"You've got to go home well, Alwynne. Because, you know, though you're as sane as I am, you've been ill. This last year has been one long illness. You had a shock--a ghastly shock--and, of course, it skinned your nerves raw. My dear, I wonder it didn't send you really mad, instead of merely making you afraid of going mad. If you hadn't put up such a fight----Honestly, Alwynne! I think you've been jolly plucky."

The sincere admiration in his voice was wonderfully pleasant to hear.

Alwynne opened her eyes widely.

"I don't know what you mean," she began shyly.

"I'm not imaginative," he said, "but if I'd been hag-ridden as you have----" He broke off abruptly. "But, at least, you've fought yourself free," he continued cheerfully. "Yes, in spite of to-day." And his complete a.s.surance of voice and manner had its effect on Alwynne, though she did not realise it.

"You're better already. You say yourself you're a different girl since you got away from--since you came here. And when you're quite well, it'll be your own work, not mine. I'm just tugging you up the bank, so to speak. But you've done the real fighting with the elements. I think you can be jolly proud of yourself."

Alwynne looked at him, half smiling, half bewildered.

"What do you mean? You talk as if it were all over. Shall I never be frightened again? Think of to-day?"

"Of course it's all over," he a.s.sured her truculently. "To-day? To-day was the last revolt of your imagination. You've let it run riot too long. Of course it hasn't been easy to call it to heel."

"You think it's all silly imaginings, then?"

"Alwynne," he said. "You've got to listen to this, just this. You say I'm not to talk about your friend, that I don't know her--that I'm unjust. But listen, at least, to this. I won't be unfair. I'll grant you that she was fond of the little girl, and meant no harm, no more than you did. But you say yourself that she was miserable till you relieved her mind by taking all the blame on yourself. Can't you conceive that in so doing you did a.s.sume a burden, a very real one? Don't you think that her fears, her terrors, may have haunted you as well as your own? I believe in the powers of thought. I believe that fear--remorse--regret--may materialise into a very ghost at your elbow. Do you remember Macbeth and Banquo? Do you believe that a something really physical sat that night in the king's seat? Do you think it was the man from his grave? I think it was Macbeth's thoughts incarnate. He thought too much, that man. But let's leave all that. Let's argue it out from a common-sense point of view. You said you believed in G.o.d?"

"Yes," she said.

"And the devil?"

"I suppose so."

"Well--I'm not so sure that I do," he remarked meditatively. "But if I do--I must say I cannot see the point of a G.o.d who wouldn't be more than a match for him: and a G.o.d who'd leave a baby in his clutches to expiate in fire and brimstone and all the rest of the beastliness----Well, is it common sense?" he appealed to her.

"If you put it like that----" she admitted.

"My dear, would you let Louise frizzle if it were in your hands? Why, you've driven yourself half crazy with fear for her, as it is. Can't you give G.o.d credit for a little common humanity? I'm not much of a Bible reader, but I seem to remember something about a sparrow falling to the ground----Now follow it up," he went on urgently. "If Louise's life was so little worth living that she threw it away--doesn't it prove she had her h.e.l.l down here? If you insist on a h.e.l.l. And when she was dead, poor baby, can't you trust G.o.d to have taken charge of her? And if He has--as He must have--do you think that child--that happy child, Alwynne, for if G.o.d exists at all, He must exist as the very source and essence of peace and love--that that child would or could wrench itself apart from G.o.d, from its happiness, in order to return to torment you? Is it possible?

Is it probable? In any way feasible?"

Alwynne caught her breath.

"How you believe in G.o.d! I wish I could!"

Roger flushed suddenly like an embarra.s.sed boy.

"You know, it's queer," he confided, subsiding navely, "till I began to talk to you, I didn't know I did. I never bother about church and things. You know----"

But Alwynne was not attending.

"Of course--I see what you mean," she murmured. "It applies to Louise too. Why, Roger, she was really fond of me--not as she was of Clare--of course--but quite fond of me. She never would have hurt me. Hurt? Poor mite! She never hurt any one in all her life."

"I wonder you didn't think of that before," remarked Roger severely. "I hope you see what an idiot you've been?"

"Yes," said Alwynne meekly. She did not flash out at him as he had hoped she would: but her manner had grown calm, and her eyes were peaceful.

"Poor little Louise!" said Alwynne slowly. "So we needn't think about her any more? She's to be dead, and buried, and forgotten. It sounds harsh, doesn't it? But she is dead--and I've only been keeping her alive in my mind all this year. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," he said. "And if it were not as I think it is, sheer imagination--if your grieving and fear really kept a fraction of her personality with you, to torment you both--let her go now, Alwynne. Say good-bye to her kindly, and let her go home."

She looked at him gravely for a moment. Then she turned from him to the empty house of flowers.

"Good-bye, Louise!" said Alwynne, simply as a child.

About them was the evening silence. The sun, sinking over the edge of the world, was a blinding glory.

Out of the flowers rose the b.u.t.terfly, found an open pane and fluttered out on the evening air, straight into the heart of the sunlight.

They watched it with dazzled eyes.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it.

The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their eyes.

"Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two.

"Good-night," said Roger, without moving.

She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the bal.u.s.trade.

"Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand.

"You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively.

She nodded. Then, with a rush--

"Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much."

"That's all right," said Roger awkwardly.

Alwynne went upstairs.

He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the drawing-room.

He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they?

Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction that no one understood Alwynne but himself.

He caught her name as he re-entered the room.

"Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?"