ambition.”
“And his wife?”
“A teacher in an elementary school—an only child and an orphan. So, you see, there is no one to invite on the Joyce side.”
Philip straightened up.
“Well then, there we are, all set. You’d better get everyone together as soon as you can. But look here, I’m only consenting to this because it’s the best chance we’ve got of tripping her up. If she brings a case, she’ll have the next few months to find out anything she doesn’t already know—you said that yourself.”
“Wait! She won’t bring a case against you. She told me to tell you that.”
“Bunkum! She wants to get her hands on Anne’s money. In the eyes of the law Anne is dead. She’d be bound to do whatever you have to do to get back on the map again. You’ve told her that already, haven’t you?”
“If unopposed, it would be a mere formality.”
“And I’d be bound to oppose it.”
“Unless the proceedings before the family council happened to convince you.”
Philip shook his head.
“They won’t do that. But if she breaks down, there would be an end to it that way.”
“And if she doesn’t—what are you going to do then? I told you her terms—six months under the same roof.”
“Why?”
“She wants a chance of convincing you. She told me quite frankly that she wanted to try and save the marriage.”
“The marriage ended when Anne died.”
Mr. Codrington made an impatient movement.
“I am putting her terms to you. If there is no reconciliation by the end of six months, she is willing to divorce you.”
Philip laughed.
Mr. Codrington said gravely,
“Think it over. You might find yourself in a very difficult position if she were legally admitted to be Anne Jocelyn, and you were neither reconciled nor divorced. Supposing you desire to remarry, she could prevent your doing so.” He paused and added—“indefinitely.”
They were alone together, the deep red curtains drawn, a red glow from the wood fire on the hearth, a single overhead light shining down upon the writing-table with its scattered papers. For a moment both men were seeing an unseen third between them—Lyndall, little and slight, with her cloudy dark hair and her cloudy eyes—grey eyes, but quite different from the Jocelyn grey. Lyndall’s eyes were smudged with brown and green. They were soft and childish. They had no defences. If she was hurt, they showed it. If she loved anyone, they showed that too. If they grieved, tears rose to brighten them. She was pale because she had been ill. Her colour had been coming back. Now it was all gone again.
Philip walked over to the fire and stood there looking down.
CHAPTER 10
The first headlines appeared next day. The Daily Wire splashed them half across the front page, rather crowding the latest Russian victory.
THREE AND A HALF YEARS DEAD
—COMES BACK TO SEE HER TOMBSTONE
Underneath there was a picture of the white marble cross in Holt churchyard. The lettering stood out clearly:
Anne Wife of Philip Jocelyn
Aged 21
Killed by enemy action June 26th, 1941
The letterpress contained an interview with Mrs. Ramage, cook and housekeeper at Jocelyn’s Holt.
Mrs. Armitage went down to the kitchen with the paper in her hand.
“Oh, Mrs. Ramage—how could you?”
Mrs. Ramage burst into tears which were a good three parts excitement to one of remorse. Her large pale face glistened and she shook like a blanc-mange.
“Never said he’d put it in the paper. Got off his bicycle at the back door when the girls were in the dining-room and asked me civil enough if I could direct him to the churchyard, which I said you couldn’t miss it if you tried, seeing it runs next the park, and I took and showed him the church tower from the back door step, and you’d have done the same or anyone else. Well, there it is, as large as life and you can’t get from it.”
“You seem to have said a good deal more than that, Mrs. Ramage.”
Mrs. Ramage groped for a pocket handkerchief
“And his wife?”
“A teacher in an elementary school—an only child and an orphan. So, you see, there is no one to invite on the Joyce side.”
Philip straightened up.
“Well then, there we are, all set. You’d better get everyone together as soon as you can. But look here, I’m only consenting to this because it’s the best chance we’ve got of tripping her up. If she brings a case, she’ll have the next few months to find out anything she doesn’t already know—you said that yourself.”
“Wait! She won’t bring a case against you. She told me to tell you that.”
“Bunkum! She wants to get her hands on Anne’s money. In the eyes of the law Anne is dead. She’d be bound to do whatever you have to do to get back on the map again. You’ve told her that already, haven’t you?”
“If unopposed, it would be a mere formality.”
“And I’d be bound to oppose it.”
“Unless the proceedings before the family council happened to convince you.”
Philip shook his head.
“They won’t do that. But if she breaks down, there would be an end to it that way.”
“And if she doesn’t—what are you going to do then? I told you her terms—six months under the same roof.”
“Why?”
“She wants a chance of convincing you. She told me quite frankly that she wanted to try and save the marriage.”
“The marriage ended when Anne died.”
Mr. Codrington made an impatient movement.
“I am putting her terms to you. If there is no reconciliation by the end of six months, she is willing to divorce you.”
Philip laughed.
Mr. Codrington said gravely,
“Think it over. You might find yourself in a very difficult position if she were legally admitted to be Anne Jocelyn, and you were neither reconciled nor divorced. Supposing you desire to remarry, she could prevent your doing so.” He paused and added—“indefinitely.”
They were alone together, the deep red curtains drawn, a red glow from the wood fire on the hearth, a single overhead light shining down upon the writing-table with its scattered papers. For a moment both men were seeing an unseen third between them—Lyndall, little and slight, with her cloudy dark hair and her cloudy eyes—grey eyes, but quite different from the Jocelyn grey. Lyndall’s eyes were smudged with brown and green. They were soft and childish. They had no defences. If she was hurt, they showed it. If she loved anyone, they showed that too. If they grieved, tears rose to brighten them. She was pale because she had been ill. Her colour had been coming back. Now it was all gone again.
Philip walked over to the fire and stood there looking down.
CHAPTER 10
The first headlines appeared next day. The Daily Wire splashed them half across the front page, rather crowding the latest Russian victory.
THREE AND A HALF YEARS DEAD
—COMES BACK TO SEE HER TOMBSTONE
Underneath there was a picture of the white marble cross in Holt churchyard. The lettering stood out clearly:
Anne Wife of Philip Jocelyn
Aged 21
Killed by enemy action June 26th, 1941
The letterpress contained an interview with Mrs. Ramage, cook and housekeeper at Jocelyn’s Holt.
Mrs. Armitage went down to the kitchen with the paper in her hand.
“Oh, Mrs. Ramage—how could you?”
Mrs. Ramage burst into tears which were a good three parts excitement to one of remorse. Her large pale face glistened and she shook like a blanc-mange.
“Never said he’d put it in the paper. Got off his bicycle at the back door when the girls were in the dining-room and asked me civil enough if I could direct him to the churchyard, which I said you couldn’t miss it if you tried, seeing it runs next the park, and I took and showed him the church tower from the back door step, and you’d have done the same or anyone else. Well, there it is, as large as life and you can’t get from it.”
“You seem to have said a good deal more than that, Mrs. Ramage.”
Mrs. Ramage groped for a pocket handkerchief
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