"They tell us a lot of things about companionship and community of interests and so on. Well, old boy," he grinned, "let's wait until we're old enough to have to bother with such things. The glorious part of all this is that I've gone overboard too. I want to get married."
Martin's sense of relief, he thought, completely overshadowed that of his companion.
"Congratulations! And very hearty congratulations! Who is she?”
Richard went over and carefully closed the second-parlour door.
"Susan Harwood. She lives on the other side of Brayle: the town, not the Manor." A shadow, of worry crossed Richard's face, but his animation burst through it "By God," he breathed, "this is the most magnificent… shake hands!"
They shook hands, fervently.
"Look here," said Richard, "what would you like?"
"Like?”
"Well," said the other, whose first impulse on feeling pleased was to give something to somebody, "what about my car with fifty gallons of best Black Market petrol? Or your choice from the gun-racks? Or I've got the finest book of telephone-num…no, you won't want telephone-numbers if you're going to get married. Neither will I." He pondered. "You know — by the way — what's your first name?"
"Martin."
"Right! Ricky here.' Again he pondered, "You know, if we plan this carefully, I'm damn sure we can wangle it". " 'Plan carefully? What have we got to plan?" "You don't know what you're up against," Ricky said quietly. "No, wait! You think you do; but you don’t "Family opposition?"
"You say that fairly contemptuously. Maybe Jenny hasn't told you everything." Ricky brushed the palms of his hands together; then gripped them in sinewy fingers. "I don't suppose you've ever played chess with Grandmother Brayle? I have. She ought to have been a man. She wants money, and she means to get it"
Though the sun was sinking, the many little panes of the second-parlour window were still tinged with gold. With both doors and windows closed, the room was hot and stuffy. Ricky went over to the window and stared out unseeingly.
"My mother," he continued, "is wonderful. But Grandmother Brayle has got mother" — he put his thumb in the palm of his left hand, and twisted it—"like that And Dr. Laurier has more influence than anybody knows. As for Jenny…" He broke off. "Great Scott, there is Jenny!"
Martin hurried to his side.
In front of the Dragon's Rest, a slope of sun-glowing grass stretched down to the road. Across the road, beyond a short strip of grass, ran the low stone boundary-wall of Fleet House's park. Near the wall stood Jenny and Ruth Callice, apparently in casual conversation.
They made a contrast, against the trees and, somewhat towards the left, the white, square solidity of the house. Ruth wore a silk frock as though she were in London; her light-brown hair was done in some new upsweep style, with earrings. Jenny, in her white blouse and white shorts, lifted one shoulder as she spoke.
Ricky Fleet leaned his weight on the window-sill with both hands.
"You know," he said, "there's a row going on over there." "A what?"
"A row. Don't ask me how I know; can't you feel it? Besides, I've been expecting one." "Why?"
"I suppose," Ricky grunted, "I ought have been at home to greet the guests. But I start gassing, and time gets mixed up. Then Ruth rang up the Manor just before you rang me. Jenny talked to her." He hesitated. "Jenny wasn't any less gentle than she always is. But she sounded too — sugary. Like a woman waiting for a time and place to blow up. You know what I mean?"
Even as he spoke Jenny said a last few words, lifting her shoulder, and moved away. She glanced towards the window where Ricky and Martin were standing. Her gait faltered and grew slow, but she continued; and automatically swung the thin blue pullover at her side. When Martin saw his companion's shoulders grow rigid, he realized something else.
"What the hell," Ricky blurted, "am I going to tell her?"
The door opened, framing Jenny against sunlight Pouring embarrassment flooded into that room, holding all three motionless. Martin saw Ricky brace himself for an actor's role in some heroic speech of renunciation; he even saw Ricky glance at himself in a flyblown mirror to make sure the posture was right But it was Jenny who spoke.
"It's all right" she said, looking at the floor. "I knew it was all right as soon as I saw you two shake hands."
The embarrassment remained, but the tension had gone.
"It wouldn't have worked, you know," growled Ricky.
"Ricky here," Martin said, "has been so decent about the whole thing that I don't know how to thank him."
"Nonsense, old boy! Nonsense!"
Jenny's eyes brimmed over as she regarded her (they hoped) ex-fiancé.
"You are a dear, Ricky."
"Not a bit of it old girl! Not a bit of it!"
In another minute, Martin thought he'll convince himself he really has made a heroic sacrifice.
"Martin," said Jenny, and hesitated. "Will you take me out somewhere tonight?"
At this change of subject, Ricky became natural again.
"That's not a bad idea! You can take my car. But where would you go for a beano in unexplored wilds like these?"
"That's not it" Jenny shook her head vehemently, still looking at Martin. "Will you just take me somewhere, and drive and drive and drive? I don't care where. Will you?"
"You know I will, my dear."
Jenny advanced into the room. Sinking into one of the wicker chairs beside a round table, she threw her pullover on the table. At this change of subject abruptly introduced but well received, more emotion should have been drained away. And yet, in Jenny's case at least it was not
"Ruth Callice," she bit at her underlip, "Ruth Callice says you and she and this barrister had some horrible idea of spending a night in the execution shed at Pentecost to see whether there were any ghosts of hanged people. Ruth says you suggested it" "Well… in a way I did yes."
"She says you promised. But yon wont go now, will you?’’ Martin laughed.
"Under the circumstances, Jenny, I think they'll make no difficulty about releasing me from the promise." He turned to Ricky. "Would you like to substitute for me?"
"Would I?" exploded Ricky. The words 'prison' and 'ghosts’ had powerful effect Again taking out pipe and lighter, his dark-blond hair falling over his forehead, he snapped on the lighter and kindled the tobacco with deep inhalations.
"Listen," he went on, with a waving gesture of pipe and smoke. "I’ve been trying to get a look inside that place for nearly ten years, ever since they hoicked the convicts out But you can't get in, any more than the poor devils could get out How are you going to do it?"
"Rickyl"
Jenny's small voice stopped him. He looked at her curiously. She was half lying back in the chair, the yellow hair thrown back, her face with a little more of its customary pallor.
"All the p-pleasant things," she stammered, gripping the arms of the chair, "have got mixed up with the dreadful ones. It was awfully kind of you to… to…"
"Rubbish. Let's get back to the subject of ghosts."
"All right" Jenny answered unexpectedly, "I will. Ricky, your mother's been very upset all afternoon."
Into Martin's head came an image of Aunt Cicely, with her tear-reddened eyelids, seen through a brass telescope from a bedroom window. But mention of Aunt Cicely seemed to act on Ricky as mention of Grandmother Brayle acted on Jenny, though in a different way.
"I know! I ought to have been at home in the afternoon!"
"No, Ricky. It wasn't that Have you ever heard of a man named Stannard?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"He's one of the guests. He and Ruth came down by an earlier train than they'd expected to. Ruth said she ought to keep an eye on Martin—"
(Here Ricky turned a surprised face, but Martin was looking at Jenny.)