The Tender Glory by Jean S. Macleod Page B

had done the right thing?” she asked, turning at the door.
    “I couldn’t get through to Wick to phone for a taxi,” Alison explained, “and I met—Mr. Daviot. He offered to help. My mother has to go into hospital tomorrow afternoon.”
    “How can Huntley help?” The question was sharp.
    “He promised to phone Jim Orbister for me from Golspie, provided he can get through from there.”
    “And if he can’t?”
    “He—said he wouldn’t let me down. He thinks the van is out of the question.”
    “And is it?”
    “I’m afraid so. I fixed with Jim to send a taxi, only we didn’t know when.”
    Tessa hovered in the doorway. Her face was very pale, her dark eyes suddenly enormous.
    “Is your mother seriously ill?” she asked.
    “She needs this operation. Yes, I think she’s quite ill.” Alison’s voice trembled a little. “That’s why I can’t stay, Tessa. She got a letter from Robin this morning, but she needs me, too.”
    “From Robin?” The words were little more than a whisper. “I thought he wasn’t going to write.”
    Alison turned from the piano.
    “Did he tell you so?” she asked. “How well did you know Robin, Tessa?”
    “Not well enough.” Tessa’s mouth was mutinous. “He went without saying goodbye to any of us. Why do you think I should have known him better than anyone else?”
    “I thought, by the way you looked, that you might have done.”
    “Well, I didn’t!” Tessa turned on her heel. “I’m going to make some tea, whether you’ve time to drink it or not!” Left with this odd ultimatum, Alison sat down on the piano stool, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the keys now. Something had come between her and her desire to play. Some presence—not Tessa’s—seemed to be hovering in the room. Another woman’s presence. Leone’s?
    Had Leone played this piano to accompany her own singing, she wondered, and if so, why had Tessa been so insistent that it should be played again?
    “Where did he write from?” Tessa asked when she reappeared with a tray set with two cups and saucers. “Robin, I mean.”
    “From Canada. Montreal, to be exact.”
    “He went to New York originally,” Tessa said. “A year ago. A year and two days.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “My sister died there.”
    “Yes, I know.” Alison got up from the stool. “I shouldn’t have come. This must be bringing it all back to you. That lovely voice! It was the most terrible tragedy, an irreparable loss. I’m sorry. Your grief must still be very fresh.”
    Tessa put down the tray. Her hands were trembling. “Grief? How wrong can you be?” she cried, her face distorted. “I hated
    Leone. I still hate her! Do you understand? When she died it shattered all our lives, not just Huntley’s. Sometimes I think she isn’t really dead but just waiting out there on the cliff with her talent and her beauty and her scintillating wit ready to mock us all, to start it all over again, to play with our lives for her own amusement, as she always did. She had a terrible sort of power, and I believe it lasts.”
    It was a wild, unreasoning tirade, driven from Tessa almost against her will, the heart-cry of a young girl goaded to retaliation by jealousy and fear. Alison wasn’t sure what to say.
    “You must be wrong,” she began. “You’ve been terribly upset.” She thought how much she herself had admired Leone without even knowing her. “It will all take time, Tessa.”
    She was groping in the dark, not really knowing what had happened or how Tessa could be involved, unless she had always been in love with Huntley.
    “You think it isn’t true,” Tessa accused her. “Then ask him. Ask Huntley Daviot if Leone isn’t still there, eating up his life! Why do you think he lives out on Sterne like that? Why do you think he makes a recluse of himself most of the time, listening to the sort of music Leone loved? He’s still hers, though she’s dead and he can never have her!”
    Stunned and