"Of course I shall do what I think right."
He went to his own room, settled himself in his chair by the open window, tore open the morning paper which it was his custom to read there. The window opened upon a long oblong of flower-bordered lawn, enclosed by thick square-cut yew hedges on two sides; at the end a series of glass houses shut out the view. The eyes of Sir Francis strayed from the pages of the newspaper to the sunshine and shadow of the freshly-cut lawn. At the door of one of the greenhouses beyond, Deleah, in her black muslin dress and wide black hat, was standing in conversation with Jarvis, the head-gardener. Part of her duty, he had been told, was to wheedle Jarvis out of the flowers Miss Forcus liked to see in her rooms, but of which he resented the cutting.
Sir Francis looked at the pair—they were too far off for him to read their faces, but he know how the girl would be playing her part, smiling shyly, with appealing eyes; how Jarvis was probably denying her, being human, for the mere delight of being asked. Presently the newspaper dropped from his hand, and he passed out into the morning sunshine, and walked down the flagged path dividing the lawn, the mosses growing grey and green between the stones.
It was a morning of unclouded skies, the soft air laden with the scent of flowers. A morning to be alive in—yes, to be happy in, spite of regrets and doubts and cares; spite, even, of death and loss and buried love. On such a morning a man might think of his dead wife, perhaps. Might say to himself, "the pity of it!" but he could but be conscious that he, himself, was alive still; that in him, solemn, responsible, middle-aged as he might be, the fires of youth were not yet extinguished. He must feel the fragrant wind upon his cheek, the scent of delicious airs in his nostrils, must even, in spite of himself, use the eyes in his head to see what was fair and sweet and gracious.
Jarvis, with his finger to his cap, retreated to his carnation-house, the entrance of which he had been guarding.
"So you are leaving us?" Sir Francis began at once, stopping before
Deleah. "My sister has been telling me. We shall miss you very much."
"I shall never forget how good you have both been to me," Deleah said in her shy voice, and playing with the flowers in her hands. "But I think I ought to go."
"You will do what you think you ought, I am sure," he said; and her heart sank at the ease with which he acquiesced.
She turned to walk towards the house, and he walked beside her. "You will come to me if I can help you?" he said.
"If I might use your name in case no one will let me a house?"