“Yes.”
Marcus was off downstairs, three steps at a time—scattering housemaids as he went, out on to the sea-front, and finally reached the Madders’ door just as the cocoa was pronounced ready. “Oh, you’re just in time!” they all cried, as he came into the room. “Rose, fetch another cup and a spoon; no, you must share spoons.”
“What is it?” asked Rose, who was quick to see that something was wrong.
“It’s Shan’t, she won’t go to sleep—she does nothing but cry—will you come—and bring a crab?”
To which unusual request Rose made no objection. “Sandy,” she cried, “lend me a crab!”
“All right—there’s one under the sofa. Move, will you, Auntie, there’s a crab—hold hard—it’s in a bucket—it won’t bite.”
Marcus apologized to the assembled family, begged them to forgive him, didn’t wait to be assured of their ready forgiveness, but was off in the wake of Rose. As he had run down the pavement in London after Diana, so he now ran down the red-brick path after Rose. She ran less lightly, perhaps, than Diana had run, but then she was less lightly dressed. She ran just as fast—horribly fast. His life had become a restless and strenuous one. Arrived at the hotel he and Rose went up in the lift. He noticed the water from the pail streaming down the front of her skirt; he never thought of the poor crab as he tried to dry it. She begged him not to; he mustn’t wet his handkerchief. He said it was already wet with the tears of Shan’t—soaked!
They found Shan’t sitting up in bed. The storm was passing; the waves of her sobs were breaking—the moaning of the outgoing tide was still to be heard. Rose was on her knees beside the bed, and in one moment her arms were round the child. Marcus turned away; he could not have said why, except that somehow or other he felt as if it were Flueyn’s right before any other man’s to see Rose as she looked now—altogether adorable like this—he had never seen her so desirable.
He felt he ought not to be listening to the crooning of that voice, even to the absurd things she was saying—they were women’s secrets he was overhearing; he was a listener on the threshold of a door he had deliberately closed in his life.
After the storm there came peace. Shan’t was whispering: every now and then came the backwash of a sob—but peace followed it. He seemed to see the golden reflection of the setting sun on the wet sands. Shan’t was putting her fingers in and out of the button-holes in the girl’s knitted coat and was smiling up into her face. Rose was wiping away the tears from the child’s face. Shan’t was shyly promising to be good—never to cry any more? She nodded. Rose persuaded her to lie down. Shan’t insisted that she must say good-night to the crab. This was accomplished—poor crab! She must then pray for the crab and for all little crabs. This was done. By degrees she fell asleep, and until Rose was quite certain that nothing would awaken her she knelt beside her. Marcus watched her for a moment, then turned away and walked to the window. He felt lonely. There was silence except for the sound of the waves breaking on the shore beneath the window, very softly. The world, with Shan’t, had fallen gently to sleep and the waves sang a lullaby.