Susan reminded herself of several things that she ought to be feeling. None of them seemed to mean anything at all. She turned a little paler, and said quite slowly,
“Were you going to beg my pardon?”
“No—” said Anthony thoughtfully. “No—I wasn’t—but I will if you want me to.”
Susan became suddenly aware that they were under some strange compulsion to speak the actual truth to one another—people very seldom did. She and Anthony Colstone had come by chance into a place where they couldn’t help doing it. It was like being enchanted. She said,
“I don’t want you to.”
Just for a moment she had a stab of fear. If he didn’t understand; if he tried to kiss her again … But he only frowned a little and said,
“You didn’t mind—did you?”
Susan said, “No.”
He bent and picked up the bicycle. A little of the strangeness faded away. Susan put a hand on the saddle. They were quite close together, with the bicycle between them. And then Anthony said quite suddenly,
“Susan—who are you?”
“Mrs. Bowyer’s great-granddaughter.”
“Really and truly?”
“Really and truly.”
“Why did you pretend?”
“Pretend?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Why did you pretend to be uneducated?”
A faint sparkle came into her eyes.
“I can read, and write, and add. But I can’t do long division or fractions—please, sir.”
“Why do you call me sir?” His voice continued to be steady and grave.
Susan’s chin went up ever so little. The enchantment was wearing off.
“Because it’s the proper thing for Mrs. Bowyer’s granddaughter to do. Mary Ann Smithers would do it.”
“I don’t like it.”
The sparkle became more pronounced.
“Nobody axed you, sir!” she said.
He had the bicycle by the handle with his left hand. He put his right on Susan’s.
“Susan—”
“Sir?”
“You’re not to call me sir.”
“What am I to call you?” It might have been said in a variety of ways—innocent, mock-innocent, or coquettish. Susan made it a direct and serious question.
“Anthony,” said Anthony Colstone.
Susan stopped being serious.
“That would add immensely to the gaiety of Ford St. Mary!”
“Would it?”
“Of course it would. Mrs. Smithers wouldn’t be able to get round fast enough really to do it justice. I think she’s the best gossip in the place. But she’s so fat that it’s a frightful handicap, and sometimes other people get in first with a bit of news—Mrs. Smithers feels it horribly, and the whole Smithers family is plunged in gloom. But of course I might give her exclusive rights. I could go in on my way home—it’s her ironing day—and say ‘Mr. Colstone has asked me to call him Anthony.’ She’d be thrilled, and in about an hour I shouldn’t have a single shred of character left. I should think it would take her about an hour to tell everybody—but perhaps two hours would be safer, because she’ll want to linger over the horrid details and have plenty of time to rub it in that she always thought there was something out of place about the way I went on.”
Anthony kept his hand on hers. It was a very nice hand to touch. He looked at her with a grin.
“You talk very good nonsense for a village girl.”
Susan laughed, really laughed, with a bubbling mirth that seemed to rise up from some new spring of gaiety. It was a frightfully nice morning, and the wood was green and the sky was blue, and Anthony’s hand on hers was the hand of a friend. She laughed, and she said, “Thank you kindly—Anthony!” And she bobbed him a little curtsey.
The most extraordinary thing happened to Anthony. When she bobbed to him like that with her eyes full of wickedness and her mouth suddenly soft and demure, he wanted to kiss her. That wasn’t the extraordinary thing; it was the merely obvious thing. The extraordinary thing was that he knew, with a sort of cast-iron certainty, that he couldn’t kiss Susan lightly. He had kissed her once without thinking it all, but if he were to kiss her again, he would be kissing his wife. He flushed deeply, and he took his hand away.
There was a breathless pause.
Anthony’s mind was quite full of the thing that had happened to him. He said “Susan—” in a shaken voice; and Susan caught her breath and said “Oh!” And then she tried to laugh.
Anthony was looking at her intently.
“You said ‘Oh!’”
“Mayn’t I?”
“What were you doing last night?” he asked abruptly.
“Why?”
“When you said ‘Oh!’ like that—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I thought I’d heard you say it before.”
“It’s quite an ordinary thing to say, really.”
Anthony felt he had held the bicycle long enough. He let it down on to the grass.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“We have been talking.”
“Not really.”
Susan wasn’t sure whether she wanted to talk to him or not. One bit of her did, and another bit stood on guard and was rather afraid. If she talked to him, what was she going to say, and how much was she going to say? She looked at the bicycle.
“I ought to go back. I borrowed that wretched thing from Mary Ann Smithers, and it’s punctured.”
“We might go into the wood,” said Anthony.
“And supposing someone comes along and walks off with that wretched broken reed?”
“They won’t. Nobody would have it at a gift.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They went into the wood. Susan couldn’t remember when she had felt so undecided in all her life. She couldn’t make up her mind what she was going to say. This ought to have worried her. But she didn’t feel worried; she felt quite irresponsible, and vague, and pleased with its being such a nice day.
When they had gone a little way into the wood, she stood still.
“What do you want to say to me?”
Anthony wanted to say a good many things, but he thought he had better not say them. One of the consequences of what had happened to him was that it seemed perfectly natural to say anything that came into his head. He wanted to tell Susan that she was going to marry him, but he supposed he had better wait and break it to her by degrees. It wasn’t that he felt shy. He could have said it quite easily; in fact he was finding it very difficult not to say it, but he took a good pull on himself.
There was a fallen tree quite close to them. He decided that they had better sit down and talk comfortably. It was quite a nice dry tree, with curly green lichen growing on the bark and ferns poking out from underneath it. He thought it would make a very good seat.
“We’ll sit down here and talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?” said Susan.
She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him expectantly. Anthony sat down too. There was about a yard between them.
“Do you think you could be friends with me?”
Susan nodded.
“I expect so.”
“I want to talk to you, but I don’t want to talk to you unless we’re friends—I mean real friends.”
Susan nodded again.
“Go on.”
“I asked you where you were last night, because a lot of odd things happened, and I wondered whether you were one of them.”
She opened her eyes very wide indeed.
“One of the odd things? What were they?” She thought it would be quite interesting to hear Anthony’s version of what had happened last night.
Anthony kept his eyes fixed on her face.
“I woke up in the middle of the night and came down, and as soon as I got into the library I had a sort of feeling that there was someone there.”
“How exciting! And was there?”
“Yes, there was—in fact there were several people.”
“Quite a house-warming!”
“Er—yes—an awfully jolly one. One of the people gave a sort of frightened squeak—awfully like a rabbit it sounded. And another waltzed in at the door with an electric torch and shone it on to that picture that I told you was like you. I think he had a friend with him, but I’m not sure. Anyhow, when the light shone on the picture it moved.”
“The light moved?”
Anthony frowned. She was showing a good deal of duplicity if—On the other hand he wasn’t quite sure. He meant to be sure. He said, rather severely,
“No—the picture.”
“How could it?” said Susan simply.
“It did—it moved its arm.” He paused, and added, “It’s awfully like you.”
“I do move my arm sometimes,” said Susan.
“Yes—I thought you moved it last night. The light flashing on like that must have been a bit of a shock.”
“It sounds like an optical delusion,” said Susan firmly. “What happened next?”
“I went for the blighter with the torch, and he biffed me on the head with it, and tripped me up and got away, and banged the front door.
“And then?”
“Well, I rather wanted to ask you about that. Was the handkerchief yours?”
Susan looked at him. His face was quite innocent and grave. She felt justly annoyed at having a leaf taken out of her own book.
“The handkerchief?” she said.
“Yes. Did you drop it?”
“What handkerchief?”
“The one that was in the corner of the room behind the chair—I expect you saw me come back and pick it up.”
“I suppose you know what you’re talking about.”
“I suppose so. Don’t you?”
Susan raised her eyebrows.
“Perhaps it’ll get easier as you go on. Do go on!”
“About the handkerchief? But you know all that part. I picked it up and then went to lock up, and when I came back it was gone—so I expect it was yours, because of course you wouldn’t steal somebody else’s handkerchief.”
“I hope it is going to get easier,” said Susan. “I should like it to, because it sounds as if it might be quite exciting if I only knew what it was all about. Do go on.”
“Well, I went upstairs, and when I got upstairs I began to wonder whether the front door had been banged to put me off the scent, so I thought I’d lurk for a bit and see—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I lurked, and nothing happened for a bit. And then the library door opened and someone began to come out.”
“The man with the torch?”
“N-no,” said Anthony. “I think it was a ghost—a family ghost, with a swishing skirt.”
“Oh—” It wasn’t really a word.
“I expect it was Miss Patience Pleydell’s ghost. She began to come out, and she went back again because the burglars, or whatever they were, opened the drawing-room door. I was a mug not to search the house.”
“Yes, you were—I mean you must have been.”
“I was.”
“What—what happened next?”
“Don’t you know? They went through the baize door, and the family ghost went after them, and I began to come down the stairs as quietly as I could, because I wanted to catch them at whatever they were up to. By the way, what were they up to?”
“Didn’t you find out?”
“’M—” said Anthony.
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, any old thing.”
There was a pause. Susan said nothing. Anthony said nothing. Susan looked at Anthony, and Anthony looked at Susan. The sun shone, and the breeze moved pleasantly overhead amongst green leaves and little rustling twigs.
Susan looked at Anthony. His face was perfectly grave, but there was just the suspicion of an obstinate twinkle in his eye. She wanted to laugh.
Quite suddenly he grinned and said, “Well?”
“Oh, I do wish you’d go on! Tell me what happened.”
“I followed the family ghost—that is to say I followed it as far as the baize door, and then I looked through the chink.”
“It was dark,” said Susan accusingly. A beautiful bright carnation ran up into her cheeks, and she added hastily, “You said it was dark.”
Anthony laughed.
“My mistake! Of course it was dark—only I didn’t say so. I looked through the chink and saw how dark it was. And then it wasn’t quite so dark, because there was a lantern or something in the room on the right, and the door was open and I could just see the family ghost crouching down by the open door. I thought it was a pretty odd thing for a ghost to do. Don’t you?”
“’M—” said Susan. Her eyes were wicked. “I never heard anyone tell a story worse.” She put a resigned sound into her voice.
“I’m sorry. There isn’t much more to tell. I thought I had better take a hand, so I barged through the door and along the bit of passage and into the room.” He stopped.
“Why don’t you go on?” said Susan brightly.
“There isn’t any more.”
“There must be. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Someone must have slogged me over the head—I don’t remember, but that’s what my head felt like when I came to.”
“Oh, you did come to?”
Anthony laughed again.
“This is a bit like a dream—isn’t it? I’ve thought that once or twice. I’ve had worse ones. Haven’t you?”
“I don’t know. Tell me about your coming to.”
“It was very romantic,” said Anthony. “I was lying on the floor in the dark with my head in the family ghost’s lap. She was looking awfully worried.”
Susan pressed her lips firmly together. Her eyes said “Liar!” They said it with a good deal of heat.
“Sorry—of course it was dark—you’re quite right. I only guessed she was worried by the way she said ‘Oh!’ And then all of a sudden she vanished into thin air—I expect it was cock-crow or something of that sort. And when I found the matches and got a light, I was in the library, with the door locked on the inside. And now it’s your turn.”
Susan gazed at him. There was still a good deal of fire in her eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I said it was your turn. How did I get into the library—and who locked the door?”
“That, I suppose,” said Susan, “is what you call a rhetorical question.”
“Mary Ann Smithers wouldn’t know what a rhetorical question was—so that one counts to me.
“I’m not bothering about Mary Ann Smithers any more,” said Susan calmly. Then she frowned a little. Was she going to tell him anything, or wasn’t she? And how much could she tell him? She wasn’t sure. She jumped up. “That reminds me, I must take her bicycle back and have it mended. She wants it this afternoon.”
Anthony got up too.
“You haven’t answered my questions.”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know.” Her colour had deepened. She spoke seriously.
Anthony did not speak for a minute. Then he said, in a different voice,
“I don’t want you to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
They came back on to the road and walked in silence until they came to the place where the trees ended and the empty road ran sharply down the hill. Then Susan said,
“Good-bye—I’ll take the bicycle now.”
“Where am I to go?” inquired Anthony. He held the bicycle by the handle and spoke with deceptive meekness.
“You can finish your walk—and the song about William—you stopped in the middle of his being murdered.”
“Not murdered, only carried off by the pressgang. Would you like to hear the rest of it?”
“No,” said Susan. Then she said “Goodbye” again.
Anthony’s manner changed.
<
br /> “Susan—when am I going to see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“I must see you.”
“You can always come and call on Gran.”
“And have you make that beastly bob, and call me sir, and never take your eyes off your sewing.”
“I was brought up to order myself lowly and reverently to my betters—sir,” said Susan. She put her head a little on one side and looked impudently at him. “Gran loves visitors,” she said.
“I might want to see you—” he began.
“Gran would say, ‘Then want must be your master.’”
“Is that what you say?”
Susan changed again. She said “Anthony,” bit her lip, and stopped.
“Susan—”
She flushed, and twisted the bicycle out of his hand with a jerk.
“Susan—I must be able to see you.”
She was walking away from him. Just as she came out into the full sunshine, she looked back over her shoulder.
“The family ghost might walk,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Where ha’ you been?” said old Mrs. Bowyer. The sun had just gone off the geraniums in her window, and she was watering them out of an old lustre jug.
Susan shut the door and kissed the tips of her fingers to her.
“Don’t you ask no questions, and you won’t get told no lies, Gran.”
“Ho!” said Mrs. Bowyer. She poured the last drop out of the coppery jug with the bright blue band on it; then she turned and fixed her bright black eyes on Susan. “Ho! So that’s the way of it? And who is he, my maid?”
“You weren’t to ask questions.”
“H’m!” said Mrs. Bowyer. She went into the kitchen and hung the jug on its own particular hook on the dresser. Then she came back.
Susan was looking out of the window. She spoke without turning round:
“Why did you think I’d been meeting someone, Gran?”
“By the look in your face,” said old Susan Bowyer. She sat down in her rocking-chair. “I been young myself, though ’twas so long ago.”
Susan turned round.
“Were you married very young? You were cousins, weren’t you? I suppose you’d known him always?”
“No, I hadn’t. I hadn’t set eyes on him since I was a matter of five years old. You see, ’twas this way. His father and my father was brothers—William and Thomas. My father kept the gardens at Stonegate—a proper gardener my father was. And Thomas, he went off to Fletchley—a matter of thirty miles away, because it stands to reason he couldn’t be head gardener at Stone-gate, not with my father there, and he wouldn’t bend his pride to be second. So he went to Sir John Tuffnell that had a place at Fletchley. And William was brought up at Fletchley and went into the garden under his father. And when I was a matter of seventeen years old, my father broke his leg, and Mr. James Colstone, that was Sir Jervis’ father, he said ‘You take and send for that nephew of yours—I hear he’s a likely lad, and he can do as you tell him and keep things going till you’re about again.’ So Father he sent for William, and William he came along—and that was the first I saw of him that I could remember.”
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