Midsummer's Eve

Even if he had been there on that night, I loved him enough to be able to understand that he was carried away by his desire to watch the behaviour of people and compare it with what had happened long ago.

But he had gone and I had wounded him so deeply that he would never forgive me for what I had done. It was the cruellest blow one partner of a prospective marriage could deal another. If I had broken it off even a week ago the blow would have been less acute. But to leave it until the very day of the wedding, that seemed heartless.

I knew that was what he was thinking. He must despise me.

No wonder I was unhappy. I felt I was losing everything I cared for.

That day which was to have been my wedding day seemed as though it would never end.

There was no one I could talk to, not even Helena. I could not tell her of my fears, that I did not trust Rolf. Why did I doubt him? He had said he was not there. Until recently I , should have believed him-but what had happened in London had made me doubt human nature ... and Rolf was human.

How bitter he must be feeling! I tried to tell myself that he would be in mourning for Cador, not for me, but I could not entirely believe that.

If only my parents had not died our marriage would have been a joyous occasion. I should have known that he was not marrying me for my possessions. But would memories of that Midsummer's Eve be as fresh in my mind even then?

I was afraid it was something I should never forget.

Helena had written to her mother to tell her that the wedding was not taking place for she would be expecting us to arrive in London.

"I haven't given her any reason," she said. "I have just written to say that the wedding is off and that we shall be here for a while.”

She did not attempt to probe. Gentleness was one of her greatest qualities which went with a certain acceptance that things did not always go right. That was something she herself had learned through bitter experience.

The days dragged on. When I rode along the quay I was aware of furtive looks. They were all wondering why I had almost reached the altar before I decided to run back.

I did not see Rolf, but I heard he had left Luke Tregern in charge and gone away.

No one was quite sure where.

That was a wise thing to do. Trust Rolf to be wise.

Helena said to me one day: "Annora, I think you ought to get away. Bob Carter can look after everything. He does now so what difference does it make? My mother is urging us to come to London.”

I knew that she was right.

It was a relief to leave Cador.

Aunt Amaryllis was so kind and no one asked embarrassing questions. They just took it for granted that I had changed my mind.

Helena was welcomed back and Jonnie became everyone's favourite.

Peterkin said: "You've come just at the right time. You'll be able to come to our wedding.”

Then he looked a little shamefaced as though it was tactless of him to refer to weddings.

I hastily assured him that I should be delighted to come.

He had changed a good deal. He was wildly enthusiastic about his work and he and Frances were obviously very pleased with each other. Frances had been able to extend her activities considerably nd it was all due to the support she had received from Uncle Peter. It was true that in the press there were constant references to the mission work which Miss Cresswell and Mr. Lansdon were doing. It was a piquant story for they were the daughter and son of those two men who not long ago had been in the news, suspected of questionable behaviour.

Uncle Peter amazed me. He was more ebullient than ever. He was full of energy, always engaged in some project, and I believed his business was nourishing. No one could shut down his clubs because he kept within the law. He maintained that worldly insouciance implying that they were a necessity in a less than perfect world and he almost succeeded in giving the impression that he was a benefactor to society.

In spite of my sorrow in my loss which still persisted and my guilt in having treated Rolf so badly, I began to feel a little better in London.

I remembered that there had been talk, when my parents were alive, of having a season.

Had things gone differently this would have come about. But there was no question of it now.

Aunt Amaryllis could have launched me, I suppose, but the recent scandal might have made it a little awkward even if my parents' death had not made it quite undesirable.

Aunt Amaryllis had referred to it vaguely, but I had hastily brushed it aside.

"Perhaps later ..." said Aunt Amaryllis.

But I did not feel like a young debutante. I certainly did not want to join that band of girls who were led forth to display their charms, both physical and financial, in the hope of acquiring a husband. I felt old by comparison; if not in years, in experience.