Donovan himself put the flowers upon the first, Ralph and Dolly talking softly together about "little Auntie Dot," then running off hand in hand to make the "captain's glave plitty," as Dolly expressed it. Erica, following them, glanced at the plain white headstone and read the name: "John Frewin, sometimes captain of the 'Metora."
Waugh, and Miss Frewin in the drawing-room with Mamma. They had brought her the news. The Sutcliffes were going. They were trying to let Greffington Hall. The agent, Mr. Oldshaw, had told Mr. Horn. Mr. Frank, the Major, would be back from India in April. He was going to be married. He would live in the London house and Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliffe would live abroad.
But I find I am digressing terribly, and the gloomy winter days of England, which make the recollection of a bright tropical morning so agreeable a task to contemplate, must be my excuse. After breakfast, I hurried down to the beach to see if Tom Frewin, the skipper of the little cutter, 'Daylight', would be likely to keep his promise, and have the vessel ready to start by noon.
Ellen Frewin, small and upright, slender back curved in to the set of shawl and crinoline, prim head fixed in the composure of gentle disdain, small mouth saying always "Oh," Meta, the younger sister, very tall, head bent in tranquil meditation, her mantle slanting out from the fall of the thin shoulders. They rose up in the small, green lighted drawing-room. Their heads bent forward to kiss.
Aunt Lavvy to live like that for thirty-three years and to be happy at the end. She wondered what happiness there could be in that dull surrender and acquiescence, that cold, meek love of God. "Kikerikueh! sie glaubten Es waere Hahnen geschrei." Everybody in the village knew you had been jilted. Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin knew it, and Mr. Horn, the grocer, and Mr. Oldshaw at the bank. And Mr.
Black hair and eyebrows grew bushily from his dull-white Frewin skin. He would be an engineer. Mr. Belk's brother had taken him into his works at Durlingham. He wasn't seventeen, yet he knew how to make engines. He had a strong, lumbering body. His heart would go on thump-thumping with regular strokes, like a stupid piston, not like Roddy's heart, excited, quivering, hurrying, suddenly checking.
She wondered what it would be like. Aunt Bella said it was a dead-and-alive place. Morfe Morfe. It did sound rather as if people died in it. Aunt Bella was angry with Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin for making Mamma go there. But Aunt Bella had never liked Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin. That was because they had been Mamma's friends at school and not Aunt Bella's.
Waugh and Miss Frewin with their heads on one side and their shocked, grieved faces. You smiled at them as you panted, but they wouldn't smile back. Their grief was too great. They would never get over it. You began to watch for the Indian mail. One day the letter came. You read blunt, jerky sentences that told you Mark had died suddenly, in the mess room, of heart failure.
He didn't dance very well: he danced tightly and stiffly as if he didn't like it; but he danced: with Miss Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made him; five dances with Dorsy Heron, because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, because he found her looking sad and shy in a corner.
Miss Frewin arched her eyes and smiled, without looking at you. "I can't say I do." Their heads made little nodding bows as they talked. Miss Frewin's bow was sidelong and slow, Mrs. Waugh's straight and decisive. "She's not like Rodney," Mrs. Waugh said. "And she's not like Emilius. Who is she like?" Mary answered. "I'm rather like Dan and a good bit like Mark. But I'm most of all like myself."