“Take care of yourself,” he said as he rose to go. “I could give you a sedative but I don’t think you’ll need it.”
“I shall sleep like a top,” said Bel. She put her arms round his neck and looked up into his face, “Thank you—for everything. I love you very much—but you know that, don’t you?”
“Dear little Bel!”
They were silent for a moment or two.
“You’re quite happy about Louise, aren’t you?” said Bel at last.
“Goodness knows what I shall do without her!—but, yes, I’m happy about her. She couldn’t have chosen a better man, I’m sure of that.”
“He’s good all through and absolutely reliable,” declared Bel, paying Alec Drummond the highest compliment she knew.
“Yes, he’s the right one,” agreed the doctor. “I thought at one time—but, no matter. It appears I was wrong. It’s been Alec all the time.”
“Ever since Drumburly,” nodded Bel.
“I must go,” he said. “Lou will be wondering—but first I want to thank you for all your kindness to my child.”
“Kindness?”
“For going to Edinburgh with her and taking such good care of her. I’m pretty certain that quite a lot of things happened in Edinburgh—things that Lou knows nothing about.”
Bel smiled up at him affectionately, but did not answer.
“Yes, I thought so,” he said with a little chuckle. He bent and kissed her and went away.
*
3
When the doctor had gone Bel sat down in her usual chair by the fire. It was not yet time for Ellis to come home, but it would not be long. She must listen for the car and the moment she heard it stop at the gate she must run out and meet Ellis and tell him the wonderful news. Ellis might have seen Mr. Singleton but that did not matter now. It did not matter what Mr. Singleton had said about the legal aspect of the case; all that mattered was the date upon which Miss Lestrange had signed her last will and testament—and that was definitely fixed.
Bel had said to herself that the pieces of the puzzle were all falling into place. She wanted to collect them and make a picture of them, but there were so many pieces that it was not easy. Miss Lestrange was the centre-piece of course. Everything that had happened had been caused by the curious personality of the frail old lady who had loved power. Bel had heard so much about Miss Lestrange that she felt as if she knew her quite well, felt as if she had seen her and spoken to her. It was almost impossible to believe that she had been dead for six years. (Perhaps people like Miss Lestrange are never really dead, thought Bel vaguely. There is so much of them alive in the minds of those who knew them).
Bel had heard about her first from Roy Lestrange and remembered his description of her—very good-looking with white hair done in curls on the top of her head and a straight back like a Guardee—and she remembered Roy’s story about the Egyptian scarf, she had looked magnificent in it! Roy had said, ‘You can imagine her, can’t you?’ and Bel had been able to imagine her vividly.
Since then other people had added to the portrait; Margaret Warren with her account of her visit to Fletchers End on Poppy Day; ‘She was rather a wicked old lady,’ Margaret had said. She was also very amusing. ‘You never knew what she was going to say next’. She had been kind to the twelve-year-old Margaret and, in spite of the horrid tea, Margaret had enjoyed herself.
Then there was old Mr. Fuller with his description of Miss Lestrange walking down the garden path ‘in a grey dress with a red thing round her neck’—and her imperious command, ‘Do it now, Fuller’. And there was Lady Steyne—she had made a considerable contribution to the portrait—and there was Mr. Harding. Poor little Mr. Harding! His recollection of ‘Aunt Helen’ was a very unhappy one. She had hated him, she was jealous, she had broken her promise to leave her property to his mother; ‘Doesn’t it seem unfair?’ he had exclaimed. Dr. Armstrong’s contribution to the portrait was most important of all; he had seen Miss Lestrange clearly with all her faults and failings but all the same he had been very fond of her.
They had all seen her differently, thought Bel, but really and truly that was not as queer as it seemed, for of course human beings are composite mixtures of good and bad qualities and show entirely different aspects of their personalities to different people.
Yes, all the pieces of the puzzle were there, thought Bel, and when she had talked to Ellis and told him everything they would make a clear picture. Meantime she could let her thoughts wander, and enjoy the relief of knowing that everything was all right and there was no need to worry any more. How wonderful it was—almost too good to be true!
Almost too good to be true? Bel sat up suddenly—supposing it wasn’t true? Supposing Dr. Armstrong had made a mistake? It was six years ago—and six years is a long time. You could easily make a mistake about something that had happened all that time ago . . .
But fortunately the intrusive doubt was easily banished; Bel knew and trusted the big kind doctor; he was absolutely reliable. He had told her everything that had happened on that cold January afternoon—every smallest detail—and it had all fitted in with what she had known before. He had said that for various reasons the affair had made such a deep impression upon him that he remembered it as if it had happened last week—and obviously this was true—so it was all right.
It was all right, thought Bel, leaning back with a sigh of relief. Fletchers End was safe.
Bel’s thoughts wandered. All sorts of things chased each other through her mind, one after another . . . all the things she loved about Fletchers End; all the things which together constituted the enchantment of the old house; the friendly feeling when you came in (as if it were welcoming you home) . . . the old oak beams . . . the curve of the staircase and the smoothness of the banister-rail beneath your hand . . . the morning sunshine pouring in through the windows and shining on the polished floors . . . the singing of the birds at dawn . . . the clock on the tower of St. Julian’s striking the hours . . . the crackle of logs burning in the big stone fireplace . . . the gentle creaks and sighings as the old house settled down for the night . . .
Bel thought of Mrs. Warmer—nice kind Mrs. Warmer—and Mr. Carruthers talking about ‘chimbleys’ and little Mr. Fuller walking about the ‘garding’ and enjoying the ‘luvverly flowers’—invisible to everyone except himself. They were all part of Fletchers End. She thought of the aspen tree outside the staircase-window and the rustle of the wind amongst its leaves; she thought of the roses, Ellis’s roses, which would bloom for him next year. She thought of the ‘apricocks’ on the south wall—not next year, but perhaps the year after, their branches would be bowed down with little golden globes ‘Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight.’
For days and days—it seemed like weeks—Bel had not been able to think of these things without misery, but now she could think of them with happiness. Happiness filled her heart to overflowing—for Fletchers End was safe. It belonged to her and Ellis, it was their very own. They would live here and enjoy its peace and beauty all their lives . . .
Presently Bel became aware of the scent of violets, it was faint at first—perhaps it was just imagination—but gradually it grew stronger until the delicious fragrance filled the room. Bel glanced up at the picture and it seemed to her that Mrs. Lestrange was smiling.
*
the end
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Fletchers End (Bel Lamington Book 2) Page 30
