Dorothy Eden Read Online Free PDF Page B

were filled to overflowing with more of Arabia’s vast and miscellaneous collection of furniture and outlandish trophies. The long low-ceilinged room at the back, with the balcony overlooking the narrow garden, was Lucy’s bedroom.
    The marble steps stopped at the first floor. After that the steps were wooden, and covered with a thin dusty carpet. Cressida’s footsteps sounded through the carpet, and the stairs were inclined to creak. She went very quietly because she didn’t want to disturb anyone. She had to pass directly by Mrs. Stanhope’s door, but she felt that, even disturbed, that timid little woman with the whispering voice wouldn’t venture out. Neither would the gangling boy Dawson who had thrust out a bony hand to her when Arabia had introduced them, and afterwards had eyed her furtively, as if suspicious of her sudden arrival.
    Cressida, who liked almost everybody, found it difficult to like Dawson because he seemed such a shy plain boy. But she was sorry for him, having to live this rather unnatural life with his voiceless little mother, and sorrier still for Mrs. Stanhope who seemed as nervous as a caught bird. She would be nice to those two, as well as to Arabia.
    After all, what would it cost her, she who suddenly had so much?
    Life was so exciting. Cressida was reflecting on that as she groped her way up the last few steps, and went along the passage to Lucy’s room. Then, as she softly opened the door and switched on the light, pity overcame her once more.
    Why did Arabia torment herself with this room that looked so lived in? There were even fresh flowers on the dressing table. Cressida stopped to look again at the photograph of Lucy taken at her coming of age. The young face had nothing of Arabia’s hawk-like arrogance in it. It was soft and round, with its smiling mouth and halo of fine fair hair. The eyes were far-off, almost empty, as if dwelling on scenes far different from a photographer’s studio. In the loosely clasped hands was a small bouquet of roses. Red roses had been Lucy’s favourite flowers, Arabia had said.
    It seemed to Cressida that their perfume was in the room, and all at once it made her think of death. She had to repress a shiver as she crossed to the writing-table and took up the diary which lay open at the last page, as if waiting for the next entry. The writing was neat and feminine. The last words were, tragically, “Dinner with Larry tonight and we talked about the wedding. Almost everything arranged now. Tomorrow must order the flowers.”
    And that was all. The flowers had had to be ordered, indeed. But they had not been flowers for a wedding.
    Cressida turned back the pages and read the light-hearted comments of a gay and popular girl. Dinners, dances, trips on the river, shopping, fittings for dresses, references to young men, Larry’s name, of course, figuring predominantly. Only one entry had been scratched out. Cressida had to peer close to decipher it. Was it “Saw Monty tonight”? Who was Monty and why had his name been scratched out? The diary, which covered six months, bore no other reference to him. Was he too unimportant to be worthy of a permanent record, or had his behaviour been so unpleasant that Lucy had decided to forget it?
    Apart from that one cryptic entry the diary told no secrets at all. Cressida put if down, resolving to ask Arabia tomorrow about the mysterious Monty.
    Her curiosity took her to the wardrobe, and she began fingering the dresses hanging within. They were twenty years old, a pre-war style, but their prettiness and expensiveness were still apparent. She took out a ball dress in filmy green tulle, and was holding it against her when she heard the faint sound at the door. Or had it been a sound?
    As she listened there was nothing more. The pretty room, with its rose-shaded light, remained petrified, waiting for the return of its owner.
    But suddenly Cressida had lost her taste for being there. All at once she felt morbid and