sadness and pleasure, would always remain. There was sonar bond between her and that man, which was there even if, as was likely, he regretted his move and saw it as an aberration; and even if he now consoled himself by hating her for her graceless reception of him. Rose could not perceive exactly what this residuum was. No doubt it was something which would wear and change with time. It was partly that she was, in retrospect, so flattered, and so touched, by his suggestion. It is hard for a woman not to feel some kindness for a man who adores her. He, strange Crimond, whom people feared and hated, had been for a moment at her feet. How surprised everyone would be – but of course no one would ever know. But there was also another, and better, she felt, component. Vor a short time she had loved Crimond, her love, like a laser beam, had reached right into him, finding, however blindly, die real Crimond, the lovable Crimond, who therefore must exist. She did not allow herself to imagine that she would ever tell Crimond that she had loved him; and she could scarcely, even much later, apologise suitably for her rudeness without in some way hinting at those very different feelings. In that direction, there was no road. But her wish that somehow he could know remained as a point of pain, and she guarded her curious knowledge of him like the emblem of a forbidden religion.
This was her state before the news of Jenkin's death and its mrange circumstances. The shock of this frightful blankly inexplicable disaster brought back to Rose her view of Crimond as something black and lethal. Rose and Gerard agreed that they could not and must not entertain the notion that their friend had been murdered. It was too incredible and too awful a charge to set up without a shred of evidence. 'We mustn't formulate this hypothesis, even to ourselves,' said Gerard. But they had formulated it, and were upset and sickened to find it being freely uttered by others, based simply upon malicious speculation. Here again Rose had her own private torment: it came into her mind that Crimond had indeed killed Jenkin, as an act of revenge against her, and sigainst Gerard whom he might blame for Rose's rejection of lilin. This idea, when it suddenly appeared, caused her such agony that she felt she might go mad, even be mad enough to blurt out the whole thing to Gerard simply so that he could share her misery. She thought, so I am really responsible fol Jenkin's death, if only I had been kinder to Crimond, it' I hadn't been so cruel and scornful… Here however Rose's deep base of sanity eventually prevailed, her strong moral sense joined with her sense of self-preservation, and shr judged this picture of the matter to be not only a crazy, but an evil fantasy.
Within a short space of time Rose had attended two burial services, both of them Anglican. Gerard, who had instantly taken it on himself to organise Jenkin's funeral, had decided that since Jenkin had latterly appeared to be something of a fellow traveller of the Christian faith, the solemn words of the Prayer Book, so sober and so beautiful, should bid hole farewell. Jenkin had no family; but at the funeral a surprisingly large number of people whom Rose and Gerard had never seen before appeared and manifested their grief. Gerard de creed cremation, because he vaguely recalled Jenkin having approved of it, but chiefly because he could not bear the idea of his friend's body continuing to exist, rotting away in the earth. Better not to be. Laura of course was buried in the churchyard of the parish church in a place reserved for Curtlands. An argument about her tombstone was already going on. The two services were similar, except that the body of the departed was committed, in one case 'to the earth', in the other case 'to the fire'. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Later that morning Rose was sitting in the library, where Reeve Curtland had been writing letters answering the numerous expressions of condolence upon Laura's death. Thc young people had departed, Neville to St Andrews where fir was in his last year of studying history, Gillian to Leeds whei r she was in her first year of psychology. Both of them had failed to get into Oxford, but were proving it possible to flourish elsewhere. Reeve, who had also failed to get into Oxford had, as he often complained, passed a gloomy and profitless perloil at a minor London college. It had only lately occurred to hri that Reeve, who was about her age, might have envied and perhaps disapproved of the golden times which Sinclair and the others were obviously having at the old university. Reeve had cheered up considerably, however, as uncharitable observers remarked, when his father inherited the title. The Curtlands were Anglicans, not Nonconformists or Quakers, but there was a puritanical streak which emerged at intervals. A Curtland had been an officer in Cromwell's army. Rose's Anglo-Irish mother had cheerfully tolerated Sinclair's homosexuality, but her gentle father had been quietly shocked. Of course Rose had never discussed these matters, or indeed anything of grave importance, with Reeve. Always searching for likenesses, she discerned in Neville's blond handsomeness a certain look of Sinclair. It was certainly clear that Neville, always nearly engaged to different girls, did not share his Cousin's ambiguous propensities. Reeve bore no marked resemblance to any of his relations or ancestors, he certainly lacked the jaunty look which Curtland men seemed to have had, judging from the family portraits, a look which both Sinclair and Neville pre-eminently incarnated. He was not, like them, tall. He had mousy brown hair, not grey but balding a little, dark brown soft puzzled anxious eyes, a ruddy complexion and a much lined brow where the pitted rubbery flesh rose in little hillocks. His lips were anxious too. His eyebrows thick and furry. He somehow managed to look young. He was often shy and even gauche in conversation, unlike his son. He liked to stay at home all the time and work on innumerable jobs. He always wore a tie, even when out on the tractor. In spite of his awkwardness and sometimes maddeningly tentative approach to the world, he did not lack charm, perhaps the charm of some timid touching animal. As people also observed about him, he did in fact, for all his poor showing, manage his estate, and his investments, reasonably well. He also played the piano creditably and painted in watercolours.
`Reeve, I must go back to London,' said Rose, uttering words she had wanted to utter for some time.
`Oh no! Why? The children have gone but there's still me to look after! And how will the house run without you? You haven't anything to do down there. I've often wondered why you weren't with us oftener. You should regard this place as it second home.'
`Oh I do,' said Rose vaguely.
`Evidently you don't, as you're so mean with your time! You know how attached the children are to you, how much they depend on your advice.'
Rose could not recall ever having 'advised' Neville and Gillian, who were bouncily independent young people, though it was true that she had had some `good talks' with them during this, exceptionally long, stay at Fettiston.
`How much they need you,' Reeve went on, `and will – even more – in the future-‘
Rose heard uneasily the slight weight which he put upon these words. She said, rather firmly, wanting now to be clear, `I must get back. Gerard is in a rather unhappy state because a friend of his died in an accident.'
‘Jenkin Riderhood.'
`Yes. I didn't know you knew -' Rose was surprised.
`Francis Reckitt told me, you know, Tony's son. Someone in London mentioned it to him quite recently and lie remembered the chap's name. I met him with you once, yearn ago.'
`Of course, you met Jenkin, I'd forgotten.'
`Odd business – that man Crimond, wasn't it – that Communist or whatever -'
`Yes.'
`I'm sorry. I didn't say anything to you. I felt we had enough on our plate.'
`Indeed. Anyway – I feel I must go home – I'm sure you understand.'
`I think this is your home, but I won't argue! There aren’t many of them left now, are there -'
`You mean -?'
`Gerard and his friends. He's living with his sister now, isn't he?'
`Yes.'
`Well, come back again soon. We do need you very much. Things are going to be different now – and – Rose – blood is thicker than water.'
`A lot of things have happened since you went away,' said Gerard.
Rose had telephoned him on her return and he had come round at once.
`So you're living in Jenkin's house?'
`Yes. He left everything to me. I think I shall stay there.'
`So Patricia and Gideon got you out after all!'
`Yes. But I wanted to go. I'm tired of being surrounded by possessions. It's time for a radical change.'
`You mean you'll become like Jenkin?'
`Don't be silly.'
`Sorry, I'm being stupid. I feel terribly stupid just now.'
It was late evening. Rose professed to have had supper, though she had only had a sandwich. Gerard also said
