My companion said quickly:
'What is it?'
'Nothing. I was just struck by the contrast – I was here, you know, many years ago, as a young man. I was thinking of the difference between then and now.'
'I see. It was a happy house then? Everyone was happy here?'
Curious, sometimes, how one's thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleidoscope. It happened to me now. A bewildering shuffling and reshuffling of memories, of events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern.
My regret had been for the past as the past, not for the reality. For even then, in that far-off time, there had been no happiness at Styles. I remembered dispassionately the real facts. My friend John and his wife, both unhappy and chafing at the life they were forced to lead. Lawrence Cavendish, sunk in melancholy. Cynthia, her girlish brightness dampened by her dependent position. Inglethorp married to a rich woman for her money. No, none of them had been happy. And now, again, no one here was happy. Styles was not a lucky house.
I said to Miss Cole:
'I've been indulging in false sentiment. This was never a happy house. It isn't now. Everyone here is unhappy.'
'No, no. Your daughter -'
'Judith's not happy.'
I said it with the certainty of sudden knowledge. No, Judith wasn't happy.
'Boyd Carrington,' I said doubtfully. 'He was saying the other day that he was lonely – but for all that I think he's enjoying himself quite a good deal – what with his house and one thing and another.'
Miss Cole said sharply:
'Oh yes, but then Sir William is different. He doesn't belong here like the rest of us do. He's from the outside world – the world of success and independence. He's made a success of his life and he knows it. He's not one of – of the maimed.'
It was a curious word to choose. I turned and stared at her.
'Will you tell me,' I asked, 'why you used that particular expression?'
'Because,' she said with a sudden fierce energy, 'it's the truth. The truth about me, at any rate. I am maimed.'
'I can see,' I said gently, 'that you have been very unhappy.'
She said quietly:
'You don't know who I am, do you?'
'Er – I know your name -'
'Cole isn't my name – that is to say, it was my mother's name. I took it – afterwards.'
'After?'
'My real name is Litchfield.'
For a minute or two it didn't sink in – it was just a name vaguely familiar. Then I remembered.
'Matthew Litchfield.'
She nodded.
'I see you know about it. That was what I meant just now. My father was an invalid and a tyrant. He forbade us any kind of normal life. We couldn't ask friends to the house. He kept us short of money. We were – in prison.'
She paused, her eyes, those beautiful eyes, wide and dark.
'And then my sister – my sister -'
She stopped.
'Please don't – don't go on. It is too painful for you. I know about it. There is no need to tell me.'
'But you don't know. You can't. Maggie. It's inconceivable – unbelievable. I know that she went to the police, that she gave herself up, that she confessed. But I still sometimes can't believe it! I feel somehow that it wasn't true – that it didn't – that it couldn't have happened like she said it did.'
'You mean -' I hesitated – 'that the facts were at – at variance -'
She cut me short.
'No, no. Not that. No, it's Maggie herself. It wasn't like her. It wasn't – it wasn't Maggie!'
Words trembled on my lips, but I did not say them. The time had not yet come when I could say to her:
'You are right. It wasn't Maggie…'
Chapter 9
It must have been about six o'clock when Colonel Luttrell came along the path. He had a rook rifle with him and was carrying a couple of dead wood pigeons.
He started when I hailed him and seemed surprised to see us.
'Hullo, what are you two doing there? That tumbledown old place isn't very safe, you know. It's falling to pieces. Probably break up about your ears. Afraid you'll get dirty there, Elizabeth.'
'Oh, that's all right. Captain Hastings has sacrificed a pocket handkerchief in the good cause of keeping my dress clean.'
The Colonel murmured vaguely:
'Oh, really? Oh well, that's all right.'
He stood there pulling at his lip and we got up and joined him.
His mind seemed far away this evening. He roused himself to say:
'Been trying to get some of these cursed wood pigeons. Do a lot of damage, you know.'
'You're a very fine shot, I hear,' I told him.
'Eh? Who told you that? Oh, Boyd Carrington. Used to be – used to be. Bit rusty nowadays. Age will tell.'
'Eyesight,' I suggested.
He negatived the suggestion immediately.
'Nonsense. Eyesight's as good as ever it was. That is – have to wear glasses for reading, of course. But far sight's all right.'
He repeated a minute or two later:
'Yes – all right. Not that it matters…'
His voice tailed off into an absent-minded mutter.
Miss Cole said, looking round:
'What a beautiful evening it is.'
She was quite right. The sun was drawing to the west and the light was a rich golden, bringing out the deeper shades of green in the trees in a deep, glowing effect. It was an evening, still and calm, and very English, such as one remembers when in far-off tropical countries. I said as much.
Colonel Luttrell agreed eagerly.
'Yes, yes, often used to think of evenings like this – out in India, you know. Makes you look forward to retiring and settling down – what?'
I nodded. He went on, his voice changing:
'Yes, settling down – coming home – nothing's ever quite what you picture it – no – no.'
I thought that that was probably particularly true in his case. He had not pictured himself running a guest house, trying to make it pay, with a nagging wife forever snapping at him and complaining.
We walked slowly towards the house. Norton and Boyd Carrington were sitting on the verandah and the Colonel and I joined them while Miss Cole went on into the house.
We chatted for a few minutes. Colonel Luttrell seemed to have brightened up. He made a joke or two and seemed far more cheerful and wide-awake than usual.
'Been a hot day,' said Norton. 'I'm thirsty.'
'Have a drink, you fellows. On the house, what?' The Colonel sounded eager and happy.
