“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and his voice was so naively disappointed, so full of dismay at her reappearance, that just for a second she felt sorry for him.
“Yes, it’s me—” she replied, not quite knowing what to say.
He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which he was soon amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he remained a good surgeon, cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, for the man was fond of his roses. And knowing this Stephen must play on that fondness, since now it was her business to cajole him into friendship. A degrading business, but it had to be done for Angela’s sake, lest she suffer through loving. Unthinkable that—“Could you marry me, Stephen?”
“Ralph, look here;” she called, “Mrs. John Laing’s got broken! We may be in time if we bind her with bass.”
“Oh, dear, has she?” He came hurrying up as he spoke, “Do go down to the shed and get me some, will you?”
She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-cheeked, full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing.
“There,” he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage, “that ought to set your leg for you, madam!”
Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praised her luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: “He likes one to praise his roses.”
He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: “She’s a beauty! There’s something so wonderfully cool—as you say, it’s the whiteness—” Then before he could stop himself: “She reminds me of Angela, somehow.” The moment the words were out he was frowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki.
But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared: “I’ve spent over three hundred,” he said proudly, “never saw such a mess as this garden was in when I bought the place—had to dig in fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn’t cost much because they’re out of fashion. But I like them, they’re small but rather distinguished I think—there’s something so armorial about them.”
She agreed: “Yes, I’m awfully fond of them too;” and she listened quite gravely while he explained that they dated as far back as the Wars of the Roses.
“Historical, that’s what I mean,” he explained. “I like everything old, you know, except women.”
She thought with an inward smile of his newness.
Presently he said in a tone of surprise: “I never imagined that you’d care about roses.”
“Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and see them?”
“Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?” he inquired.
“I think so.”
“Mine don’t. I can’t make it out. This year, of course, they’ve been damaged by greenfly. Just come here and look at these standards, will you? They’re being devoured alive by the brutes!” And then as though he were talking to a friend who would understand him: “Roses seem good to me—you know what I mean, there’s virtue about them—the scent and the feel and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.”
He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold fountain pen which he took from his pocket. “Yes,” he murmured, as he bent his face over the labels, “yes, I always had three or four on my desk. But Birmingham’s a foul sort of place for roses.”
And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men had something simple about them; something that took pleasure in the things that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contact with Nature. Martin had loved huge, primitive trees; and even this mean little man loved his roses.
Angela came strolling across the lawn: “Come, you two,” she called gaily, “tea’s waiting in the hall!”
Stephen flinched: “Come, you two—” the words jarred on and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a moment she whispered:
“You were clever about his roses!”
At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela nervous—she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually accompanied by attacks of bad temper.
Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela said: “Oh, Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you that it won’t work at all; he thinks it had better go back to the makers. Will you write about it now before the post goes?”
“I suppose so—” he muttered; but he left the room slowly.
Then they looked at each other and drew close together, guiltily, starting at every sound: “Stephen—be careful for God’s sake—Ralph—”
So Stephen’s hands dropped from Angela’s shoulders, and she set her lips hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had no right to protest.
XXI
I
That autumn the Crossbys went up to Scotland, and Stephen went to Cornwall with her mother. Anna was not well, she needed a change, and the doctor had told them of Watergate Bay, that was why they had gone to Cornwall. To Stephen it mattered very little where she went, since she was not allowed to join Angela in Scotland. Angela had put her foot down quite firmly: “No, my dear, it wouldn’t do. I know Ralph would make hell. I can’t let you follow us up to Scotland.” So that there, perforce, the matter had ended.
And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while Anna read placidly, asking no questions. She
