Iris had been quite willing, thankful not to have to make new plans. Aunt Lucilla she remembered as an amiable elderly sheep with little will of her own.
So the matter had been settled. George Barton had been touchingly pleased to have his wife's sister still with him and treated her affectionately as a younger sister. Mrs Drake, if not a stimulating companion, was completely subservient to Iris's wishes. The household settled down amicably.
It was nearly six months later that Iris made her discovery in the attic.
The attics of the Elvaston Square house were used as storage rooms for odds and ends of furniture, and a number of trunks and suitcases.
Iris had gone up there one day after an unsuccessful hunt for an old red pullover for which she had an affection. George had begged her not to wear mourning for Rosemary, Rosemary had always been opposed to the idea, he said. This, Iris knew, was true, so she acquiesced and continued to wear ordinary clothes, somewhat to the disapproval of Lucilla Drake, who was old-fashioned and liked what she called "the decencies" to be observed. Mrs Drake herself was still inclined to wear crêpe for a husband deceased some twenty-odd years ago.
Various unwanted clothes, Iris knew, had been packed away in a trunk upstairs. She started hunting through it for her pullover, coming across, as she did so, various forgotten belongings, a grey coat and skirt, a pile of stockings, her skiing kit and one or two old bathing dresses.
It was then that she came across an old dressing-gown that had belonged to Rosemary and which had somehow or other escaped being given away with the rest of Rosemary's things. It was a mannish affair of spotted silk with big pockets.
Iris shook it out, noting that it was in perfectly good condition. Then she folded it carefully and returned it to the trunk. As she did so, her hand felt something crackle in one of the pockets. She thrust in her hand and drew out a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was in Rosemary's handwriting and she smoothed it out and read it.
Leopard darling, you can't mean it... You can't - you can't... We love each other! We belong together! You must know that just as I know it! We can't just say goodbye and go on coolly with our own lives. You know that's impossible, darling - quite impossible. You and I belong together - for ever and ever. I'm not a conventional woman - I don't mind about what people say. Love matters more to me than anything else. We'll go away together - and be happy - I'll make you happy. You said to me once that life without me was dust and ashes to you - do you remember, Leopard darling? And now you write calmly that all this had better end - that it's only fair to me. Fair to me? But I can't live without you! I'm sorry about George - he's always been sweet to me - but he'll understand. He'll want to give me my freedom. It isn't right to live together if you don't love each other any more. God meant us for each other, darling - I know He did. We're going to be wonderfully happy - but we must be brave. I shall tell George myself - I want to be quite straight about the whole thing - but not until after my birthday.
I know I'm doing what's right, Leopard darling - and I can't live without you - can't, can't - can't. How stupid it is of me to write all this. Two lines would have done. Just "I love you. I'm never going to let you go." Oh darling -'
The letter, broke off.
Iris stood motionless, staring down it. How little one knew of one's own sister! So Rosemary had had a lover - had written him passionate love letters - had planned to go away with him?
What had happened? Rosemary had never sent the letter after all. What letter had she sent? What had been finally decided between Rosemary and this unknown man?
("Leopard!" What extraordinary fancies people had when they were in love. So silly. Leopard indeed!)
Who was this man? Did he love Rosemary as much as she loved him? Surely he must have done. Rosemary was so unbelievably lovely. And yet, according to Rosemary's letter, he had suggested "ending it all." That suggested - what? Caution? He had evidently said that the break was for Rosemary's sake.
That it was only fair to her. Yes, but didn't men say that sort of thing to save their faces? Didn't it really mean that the man, whoever he was, was tired of it all? Perhaps it had been to him a mere passing distraction. Perhaps he had never really cared. Somehow Iris got the impression that that unknown man had been very determined to break with Rosemary finally...
But Rosemary had thought differently. Rosemary wasn't going to count the cost. Rosemary had been determined, too...
Iris shivered.
And she, Iris, hadn't known a thing about it! Hadn't even guessed! Had taken it for granted that Rosemary was happy and contented and that she and George were quite satisfied with one another. Blind! She must have been blind not to know a thing like that about her own sister.
But who was that man?
She cast her mind back, thinking, remembering. There had been so many men about, admiring Rosemary, taking her out, ringing her up. There had been no one special. But there must have been - the rest of the bunch were mere camouflage for the one, the only one, that mattered. Iris frowned perplexedly, sorting her remembrances carefully.
Two names stood out. It must, yes, positively it must, be one or the other.
Stephen Farraday? It must be Stephen Farraday. What could Rosemary have seen in him? A stiff pompous young man - and not so very young either. Of course people did say he was brilliant. A rising politician, an undersecretaryship prophesied in the near future, and all the weight of the influential Kidderminster connection behind him. A possible future Prime Minister! Was that what had given him glamour in Rosemary's eyes? Surely she couldn't care so desperately for the man himself - such a cold self-contained creature? But they said that his own wife was passionately in love with him, that she had gone against all the wishes of her powerful family in marrying him - a mere nobody with political ambitions! If one woman felt like that about him, another woman might also.
Yes, it must be Stephen Farraday.
Because, if it wasn't Stephen Farraday, it must be Anthony Browne.
And Iris didn't want it to be Anthony Browne.
True, he'd been very much Rosemary's slave, constantly at her beck and call, his dark good-looking face expressing a kind of humorous desperation. But surely that devotion had been too open, too freely declared to go really deep?
Odd the way he had disappeared after Rosemary's death. They had none of them seen him since.
Still not so odd really - he was a man who travelled a lot. He had talked about the Argentine and Canada and Uganda and the U.S.A. She had an idea that he was actually an American or a Canadian, though he had hardly any accent. No, it wasn't really strange that they shouldn't have seen anything of him since.
It was Rosemary who had been his friend. There was no reason why he should go on coming to see the rest of them. He had been Rosemary's friend. But not Rosemary's lover! She didn't want him to have been Rosemary's lover. That would hurt - that would hurt terribly...
She looked down at the letter in her hand. She crumpled it up. She'd throw it away, burn it...
It was sheer instinct that stopped her. Some day it might be important to produce that letter...
She smoothed it out, took it down with her and locked it away in her jewel case. It might be important, some day, to show why Rosemary took her own life.
III
"And the next thing, please?"
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into Iris's mind and twisted her lips in a wry smile. The glib shopkeeper's question seemed to represent so exactly her own carefully directed mental processes.
Was not that exactly what she was trying to do in her survey of the past? She had dealt with the surprising discovery in the attic. And now - on to "the next thing, please!" What was the next thing?
Surely the increasingly odd behaviour of George. That dated back for a long time. Little things that had puzzled her became clear now in the light of the surprising interview last night. Disconnected remarks and actions took their proper place in the course of events.
And there was the reappearance of Anthony Browne. Yes, perhaps that ought to come next in sequence, since it had followed the finding of the letter by just one week. Iris couldn't recall her sensations exactly...
Rosemary had died in November. In the following May, Iris, under the wing of Lucilla Drake, had started her social young girl's life. She had gone to luncheons and teas and dances without, however, enjoying them very much. She had felt listless and unsatisfied. It was at a somewhat dull dance towards the end of June that she heard a voice say behind her:
"It is Iris Marle, isn't it?"
She had turned, flushing, to look into Anthony's - Tony's - dark quizzical face.
He said: "I don't expect you remember me, but -"
She interrupted.
"Oh, but I do remember you. Of course I do!"
"Splendid. I was afraid you'd have forgotten me. It's such a long time since I saw you."
"I know. Not since Rosemary's birthday par-"
She stopped. The words had come gaily, unthinkingly, to her lips. Now the colour rushed away from her cheeks, leaving them white and drained of blood. Her lips quivered. Her eyes were suddenly wide and dismayed.
Anthony Browne said quickly: "I'm terribly sorry. I'm a brute to have reminded you."
Iris swallowed. She said: "It's all right."
(Not since, the night of Rosemary's birthday party. Not since the night of Rosemary's suicide. She wouldn't think of it. She would not think of it!)
Anthony Browne said again: "I'm terribly sorry. Please forgive me. Shall we dance?"
She nodded. Although already engaged for the dance that was just beginning, she had floated on to the floor in his arms. She saw her partner, a blushing immature young man whose collar seemed too big for him, peering about for her. The sort of partner, she thought scornfully, that debs have to put up with. Not like this man - Rosemary's friend.
A sharp pang went through her. Rosemary's friend. That letter. Had it been written to this man she was dancing with now? Something in the easy feline grace with which he danced lent substance to the nickname "Leopard." Had he and Rosemary -
She said sharply: "Where have you been all this time?"
He held her a little away from him, looking down into her face. He was unsmiling now, his voice held coldness.
"I've been travelling - on business."
"I see." She went on uncontrollably, "Why have you come back?"
He smiled then. He said lightly: "Perhaps - to see you, Iris Marle."
And suddenly gathering her up a little closer, he executed a long daring glide through the dancers, a miracle of timing and steering. Iris wondered why, with a sensation that was almost wholly pleasure, she should feel afraid.
Since then Anthony had definitely become part of her life. She saw him at least once a week.
She met him in the Park, at various dances, found him put next to her at dinner.
The only place he never came to was the house in Elvaston Square. It was some time before she noticed this, so adroitly did he manage to evade or refuse invitations there.
When she did realise it she began to wonder why. Was it because he and Rosemary - Then, to her astonishment, George, easygoing, non-interfering George, spoke to her about him.
"Who's this fellow, Anthony Browne, you're going about with? What do you know about him?"
She stared at him.
"Know about him? Why, he was a friend of Rosemary's!"
George's face twitched. He blinked. He said in a dull heavy voice: "Yes, of course, so he was."
Iris cried remorsefully: "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reminded you."
George Barton shook his head. He said gently: "No, no, I don't want her forgotten. Never that. After all," he spoke awkwardly, his eyes averted, "that's what her name means. Rosemary - remembrance."
He looked full at her.
"I don't want you to forget your sister, Iris."
She caught her breath. "I never shall."
George went on: "But about this young fellow, Anthony Browne. Rosemary may have liked him, but I don't believe she knew much about him. You know, you've got to be careful, Iris. You're a very rich young woman."
A kind of burning anger swept over her.
"Tony - Anthony - has plenty of money himself. Why, he stays at Claridge's when he's in London."
George Barton smiled a little. He murmured: "Eminently respectable - as well as costly. All the same, my dear, nobody seems to know much about this fellow."
"He's an American."
"Perhaps. If so, it's odd he isn't sponsored more by his own Embassy. He doesn't come much to this house, does he?"
"No. And I can see why, if you're so horrid about him!"
George shook his head.
"Seem to have put my foot in it. Oh, well. Only wanted to give you a timely warning. I'll have a word with Lucilla."
"Lucilla!" said Iris scornfully.
George said anxiously: "Is everything all right? I mean, does Lucilla see to it that you get the sort of time you ought to have? Parties - all that sort of thing?"
"Yes, indeed, she works like a beaver..."
"Because, if not, you've only got to say, you know, child. We could get hold of someone else. Someone younger and more up to date. I want you to enjoy yourself."
"I do, George. Oh, George, I do."
He said rather heavily: "Then that's all right. I'm not much hand at these shows myself - never was. But see to it you get everything you want. There's no need to stint expense."
That was George all over - kind, awkward, blundering.
True to his promise, or threat, he "had a word" with Mrs Drake on the subject of Anthony Browne, but as Fate would have it the moment was unpropitious for gaining Lucilla's full attention.
She had just had a cable from that ne'er-do-well son who was the apple of her eye and who knew, only too well, how to wring the maternal heartstrings to his own financial advantage.
