him, and lumbered off to scold Jean up to bed. Roger sat late, staring into the fire, and reviewing the day's happenings. There was Alwynne to be considered.... Alwynne in the wood.... Alwynne in the daffodil house.... Alwynne[321] hanging over the bannisters, a candle in her hand.... And Elsbeth.... Elsbeth had become something more than a name.... Elsbeth had known his mother—had been "pals" with his father.... He chuckled at the recollection of Jean's speculations.... Poor old Jean! She hadn't altered much.... He remembered her first horror at Compton and its boys and girls.... But Elsbeth was evidently a good sort ... appreciated Alwynne.... He would like to have a talk with Elsbeth.... He would like to have her version of that disastrous summer; have her views on Alwynne and this school of hers ... and that woman ... what was her name?... Hartill! Clare Hartill! Yes, he must certainly get to know Alwynne's Elsbeth.... In the meantime.... He hesitated, fidgeting at his desk; spoiled a sheet or two; shrugged his shoulders; began again; and finally, with a laugh at his own uncertainty, settled down to the writing of a long letter to his second cousin Elsbeth. Elsbeth, opening a boot-boxful of daffodils on the following evening, had no leisure for any other letter till Alwynne's was read. <blockquote>I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you would like him, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. </blockquote> Elsbeth smiled over her daffodils. She had to put them in water, and arrange them, and re-arrange them, and admire them for a full half-hour before she had time for the rest of her post, for her two circulars and the letter in the unfamiliar handwriting. But when, at last, it was opened, she had no more eyes[322] for daffodils; and though she spent her evening letter-writing, Alwynne got no thanks for them next day. "Not even a note!" declaimed Alwynne indignantly. "She might at least have sent me a note! It isn't as if she had any one else to write to!" Roger was most sympathetic. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [323] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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