towards the Tavistock as they drove away, seeing it lying at the quayside, its white hull etched against the grey sky, a ship of memories which she might never see again. The only reason she might have for coming back to Southampton would be to meet Jill, and her eyes clung to the slim young figure in the blue coat still standing at the head of the gangway as if Jill might preserve some of her memories for her.
They drove swiftly through the green countryside as the sun broke through the grey canopy of clouds to shine down on the rolling pasture-land all about them and she realized why so many people longed to come home to England in the spring. The land was green beyond believing, fresh and radiant as a young bride when seen after the parched yellow fields of tropic isles, and the golden-trumpeted early daffodils in cottage gardens were as fair as any tropic flower and twice as fresh to look at as they bent before a stiff breeze.
“At Mellyn there are fields of daffodils,” Philip said reminiscently. “They used to be my father’s special pride.”
She knew then that some part of him wanted to go back, that the pull of home was proving stronger than any bitterness or disillusionment, and she was infinitely glad for Grant’s sake as well as for Philip’s own. Philip would find something to live for at Mellyn. She had never known the miracle of homecoming to fail.
After Chichester the road began to climb and they were on the high reaches of the South Downs, with mile after mile of undulating country stretching ahead of them and still the tang of salt coming in from the sea. It was new country to Moira, who had been bred in the north, a part of England she had only seen before from the window of a railway carriage, and she leaned eagerly forward so that she should not miss anything on the way. Once or twice Grant turned from the front seat and spoke through the glass partition to them, but for the most part he seemed content to let Philip answer her questions. Short of tiring her patient, Moira would not let Philip slip back into his former mood of depression and bitter self-pity, and when they came to Mellyn she thought that there was resignation in the look he gave her.
“This is it,” he said. “You can just see the Priory over there amongst those trees, but we have to go through the town first.”
Mellyn was a typical small country town, with one long main street broadening out to form a market place and the town hall in the centre.
At the end of the High Street the chauffeur turned the car to the left and they drove into open country again, over a level crossing and on between giant beeches in a green twilight of bursting leaves. Spring had come early that year and the earth seemed rich and full of promise. Moira watched the sunlight slanting between the smooth boles of the trees as they turned in between high, gilded gates and swept up a broad driveway to the house itself.
The Priory was old and arched and grey, with high mullioned windows flanking the door and steps worn by the feet of time. Set like a jewel in green parkland, and surrounded by trees, it had a look of peace and seclusion which surely could not be disrupted even by the people living there, and she saw Grant look about him with a new expression in his grey eyes.
Whatever he felt, whatever he was, this was his home and it meant much to him. Coming back to it was truly the end of a journey.
He got out and Moira felt surprise that the door was not opened to them immediately. A strong impression of being observed assailed her, of someone watching them from a hidden vantage-point somewhere in the house, and then Grant turned to her and said simply:
“Welcome to Mellyn, Moira. I hope that you can be happy here.”
The door behind them opened and a maid ushered them into the hall. It was a high, raftered place of carved panelling and deep shadows where long windows let in the sunlight in dusty golden shafts to fall on the centuries-old paving
They drove swiftly through the green countryside as the sun broke through the grey canopy of clouds to shine down on the rolling pasture-land all about them and she realized why so many people longed to come home to England in the spring. The land was green beyond believing, fresh and radiant as a young bride when seen after the parched yellow fields of tropic isles, and the golden-trumpeted early daffodils in cottage gardens were as fair as any tropic flower and twice as fresh to look at as they bent before a stiff breeze.
“At Mellyn there are fields of daffodils,” Philip said reminiscently. “They used to be my father’s special pride.”
She knew then that some part of him wanted to go back, that the pull of home was proving stronger than any bitterness or disillusionment, and she was infinitely glad for Grant’s sake as well as for Philip’s own. Philip would find something to live for at Mellyn. She had never known the miracle of homecoming to fail.
After Chichester the road began to climb and they were on the high reaches of the South Downs, with mile after mile of undulating country stretching ahead of them and still the tang of salt coming in from the sea. It was new country to Moira, who had been bred in the north, a part of England she had only seen before from the window of a railway carriage, and she leaned eagerly forward so that she should not miss anything on the way. Once or twice Grant turned from the front seat and spoke through the glass partition to them, but for the most part he seemed content to let Philip answer her questions. Short of tiring her patient, Moira would not let Philip slip back into his former mood of depression and bitter self-pity, and when they came to Mellyn she thought that there was resignation in the look he gave her.
“This is it,” he said. “You can just see the Priory over there amongst those trees, but we have to go through the town first.”
Mellyn was a typical small country town, with one long main street broadening out to form a market place and the town hall in the centre.
At the end of the High Street the chauffeur turned the car to the left and they drove into open country again, over a level crossing and on between giant beeches in a green twilight of bursting leaves. Spring had come early that year and the earth seemed rich and full of promise. Moira watched the sunlight slanting between the smooth boles of the trees as they turned in between high, gilded gates and swept up a broad driveway to the house itself.
The Priory was old and arched and grey, with high mullioned windows flanking the door and steps worn by the feet of time. Set like a jewel in green parkland, and surrounded by trees, it had a look of peace and seclusion which surely could not be disrupted even by the people living there, and she saw Grant look about him with a new expression in his grey eyes.
Whatever he felt, whatever he was, this was his home and it meant much to him. Coming back to it was truly the end of a journey.
He got out and Moira felt surprise that the door was not opened to them immediately. A strong impression of being observed assailed her, of someone watching them from a hidden vantage-point somewhere in the house, and then Grant turned to her and said simply:
“Welcome to Mellyn, Moira. I hope that you can be happy here.”
The door behind them opened and a maid ushered them into the hall. It was a high, raftered place of carved panelling and deep shadows where long windows let in the sunlight in dusty golden shafts to fall on the centuries-old paving
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