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Regiment of Women

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> Alwynne's visit had been prolonged in turn by Alicia, Jean and Roger; and Elsbeth had acquiesced—her sedate letters never betrayed how eagerly—in each delay. Alicia was flatteringly in need of her help for the Easter church decorations, and how could Alwynne refuse? Jean was in the thick of preparations for the bazaar: Alwynne's quick wits and clever fingers were not to be dispensed with. Alwynne wondered what Clare would say to her interest in a bazaar and a mothers' meeting, and was a little nervous that it would be considered anything but a reasonable excuse for yet another delay. Clare's letters were getting impatient—Clare was wanting her back. Clare was finding her holidays dull. Yet Alwynne, longing to return to her, was persuaded to linger—for a bazaar—a village bazaar! That a bazaar of all things should tempt Alwynne from Clare! She felt the absurdity of it as fully as ever Clare could do. Yet she stayed. After all, The Dears had been very good to her.... She should be glad to make some small return by being useful when she could.... And Alwynne was pleasantly conscious that she was uncommonly useful. A fair is a many-sided gaiety. There are tableaux—Alwynne's suggestions were invaluable. Side-shows—Alwynne, in a witch's hat, told the entire village its fortunes with precision and point. Alwynne's well-drilled school-babies were pretty enough in their country dances and nursery rhymes; and the stall draperies were a credit to Alwynne's taste. Alwynne's posters lined the walls; and her lightning portraits—fourpence each, married[324] couples sixpence—were the success of the evening. The village notabilities were congratulatory: The Dears beamed: it was all very pleasant. Her pleasure in her own popularity was innocent enough. Nevertheless she glanced uneasily in the direction of Roger Lumsden more than once during the evening. He was very big and busy in his corner helping his aunts, but she felt herself under observation. She had an odd idea that he was amused at her. She thought he might have enquired if she needed help during the long evening, when the little Parish Hall was grown crowded. Once, indeed, she signed to him across the room to come and talk to her, but he laughed and shook his head, and turned again to an old mother, absorbed in a pile of flannel petticoats. Alwynne was not pleased. But when the sale had come to its triumphant end, and the stall-holders stood about in little groups, counting coppers and comparing gains—it was Roger who discovered Alwynne, laughing a trifle mechanically at the jokes of the ancient rector, and came to her rescue. She found herself in the cool outer air, hat and scarf miraculously in place. "Jean and Alicia are driving, they won't be long after us. I thought you'd rather walk. That room was a furnace," said Roger, with solicitude. She drew a deep breath. "It was worth it to get this. Isn't it cool and quiet? I like this black and white road. Doesn't the night smell delicious?" "It's the cottage gardens," he said. "Wallflowers and briar and old man. Better than all your acres of glass, after all," she insinuated mischievously. Then, with a change of tone, "Oh, dear, I am tired." "You'd better hang on to my arm," said Roger promptly. "That's better. Of course you're tired. If you insist on running the entire show——" "Then you did think that?" Alwynne gave instant[325] battle. "I knew you did. I saw you laugh. I can walk by myself, thank you." But her dignity edged her into a cart-rut, for Roger did not deviate from the middle of the lane. He laughed. "You're a consistent young woman—I'm as sure of a rise——You'd better take my arm. Alwynne! You're not to say 'Damn.'" A puddle shone blackly, and Alwynne, nose in air, had stepped squarely into it. She ignored his comments. "I wasn't interfering. I had to help where I could. They asked me to. Besides—I liked it." "Of course you did." She looked up quickly. "Did I really do anything wrong? Did I push myself forward?" "You made the whole thing go," he said seriously. "A triumph, Alwynne. The rector's your friend for life." "Then why do you grudge it?" She was hurt. "Do I?" "You laugh at me." "Because I was pleased." "With me?" "With my thoughts. You've enjoyed yourself, haven't you?" She nodded. "I never dreamed it would be such fun." She laughed shyly. "I like people to like me." "Now, come," he said. "Wasn't it quite as amusing as a prize-giving?" She looked up at him, puzzled. He was switching with his stick at the parsley-blooms, white against the shadows of the hedge. "I suppose your goal is a head mistress-ship?" he suggested off-handedly. "Why?" began Alwynne, wondering. Then, taking the bait: "Not for myself—I couldn't. I haven't been to[326] college, you know. But if Clare got one—I could be her secretary, and run things for her, like Miss Vigers did for Miss Marsham. We've often planned it." "Ah, that's a prospect indeed," he remarked. "I suppose it would be more attractive, for instance, than to be Lady Bountiful to a village?" "Oh, yes," said Alwynne, with conviction. "More scope, you know. And, besides, Clare hates the country." "Ah!" said Roger. They walked awhile in silence. But before they reached home, Roger had grown talkative again. He had heard from his aunts that she was planning to go back to Utterbridge on the following Saturday—a bare three days ahead. Roger thought that a pity. The bazaar was barely over—had Alwynne any idea of the clearing up there would be to do? Accounts—calls—congratulations. Surely Alwynne would not desert his aunts till peace reigned once more. And the first of his roses would be out in another week; Alwynne ought to see them; they were a sight. Surely Alwynne could spare another week. Alwynne had a lot to say about Elsbeth. And Clare. Especially Clare. Alwynne did not think it would be kind to either of them to stay away any longer. It would look at last as if she didn't want to go home. Elsbeth would be hurt. And Clare. Especially Clare. But the lane had been dark and the hedges had been high, high enough to shut out all the world save Roger and his plausibilities. By the time they reached the garden gate Alwynne's hand was on Roger's arm—Alwynne was tired—and Alwynne had promised to stay yet another week at Dene. On the following day, labouring over her letters of explanation, she wondered what had possessed her. Wondered, between a chuckle of mischief and a genuine shiver, what on earth Clare would say. But if Roger had gained his point, he gained little beside it. The week passed pleasantly, but some obscure instinct[327] tied Alwynne to his aunts' apron-strings. He saw less of her in those last days than in all the weeks of her visit. He had assured her that The Dears would need help, and she took him at his word. She absorbed herself in their concerns, and in seven long days found time but twice to visit Roger's roses. Yet who so pleasant as Alwynne when she was with him? Roger should have appreciated her whim of civility. It is on record that she agreed with him one dinner-time, on five consecutive subjects. On record, too, that in that last week there arose between them no quarrel worthy of the name. Yet Roger was not in the easiest of moods, as his gardeners knew, and his coachman, and his aunts. The gardeners grumbled. The coachman went so far as to think of talking of giving notice. Alicia said it was the spring. Jean thought he needed a tonic—or a change. Roger, cautiously consulted, surprised her by agreeing. He said it was a good idea. He might very well take a few days off, say in a fortnight, or three weeks.... Only Alwynne, very busy over the finishing touches of Clare's birthday present, paid no attention to the state of Roger's temper. She was entirely content. The anticipation of her reunion with Clare accentuated the delights of her protracted absence. Indeed, it was not until the last morning of her visit that she noticed any change in him. That last morning, she thought resentfully, as later she considered matters in the train, he had certainly managed to spoil. Roger, her even-minded, tranquil Roger—Roger, prime sympathiser and confederate—Roger, the entirely dependable—had failed her. She did not know what had come over him. For Roger had been in a bad temper, a rotten bad temper, and heaven knew why.... Alwynne didn't.... She had been in such a jolly frame of mind herself.... She had got her packing done early, and had dashed down to breakfast, beautifully punctual—and then it all began.... She re-lived it indignantly, as the telegraph poles shot by.[328] The bacon had sizzled pleasantly in the chafing-dish. She was standing at the window, crumbling bread to the birds. "Hulloa! You're early!" remarked Roger, entering. "Done all my packing already! Isn't that virtue?" Alwynne was intent on her pensioners. "Oh, Roger—look! There's a cuckoo. I'm sure it's a cuckoo. Jean says they come right on to the lawn sometimes. I've always wanted to see one. Look! The big dark blue one." "Starling," said Roger shortly, and sat himself down. "First day I've known you punctual," he continued sourly. "I'm going home," cried Alwynne. "I'm going home! Do you know I've been away seven weeks? It's queer that I haven't been homesick, isn't it?" "Is it?" said Roger blankly. "So, of course, I'm awfully excited," she continued, coming to the table. "Oh, Roger! In six hours I shall see Clare!" "Congratulations!" He gulped down some coffee. Alwynne looked at him, mildly surprised at his taciturnity. "I've had a lovely time," she remarked wistfully. "You've all been so good to me." Roger brightened. "The Dears are such dears," continued Alwynne with enthusiasm. "I've never had such a glorious time. It only wanted Clare to make it quite perfect. And Elsbeth, of course." "Of course," said Roger. "So often I've thought," she went on: "'Now if only Clare and Elsbeth could be coming down the road to meet us——'" she paused effectively. "I do so like my friends to know each other, don't you?" Roger was cutting bread—stale bread, to judge by his efforts. His face was growing red. "Because then I can talk about them to them," concluded Alwynne lucidly. "Jolly for them!" he commented indistinctly.[329] Alwynne looked up. "What, Roger?" "I said, 'Jolly for them!'" "Oh!" Alwynne glanced at him in some uncertainty. Then, with a frown— "Have you finished—already?" "Yes, thank you." "I haven't," remarked Alwynne, with sufficient point. Roger rose. "You'll excuse me, won't you? I've a busy morning ahead of me." He got up. But in spite of his protestations of haste he still stood at the table, fidgeting over his pile of circulars and seed catalogues, while he coughed the preliminary cough of a man who has something to say, and no idea of how to say it. Alwynne, meanwhile, had discovered the two letters that her napkin had hidden, and had neither ears nor eyes for him and his hesitations. Roger watched her gloomily as she opened the envelopes. The first enclosure was read and tossed aside quickly enough, but the other was evidently absorbing. He shrugged his shoulders at last, and, crossing the room, took his warmed boots from the hearth. The supporting tongs fell with a crash. Alwynne jumped. "Oh, Roger, you are noisy!" "Sorry," said Roger, but without conviction. She looked across at him with a hint of perturbation in her manner. She distrusted laconics. "I say—is anything the matter?" "Nothing whatever!" he assured her. "Why?" He bent over his boots. "I don't know. You're rather glum to-day, aren't you?" "Not at all," said Roger, with a dignity that was marred by the sudden bursting of his over-tugged bootlace. His[330] ensuing exclamation was vigorous and not inaudible. Alwynne giggled. It is not easy to tie a knot in four-sided leather laces. She watched his struggles without excessive sympathy. Presently a neat twist of twine flicked through space and fell beside him. "'Just a little bit of string,'" murmured Alwynne flippantly. But getting no thanks, she returned to her letter. Roger fumbled in silence. "The Dears are late," remarked Alwynne at last, as she folded her sheets. "No—it's we who are early. I got down early on purpose. I thought you might be, too. I wanted——" he broke off abruptly. "Yes, I always wake up at daybreak when I'm excited," she said joyously. "Oh, Roger! How I'm looking forward to getting home! Clare says she may meet me—if she feels like it," she beamed. "Oh!" said Roger. Alwynne tapped her foot angrily. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Why on earth do you sit there and grunt at me like that? Why won't you talk? You're an absolute wet blanket—on my last morning. I wish The Dears would come down." "I think I hear them moving," he said, and stared at the ceiling. "I hope you do." Alwynne flounced from the table and picked up a paper. He stood looking at her—between vexation and amusement, and another sensation less easily defined. "Well, I must be off," he said at last. He got no answer. "Good-bye, Alwynne. Pleasant journey." Alwynne turned in a flash. "Good-bye? Aren't you coming to see me off?" she demanded blankly. He hesitated, looking back at her from the open window, one foot already on the terrace.[331] "I'm awfully busy. It's market-day, you know—and the new stuff's coming in. The Dears will see you off." "Oh, all right." Alwynne was suddenly subdued. She held out a limp hand. He disregarded it. "Do you want me to come?" He spoke more cheerfully. "One always likes one's friends to see one off," she remarked sedately. "And meet one?" He glanced at the letter in her hand. "And meet one. Certainly." Her chin went up. "I hadn't to ask Clare. But you needn't come. Good-bye!" "Oh, I'm coming—now," he assured her, smiling. Alwynne's eyebrows went up. "But it's market-day, you know——" "Yes." "You're awfully busy." "Yes." "The new stuff's coming in." "Yes." "Are you coming, Roger?" "Yes, Alwynne." "Then, Roger dear—if you are coming, and it's no bother, and you can spare them, would you bring me a tiny bunch of your roses? Not for me—for Clare. She does love them so. Do, Roger!" "I'm hanged if I do," cried Roger, and went his wrathful way. But he did. A big bunch. More than enough for Clare. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [332] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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