"Awdrey—I—I think I'd like to be—alone—to do my packing."
Half-an-hour later Tony's boxes were still empty, except for a foundation layer of the school-girl photographs. The bed and chairs were littered with underclothing, shoes, hats, books and frocks. Tony sat on the floor, staring miserably in front of her with tear-blind eyes that did not notice the surrounding confusion, so intent were they on the litter of a broken dream. Her dream, once so joyful, fresh and iridescent, was now a mere jumble of shards. She had defended Furlonger against her parents and her sister, but it had been the last effort of which her bleeding heart was capable. Her hero and his epic had now broken up into a terrible shatter of disillusion, to which her mother and Awdrey had added the most humiliating dust. She could not think which was worse—the motives of self-interest attributed by the one, or the love-motives attributed by the other. And though she denied both, at the bottom of her heart was a far worse accusation. Her stainless champion was a criminal, a false swearer, a defrauder of the helpless, a devourer of widows' houses. He had not sinned against her in the way her family imagined, but in a far more horrible, subtle way ... she shuddered, sickened and shrank.
All the same she was glad that when others accused him she had taken his part.
CHAPTER XII CHILDREN DANCING IN THE DUSK
Nigel was late for supper that evening. He came in very quietly, and slipped into his place without a word. He had very little to say about the races.
"Lost your money on Midsummer Moon?" said Leonard. "Well, you needn't look so glum—it was only five bob."
But Janey knew that was not the matter, though she knew nothing more. After supper she put her arm through his, and drew him out into the garden. They walked up and down in front of Sparrow Hall. At first she had meant to ask him questions, but soon she realised that the questions would not come—only a great stillness between her and Nigel, and a fierce clutch of their hands. They walked up and down, up and down, breathing the thick scents of the garden—touched with autumn rottenness, sodden with rain and night. Gradually they pulled each other closer, till she felt the throb of his heart under her hand....
The next day Nigel worked hard with Len at weed-burning. It was strange what a lot of weed-burning there was to do, thought he—not only at Sparrow Hall, but at Wilderwick, and Swites Farm, and Golden Compasses, and the Two-Mile Cottages, and all those places from which little curls of blue, dream-scented smoke were drifting up against the sky. Men were burning the tangles of their summer gardens, they were piling into the flame those trailing sweets, now dead. For autumn was here, and winter was at hand, and a few dead things that must be burnt were all that remained of June.