"Oh!" said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat her
shoulder--a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could help
an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would have
to be married, of course--though not to that boy Jon.
"We've forgotten all about it years and years ago," she said
comfortably. "Come and have dinner!"
"No, Auntie. I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?"
"My dear!" murmured Winifred, concerned, "you're not taking this to
heart? Why, you haven't properly come out yet! That boy's a child!"
"What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand that man
to-night."
"Well, well," said Winifred, "go and lie down. I'll send you some
bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he to
gossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you should know."
Fleur smiled. "Yes," she said, and slipped from the room.
She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a
guttered frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet had
she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she
had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been full
and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them
had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden that
photograph, so secretly behind her own-ashamed of having kept it! But
could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her
hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told
Jon--had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now
turned on that! She knew, they all knew, except--perhaps--Jon!
She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard.
Jon loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She could
not tell. But if they had not told him, should she not--could she not
get him for herself--get married to him, before he knew? She searched
her memories of Robin Hill. His mother's face so passive--with its dark
eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile--baffled her; and
his father's--kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively she felt they would
shrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from hurting him--for of
course it would hurt him awfully to know!
Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long as
neither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still a
chance--freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart was set
on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every one's hand
was against her--every one's! It was as Jon had said--he and she just
wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they hadn't shared
in, and didn't understand! Oh! What a shame! And suddenly she thought
of June. Would she help them? For somehow June had left on her the
impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient of
obstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: 'I won't give anything away,
though, even to her. I daren't. I mean to have Jon; against them all.'