There was a little feast after the wedding, with an imposing cake, and everything that other, happier brides have. It seemed a mockery to drink health to the newly married pair, knowing as we did that Ralston Murray had been given three months at most to live. Yet we drank, and made a brave pretence at all the conventional wedding merriment; for if we hadn't laughed, some of us would have cried.
An hour later Major and Mrs. Murray started off on the first stage of their journey to Devonshire. They went by car, a magnificent Rolls-Royce rather like a travelling boudoir; and in another car was Murray's nurse-valet, with the comfortable elderly maid I had found for Rosemary.
They were to travel at a moderate pace, to stay a night at Glastonbury, and go on next morning to Ralston Old Manor, which they expected to reach early in the afternoon. As for Jim and me, we were too keen on seeing the dear old Abbey together, as our future home, to waste a minute more than need be en route, no matter how beautiful the journey by road.
Our packing had been done before the wedding, and we were in a fast express tearing westward an hour after the Murrays had set off by car.
Ours had been such a long honeymoon—months in America—that outsiders considered it over and done with long ago. We two knew that it wasn't over and done with, and never would be, but we couldn't go about proclaiming that fact; therefore we made no objection when Doctor Jennings proposed travelling in the train with us. We reflected that, if he were in the same train he would be in the same compartment, and so it happened; but, though I didn't warm to the man, I was interested in trying to study the character behind those brilliant eyes.
Some people's eyes seem to reveal their souls as through clear windows. Other eyes conceal, as if they were imitation windows, made of mirrors. I thought that Paul Jennings' were the mirror windows; but he had a manner which appeared almost ostentatiously frank. He told us of the difficulties he had had in getting on, before the war, and praised Ralston Murray's generosity. "Ralston would never tell you this," he said, "but it was he who made it possible for me to marry. He has been awfully decent to me, though we hardly know each other except through letters; and I only wish I could do something for him in return. All I've been able to do so far is very little: just to look after the Manor, and now to get the place ready for Murray and his bride: or rather, my wife has done most of that. I wish I were a great doctor, and my joy would be to put my skill at Ralston's service. But as it is, he'll no doubt try to get an opinion from Beverley Drake?"
Jennings put this as a question rather than stating it, and I guessed that there had been no talk on the subject between him and Murray. But there could be no secret: and Jim answered promptly that we were staying in Exeter on purpose to see Sir Beverley. We'd made an appointment with him by telegram, Jim added, and would go on the rest of the way, which was short, by car. Even with that delay we should reach the Abbey in time for dinner.
"My wife is meeting me at Exeter, as I have business there," Doctor Jennings replied. "She will come to the train. I hope you will let me introduce her to you, Lady Courtenaye?"
I murmured that I should be charmed, and felt in my bones that he hoped we would invite them to motor with us. Jim glanced at me for a "pointer," but I looked sweetly blank. It would not have taken us far out of our way to drop the Jenningses at Merriton. But I just didn't want to do it. So there!
All the same, I was curious to see what the Parisian wife was like; and at Exeter we three got out of the train together. "There she is!" exclaimed Jennings suddenly, and his face lit up.