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  Elinor nodded.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Roddy said:

  “She’d have hated it like hell—every minute of it!”

  “I know.”

  Roddy said:

  “It’s marvellous the way you and I always see alike over things.”

  Elinor said in a low voice:

  “Yes it is.”

  He said:

  “We’re both feeling the same thing at this minute: just utter thankfulness that she’s out of it all….”

  II

  Nurse O’Brien said:

  “What is it, Nurse? Can’t you find something?”

  Nurse Hopkins, her face rather red, was hunting through the little attaché case that she had laid down in the hall the preceding evening.

  She grunted:

  “Most annoying. How I came to do such a thing I can’t imagine!”

  “What is it?”

  Nurse Hopkins replied not very intelligibly:

  “It’s Eliza Rykin—that sarcoma, you know. She’s got to have double injections—night and morning—morphine. Gave her the last tablet in the old tube last night on my way here, and I could swear I had the new tube in here, too.”

  “Look again. Those tubes are so small.”

  Nurse Hopkins gave a final stir to the contents of the attaché case.

  “No, it’s not here! I must have left it in my cupboard after all! Really, I did think I could trust my memory better than that. I could have sworn I took it out with me!”

  “You didn’t leave the case anywhere, did you, on the way here?”

  “Of course not!” said Nurse Hopkins sharply.

  “Oh, well, dear,” said Nurse O’Brien, “it must be all right?”

  “Oh, yes! The only place I’ve laid my case down was here in this hall, and nobody here would pinch anything! Just my memory, I suppose. But it vexes me, if you understand, Nurse. Besides, I shall have to go right home first to the other end of the village and back again.”

  Nurse O’Brien said:

  “Hope you won’t have too tiring a day, dear, after last night. Poor old lady. I didn’t think she would last long.”

  “No, nor I. I daresay Doctor will be surprised!”

  Nurse O’Brien said with a tinge of disapproval:

  “He’s always so hopeful about his cases.”

  Nurse Hopkins, as she prepared to depart, said:

  “Ah, he’s young! He hasn’t our experience.”

  On which gloomy pronouncement she departed.

  III

  Dr. Lord raised himself up on his toes. His sandy eyebrows climbed right up his forehead till they nearly got merged in his hair.

  He said in surprise:

  “So she’s conked out—eh?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  On Nurse O’Brien’s tongue exact details were tingling to be uttered, but with stern discipline she waited.

  Peter Lord said thoughtfully:

  “Conked out?”

  He stood for a moment thinking, then he said sharply:

  “Get me some boiling water.”

  Nurse O’Brien was surprised and mystified, but true to the spirit of hospital training, hers not to reason why. If a doctor had told her to go and get the skin of an alligator she would have murmured automatically, “Yes, Doctor,” and glided obediently from the room to tackle the problem.

  IV

  Roderick Welman said:

  “Do you mean to say that my aunt died intestate—that she never made a will at all?”

  Mr. Seddon polished his eyeglasses. He said:

  “That seems to be the case.”

  Roddy said:

  “But how extraordinary!”

  Mr. Seddon gave a deprecating cough.

  “Not so extraordinary as you might imagine. It happens oftener than you would think. There’s a kind of superstition about it. People will think they’ve got plenty of time. The mere fact of making a will seems to bring the possibility of death nearer to them. Very odd—but there it is!”

  Roddy said:

  “Didn’t you ever—er—expostulate with her on the subject?”

  Mr. Seddon replied drily:

  “Frequently.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Mr. Seddon sighed.

  “The usual things. That there was plenty of time! That she didn’t intend to die just yet! That she hadn’t made up her mind definitely, exactly how she wished to dispose of her money!”

  Elinor said:

  “But surely, after her first stroke—?”

  Mr. Seddon shook his head.

  “Oh, no, it was worse then. She wouldn’t hear the subject mentioned!”

  Roddy said:

  “Surely that’s very odd?”

  Mr. Seddon said again:

  “Oh, no. Naturally, her illness made her much more nervous.”

  Elinor said in a puzzled voice:

  “But she wanted to die….”

  Polishing his eyeglasses, Mr. Seddon said:

  “Ah, my dear Miss Elinor, the human mind is a very curious piece of mechanism. Mrs. Welman may have thought she wanted to die; but side by side with that feeling there ran the hope that she would recover absolutely. And because of that hope, I think she felt that to make a will would be unlucky. It isn’t so much that she didn’t mean to make one, as that she was eternally putting it off.”

  “You know,” went on Mr. Seddon, suddenly addressing Roddy in an almost personal manner, “how one puts off and avoids a thing that is distasteful—that you don’t want to face?”

  Roddy flushed. He muttered:

  “Yes, I—I—yes, of course. I know what you mean.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Seddon. “Mrs. Welman always meant to make a will, but tomorrow was always a better day to make it than today! She kept telling herself that there was plenty of time.”

  Elinor said slowly:

  “So that’s why she was so upset last night—and in such a panic that you should be sent for….”

  Mr. Seddon replied:

  “Undoubtedly!”

  Roddy said in a bewildered voice:

  “But what happens now?”

  “To Mrs. Welman’s estate?” The lawyer coughed. “Since Mrs. Welman died intestate, all her property goes to her next of kin—that is, to Miss Elinor Carlisle.”

  Elinor said slowly.

  “All to me?”

  “The Crown takes a certain percentage,” Mr. Seddon explained.

  He went into details.

  He ended:

  “There are no settlements or trusts. Mrs. Welman’s money was hers absolutely to do with as she chose. It passes, therefore, straight to Miss Carlisle. Er—the death duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after their payment, the fortune will still be a considerable one, and it is very well invested in sound gilt-edged securities.”

  Elinor said:

  “But Roderick—”

  Mr. Seddon said with a little apologetic cough:

  “Mr. Welman is only Mrs. Welman’s husband’s nephew. There is no blood relationship.”

  “Quite,” said Roddy.

  Elinor said slowly:

  “Of course, it doesn’t much matter which of us gets it, as we’re going to be married.”

  But she did not look at Roddy.

  It was Mr. Seddon’s turn to say, “Quite!”

  He said it rather quickly.

  V

  “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Elinor said.

  She spoke almost pleadingly.

  Mr. Seddon had departed.

  Roddy’s face twitched nervously.

  He said:

  “You ought to have it. It’s quite right you should. For heaven’s sake, Elinor, don’t get it into your head that I grudge it to you. I don’t want the damned money!”

  Elinor said, her voice slightly unsteady:

  “We did agree, Roddy, in London that it wouldn’t matter which of us it was, as—as we were going to be mar
ried…?”

  He did not answer. She persisted:

  “Don’t you remember saying that, Roddy?”

  He said:

  “Yes.”

  He looked down at his feet. His face was white and sullen, there was pain in the taut lines of his sensitive mouth.

  Elinor said with a sudden gallant lift of the head:

  “It doesn’t matter—if we’re going to be married… But are we, Roddy?”

  He said:

  “Are we what?”

  “Are we going to marry each other?”

  “I understood that was the idea.”

  His tone was indifferent, with a slight edge to it. He went on:

  “Of course, Elinor, if you’ve other ideas now….”

  Elinor cried out:

  “Oh, Roddy, can’t you be honest?”

  He winced.

  Then he said in a low, bewildered voice:

  “I don’t know what’s happened to me….”

  Elinor said in a stifled voice:

  “I do….”

  He said quickly:

  “Perhaps it’s true, that. I don’t after all, quite like the idea of living on my wife’s money….”

  Elinor, her face white, said:

  “It’s not that… It’s something else…” She paused, then she said, “It’s—Mary, isn’t it?”

  Roddy murmured unhappily:

  “I suppose so. How did you know?”

  Elinor said, her mouth twisting sideways in a crooked smile:

  “It wasn’t difficult… Every time you look at her—it’s there in your face for anyone to read….”

  Suddenly his composure broke.

  “Oh, Elinor—I don’t know what’s the matter! I think I’m going mad! It happened when I saw her—that first day—in the wood…just her face—it’s—it’s turned everything upside down. You can’t understand that….”

  Elinor said:

  “Yes, I can. Go on.”

  Roddy said helplessly:

  “I didn’t want to fall in love with her… I was quite happy with you. Oh, Elinor, what a cad I am, talking like this to you….”

  Elinor said:

  “Nonsense. Go on. Tell me….”

  He said brokenly:

  “You’re wonderful… Talking to you helps frightfully. I’m so terribly fond of you, Elinor! You must believe that. This other thing is like an enchantment! It’s upset everything: my conception of life—and my enjoyment of things—and—all the decent ordered reasonable things….”

  Elinor said gently:

  “Love—isn’t very reasonable….”

  Roddy said miserably:

  “No….”

  Elinor said, and her voice trembled a little:

  “Have you said anything to her?”

  Roddy said:

  “This morning—like a fool—I lost my head—”

  Elinor said:

  “Yes?”

  Roddy said:

  “Of course she—she shut me up at once! She was shocked. Because of Aunt Laura and—of you—”

  Elinor drew the diamond ring off her finger. She said:

  “You’d better take it back, Roddy.”

  Taking it, he murmured without looking at her:

  “Elinor, you’ve no idea what a beast I feel.”

  Elinor said in her calm voice:

  “Do you think she’ll marry you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve no idea. Not—not for a long time. I don’t think she cares for me now; but she might come to care….”

  Elinor said:

  “I think you’re right. You must give her time. Not see her for a bit, and then—start afresh.”

  “Darling Elinor! You’re the best friend anyone ever had.” He took her hand suddenly and kissed it. “You know, Elinor, I do love you—just as much as ever! Sometimes Mary seems just like a dream. I might wake up from it—and find she wasn’t there….”

  Elinor said:

  “If Mary wasn’t there….”

  Roddy said with sudden feeling:

  “Sometimes I wish she wasn’t… You and I, Elinor, belong. We do belong, don’t we?”

  Slowly she bent her head.

  She said:

  “Oh, yes—we belong.”

  She thought:

  “If Mary wasn’t there….”

  Five

  Nurse Hopkins said with emotion:

  “It was a beautiful funeral!”

  Nurse O’Brien responded:

  “It was, indeed. And the flowers! Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful.”

  Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake. The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit Café.

  Nurse Hopkins went on:

  “Miss Carlisle is a generous girl. She gave me a nice present, though she’d no call to do so.”

  “She’s a fine generous girl,” agreed Nurse O’Brien warmly. “I do detest stinginess.”

  Nurse Hopkins said:

  “Well, it’s a grand fortune she’s inherited.”

  Nurse O’Brien said, “I wonder…” and stopped.

  Nurse Hopkins said, “Yes?” encouragingly.

  “’Twas strange the way the old lady made no will.”

  “It was wicked,” Nurse Hopkins said sharply. “People ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness when they don’t.”

  “I’m wondering,” said Nurse O’Brien, “if she had made a will, how she’d have left her money?”

  Nurse Hopkins said firmly:

  “I know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’d have left a sum of money to Mary—Mary Gerrard.”

  “Yes, indeed, and that’s true,” agreed the other. She added excitedly, “Wasn’t I after telling you that night of the state she was in, poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to calm her down. Miss Elinor was there holding her auntie’s hand and swearing by God Almighty,” said Nurse O’Brien, her Irish imagination suddenly running away with her, “that the lawyer should be sent for and everything done accordingly. ‘Mary! Mary!’ the poor old lady said. ‘Is it Mary Gerrard you’re meaning?’ says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swore that Mary should have her rights!”

  Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully:

  “Was it like that?”

  Nurse O’Brien replied firmly:

  “That was the way of it, and I’ll tell you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs. Welman had lived to make that will, it’s likely there might have been surprises for all! Who knows she mightn’t have left every penny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!”

  Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

  “I don’t think she’d do that. I don’t hold with leaving your money away from your own flesh and blood.”

  Nurse O’Brien said oracularly:

  “There’s flesh and blood and flesh and blood.”

  Nurse Hopkins responded instantly:

  “Now, what might you mean by that?”

  Nurse O’Brien said with dignity:

  “I’m not one to gossip! And I wouldn’t be blackening anyone’s name that’s dead.”

  Nurse Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said:

  “That’s right. I agree with you. Least said soonest mended.”

  She filled up the teapot.

  Nurse O’Brien said:

  “By the way, now, did you find that tube of morphine all right when you got home?”

  Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said:

  “No. It beats me to know what can have become of it, but I think it may have been this way: I might have set it down on the edge of the mantelpiece as I often do while I lock the cupboard, and it might have rolled and fallen into the wastepaper basket that was all full of rubbish and that was emptied out into the dustbin just as I left the house.” She paused. “It must be that way, for I don’t see what else could have become of it.”

  “I s
ee,” said Nurse O’Brien. “Well, dear, that must have been it. It’s not as though you’d left your case about anywhere else—only just in the hall at Hunterbury—so it seems to me that what you suggested just now must be so. It’s gone into the rubbish bin.”

  “That’s right,” said Nurse Hopkins eagerly. “It couldn’t be any other way, could it?”

  She helped herself to a pink sugar cake. She said, “It’s not as though…” and stopped.

  The other agreed quickly—perhaps a little too quickly.

  “I’d not be worrying about it any more if I was you,” she said comfortably.

  Nurse Hopkins said:

  “I’m not worrying….”

  II

  Young and severe in her black dress, Elinor sat in front of Mrs. Welman’s massive writing table in the library. Various papers were spread out in front of her. She had finished interviewing the servants and Mrs. Bishop. Now it was Mary Gerrard who entered the room and hesitated a minute by the doorway.

  “You wanted to see me, Miss Elinor?” she said.

  Elinor looked up.

  “Oh, yes, Mary. Come here and sit down, will you?”

  Mary came and sat in the chair Elinor indicated. It was turned a little towards the window, and the light from it fell on her face, showing the dazzling purity of the skin and bringing out the pale gold of the girl’s hair.

  Elinor held one hand shielding her face a little. Between the fingers she could watch the other girl’s face.

  She thought:

  “Is it possible to hate anyone so much and not show it?”

  Aloud she said in a pleasant, businesslike voice:

  “I think you know, Mary, that my aunt always took a great interest in you and would have been concerned about your future.”

  Mary murmured in her soft voice:

  “Mrs. Welman was very good to me always.”

  Elinor went on, her voice cold and detached:

  “My aunt, if she had had time to make a will, would have wished, I know, to leave several legacies. Since she died without making a will, the responsibility of carrying out her wishes rests on me. I have consulted with Mr. Seddon, and by his advice we have drawn up a schedule of sums for the servants according to their length of service, etc.” She paused. “You, of course, don’t come quite into that class.”

  She half-hoped, perhaps, that those words might hold a sting, but the face she was looking at showed no change. Mary accepted the words at their face value and listened to what more was to come.