"I think you can trust me, Uncle Ralph."
"I think I can, dear. I like the ring of your voice. You are to be quiet and subdued as if you were unable to comprehend the full force of the disaster. Much, if not everything, depends upon the next few hours. Now go, please."
Ralph slipped away into the grounds. A little later he was making his way along the cliffs toward the village. For a brief time Vera stood still. She was trying to realize what Ralph had said.
"What did it mean?" she asked herself again and again. But she could find no answer to the puzzle. Still Geoffrey was safe. Whatever sensation the next few hours might produce Geoffrey had come to no harm. It would be hard to see the others suffer, hard to witness their grief and not lighten it by so much as a sign.
But Ralph had been emphatic on this point. Had he not said that everything hinged upon her reticence and silence? Vera went slowly to her room, her feet making no sound on the thick pile carpet. A flood of light streamed through the stained glass windows into the corridor. In the big recess at the end a white figure lay face downward on the cushions.
Vera approached softly. She saw the shoulders rise and fall as if the girl lying there were sobbing in bitter agony. It was Marion. Marion the ever cheerful! Surely her grief must be beyond the common?
"Marion," Vera whispered. "Dear Marion."
She bent over the prostrate figure with heartfelt tenderness.
Marion raised her face at length. It was wet with tears and her eyes were swollen. At first she seemed not to recognize Vera.
"Go away," she said hoarsely. "Why do you intrude upon me like this? Am I never to have a minute to myself? Am I always to carry the family troubles on my shoulders?"