Then the vision faded. It was summer again, with the french windows open to the garden — with the scent of roses and the sounds of summer drifting in.
She said: “This is an old house, isn’t it?” Erskine nodded.
“Queen Anne. My people have lived here for nearly three hundred years.” “It’s a lovely house. You must be very proud of it.” “It’s rather a shabby house now. Taxation makes it difficult to keep anything up properly. However, now the children are out in the world, the worst strain is over.” “How many children have you?” “Two boys. One’s in the Army. The other’s just come down from Oxford. He’s going into a publishing firm.” His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda’s eyes followed his. There was a photograph there of two boys — presumably about eighteen and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and affection in his expression.
“They’re good lads,” he said, “though I say it myself.” “They look awfully nice,” said Gwenda.
“Yes,” said Erskine. “I think it’s worth it–really. Making sacrifices for one’s children, I mean,” he added in answer to Gwenda’s inquiring look.
“I suppose–often–one has to give up a good deal,” said Gwenda.
“A great deal sometimes…” Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying in her deep authoritative voice, “And you are really looking for a house in this part of the world? I’m afraid I don’t know of anything at all suitable round here.” And wouldn’t tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt of mischief.
That foolish old woman is actually jealous, she thought. Jealous because I’m talking to her husband and because I’m young and attractive!
“It depends how much of a hurry you’re in,” said Erskine.
“No hurry at all really,” said Giles cheerfully. “We want to be sure of finding something we really like. At the moment we’ve got a house in Dillmouth — on the south coast.” Major Erskine turned away from the tea-table. He went to get a cigarette box from a table by the window.
“Dillmouth,” said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband’s head.
“Pretty little place,” said Giles. “Do you know it at all?” There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, “We spent a few weeks there one summer — many, many years ago. We didn’t care for it — found it too relaxing.” “Yes,” said Gwenda. ‘That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d prefer more bracing air.” Erskine came back with the cigarettes.
He offered the box to Gwenda.
“You’ll find it bracing enough round here,” he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice.
Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.
“Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?” she asked artlessly.
His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, “Quite well, I think. We stayed — let me see — at the Royal George–no. Royal Clarence Hotel.” “Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it’s called, but it used to be called St. — St.
— Mary’s, was it, Giles?” “St. Catherine’s,” said Giles.
This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs. Erskine’s cup clattered on her saucer.
“Perhaps,” she said abruptly, “you would like to see the garden.” “Oh yes, please.” They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up.
Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm.
When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, “Did you — did you drop it?” Gwenda nodded.
“By the second clump of delphiniums.” She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.
“And supposing you never find it again?” “Well, it’s not my real engagement ring.