‘A letter for you, witch.’ Clear, resonant, rang the old voice, as Andros Bartrand caught sight of Marjorie. ‘A letter, and a bulky one. The address is written in a hand that savours of the Alma Mater. The postmark is “Local.” I am to open it for you, of course?’
‘If you do I start for Spain to-night—this moment!’ cried Marjorie, with fine, Bartrand presence of temper; her grandfather meanwhile proceeding, in pantomime, to carry out his suggestion. ‘If you do, sir——’
But the sequel of the threat remained unspoken. Away flew Marjorie through the low schoolroom window, away, without drawing breath, over flower border, over lawn, till she reached the Seigneur. A few seconds later her letter—her first love-letter, whispered a voice in the white and girlish conscience—lay with seal unbroken between her hands.
She could not read it here, under this open largeness of air and sky, with her grandfather’s searching eyes fixed on her face. She must heighten her pleasure, as not so many summers back she was wont to heighten the coveted flavour of peach or nectarine, by eked-out anticipation. Not here, not in the schoolroom, peopled by commonplace remembrances of Sophie le Patourel and all the long train of Sophie’s predecessors. In this ineffable moment (are not our mistakes the sweetest things we taste on earth?) she must be alone, must know that a bolt was drawn between her happiness and the world. She entered the house with eager limbs, sped up the stairs, light still with the brief flicker that comes between sunset and dusk. She sought the shelter of her own room; a little white-draped room, where fragrant alder-blooms, flecks of foam on a deep green sea of foliage, brushed the casement, where you could feel the coolness from the orchards, where only the tired evening call of the cuckoo, the murmur of late bees, still awork in blossom dust, broke silence.
‘Miss Marjorie Bartrand, Tintajeux Manoir, Guernsey.’
Prolonging her suspense to the utmost, Marjorie ran over aloud each syllable that Geff Arbuthnot’s hand had traced. Then, with fast-beating pulse, she opened the envelope, drew forth its contents, and prepared, delightedly, to read.
The love-letter was written upon blue, most unloverlike foolscap, and consisted of three words: ‘Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s compliments.’ Within, carefully folded, lay Marjorie’s waist-belt, intact, as when she looped it to his bunch of roses and heliotropes in the moonlight.
So she had won obedience. Even in the light matter of keeping or not keeping a bit of ribbon she had had her way. And her breast swelled with disappointment, the hot tears rushed to her eyes. In this moment Marjorie Bartrand’s illogical heart owned Geoffrey as its master.