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Title: Ember Lane. A Winter's Tale.
Author: Kaye-Smith, Sheila (1887-1956)
Date of first publication: 1940
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London, Toronto, Melbourne, and Sydney: Cassell, 1946
   (third edition)
Date first posted: 22 November 2009
Date last updated: 22 November 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #419

This ebook was produced by:
Andrew Templeton




                               EMBER LANE

_Other Books By_ SHEILA KAYE-SMITH


Novels

_The Valiant Woman_
_Rose Deeprose_
_Gallybird_
_Superstition Corner_
_The Ploughman's Progress_
_Susan Spray_
_Shepherds in Sackcloth_
_The Village Doctor_
_Iron and Smoke_
_The George and the Crown_
_The End of the House of Alard_
_Joanna Godden_
_Green Apple Harvest_
_Tamarisk Town_
_Little England_
_The Challenge to Sirius_
_Sussex Gorse_
_Three Against the World_
_Isle of Thorns_
_Spell Land_
_Starbrace_
_The Tramping Methodist_


Belles Letres

_Three Ways Home_


Verse

_Saints in Sussex_


Short Stories

_Selina is Older_
_The Children's Summer_
_Joanna Godden Married_
_Faithful Stranger_


                               EMBER LANE
                           _A Winter's Tale_

                                  _by_

                           SHEILA KAYE-SMITH


                                CASSELL
                          _and Company Limited
                        London Toronto Melbourne
                              and Sydney_



                        _First Publication 1940_
                        _Second Edition    1940_
                        _Third Edition     1946_

                      Printed in Great Britain by
           Lowe and Brydone Printers Limited, London, N.W.10



                                CONTENTS

                                 PART I

                           DONKEY'S SERENADE

CHAPTER                                     PAGE

1 JESS MARLOTT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   3
2 BRENDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  19
3 HARRY COBSALE--LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . .  36
4 HARRY COBSALE . . . . . . . . . . . .  . .  51
5 JESS MARLOTT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  61
6 BRENDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  73


                                PART II

                             SHINING LIGHT


1 LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   95
2 HARRY COBSALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  109
3 JESS MARLOTT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
4 BRENDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
5 LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  144


                                PART III

                             BURNING LIGHT


1 JESS MARLOTT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
2 BRENDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
3 LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  194
4 JOAN COBSALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
5 JESS MARLOTT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
6 BRENDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231



                                PART IV

                           LIGHT IN DARKNESS


1 HARRY COBSALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  245
2 LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  261
3 JESS MARLOTT  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  269
4 LUCINDA LIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  282
5 HARRY COBSALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  288
6 BRENDA LIGHT--LUCINDA LIGHT--HARRY COBSALE 298



                                 Part 1
                           DONKEY'S SERENADE



                                   1

                              JESS MARLOTT


In days gone by the only way from Woodhorn to Potcommon was down Ember
Lane as far as Four Legged Crouch and then up the hill past Egypt Farm
to what is now the cross-roads by the market place. The road had no
doubt been made after the manner of most Sussex roads, by carts and
cattle moving from farm to farm. Ancient wheels had dug deep ruts across
the marsh from Kent, with a clumsy bridge at Puddledock; then at the
foot of the hill they had either turned south-west to the market at
Potcommon or south-east to Loats Farm and Woodhorn Street. Sometimes
they went due east to Bibleham, and by the end of the seventeenth
century so great was the traffic at the cross-roads that an inn was
built there, the Chequers, which carried on a comfortable trade for
nearly two hundred years.

It was not till the beginning of the nineteenth century that public
authority, made anxious by the French wars, brought the village and the
market-town at least two miles closer to each other by a turnpike road
along the ridge. That road hardened and widened, as the turnpike gave
place to macadam and macadam to tarmac and finally the whole surface of
shifting, struggling clay was bound down in a strait jacket of concrete.
Ember Lane became a by-way, for the new road had been continued through
Potcommon into Kent, avoiding the misty breadth of the Marsh and the old
bridge at Puddledock. Only the thinnest traffic of the farms passed
through it and soon the Chequers Inn lost its business and had to close.

For a time it was a private house--changing hands frequently, for there
was a rumour that it was haunted. Then it became two cottages, sinking
from that into a warren of five, and then sinking so far into insanitary
disrepair that early in 1934 the Potcommon District Council issued a
demolition order, which had not been carried out by the fall of
the year, owing to the failure of the tenants to find any sort of
accommodation elsewhere.

Between Chequers Cottage and Woodhorn Street, about a mile away, was
only a small strew of houses. Right at the bottom of the hill stood a
tarred, one-story building known as Summer Row, where lived one of the
three labourers at Loats, a large mixed farm a quarter of a mile higher
up the lane and standing some two hundred yards back from it behind the
screen of Harbolets Shaw. The pastures of Loats rolled down to the
marsh, to march with the pastures of Limbo Farm over some valuable
fatting grounds. Hops filled the sheltered pockets in the hill-side
towards Bibleham, and on the higher lands were coloured stretches of
arable--wheat, oats, pease and roots.

Until a very short time ago Loats had owned all the land between the
Iron River and the glebe of Woodhorn Parsonage. But there had been
changes in recent years. For one thing, a new Rectory had been built
across the lane, opposite the old one, just below the Church--releasing
the Rectors of Woodhorn from their slavery to the tyrannical old house
where they had lived ever since the Reformation--and the Ecclesiastical
Commissioners had defrayed their expenses by selling the Old Parsonage,
as it was now called, to strangers from London. They also sold half the
glebe to old Albion Cobsale of Loats. But this did not remain long in
his possession. He had completed the purchase only just before the first
disastrous year of the Hop Marketing Board caught him between the devil
of Queen Anne's Bounty and the deep sea of the inspectors of Inland
Revenue--with the further threat of his own death duties when his sons
took over the farm. Only just before he died he had sold all his newly
acquired acres--together with some fifty more of Loats' immemorial
land--for "development" by a local builder.

There had been an immediate outcry, and the better class inhabitants of
Woodhorn bore down on the District Council with a clamour of rural
amenities and a demand that the Town Planning Act should be set in
motion. It had ended in the retired Colonel who owned Casteye Farm--on
the main Woodhorn-Potcommon road, but with a frontage on Ember
Lane--losing patience with country bureaucracy and buying the whole view
from his back windows. This excluded the small prawn-coloured bungalow
which the builder had succeeded meanwhile in putting up in the field
immediately above Loats and which he had sold for a thousand pounds to
an ex-serviceman who was looking round for a poultry farm.

The ex-serviceman and his wife called the bungalow Honeypools, which was
the name of the field in which it stood, and which they thought a
charmingly pretty name for a poultry farm--not knowing that it was
Sussex for mud puddles.


On a cold evening in October, when the threat of winter seemed to hang
in fog round the edges of the sky the ex-serviceman's wife had come out
to shut up the chickens for the night. The air felt thick as if it too
would soon curdle into fog. Already the chestnut stoles of Casteye Wood
across the lane were smeared by something grosser than the dusk and the
oast-houses of Loats Farm, at the bottom of the hill, seemed to be
standing on a cloud above the marsh, which had entirely disappeared.

Where sight was failing sound had a new weight and sharpness, the
barking of a dog far away at Pondtail, the bleating of sheep on the
marsh, the passing of a car over the bridge, the rise and fall of a
chopper at Casteye Farm, were all as so many blows on the silence. The
ex-serviceman's wife listened, straining for a sound she could not hear.
She was listening for her husband's car, which had an unmistakable
approach, wondering when he would come home and why he was so late--why
he was always late.

He seldom came home before six, and yet their sale of eggs and
table-birds was no larger than it used to be in times when he was back
by four. It was the long distances, he said--driving so far to market
and here and there with small orders, taking a dozen eggs five miles to
Sokenholes and a boiling fowl three miles in the opposite direction to
Maidenbower. It scarcely paid for the petrol . . . and yet he insisted
that it was better than paying a co-operative society to do his
marketing for him.

She was always anxious when he was late, fearing that an accident had
happened. The car was old and subject to engine trouble; and he was a
poorish driver. There had been accidents once or twice in the
past--nothing serious but enough to make her think how serious it might
have been. If only she didn't feel and know he was so helpless . . .
perhaps at this moment he was sitting under a hedge, staring at the car
and wondering why it wouldn't go . . . or perhaps something worse . . .

The gate clicked; and she suddenly thought he had left the car and
walked home. She turned with a sigh of relief to welcome him, but the
figure that loomed through the dusk was not his. It was bigger, though a
woman's--the big, strapping figure of Mrs. Malpas the Rector's wife,
made bigger still by her huge, shaggy tweeds, pearled with mist and
giving out a damp, woollen smell.

"Hullo, Mrs. Marlott. I just looked in----"

Jess Marlott sighed again, this time with disappointment, but she also
smiled. She was glad to see Mrs. Malpas, who was almost the only soul
she knew, and moreover a customer.

"How are you?" she asked, then realized that she must be looking more of
a guy than usual, with her old moleskin coat hanging over her gum boots
and a scarf tied round her head . . . "I'm afraid I'm in a terrible
mess. You must excuse me."

"Oh, no--you look very nice--very workmanlike. I wonder if you could let
me have some eggs to take back with me? The fishman's never called and
I've nothing for supper."

"Oh, certainly. How many do you want?"

"Half a dozen will do. There's a rabbit for to-morrow and a joint and
some sausages for Sunday. How much are they now?"

"The same price--three shillings."

"Isn't it terrible? Though I don't suppose you think so."

Jess smiled wanly.

"No--we like selling them at a profit." Then feeling that she had been
rude and possibly also had offended a customer, she added quickly: "You
see, the feed costs so much that often when they're cheap we hardly make
any profit at all."

"But you have much bigger sales then, don't you?"

"Not always--it depends;" she felt she could not tell the Rector's wife
how terribly Greg had miscalculated with those pullets. "Besides," she
continued, "often when eggs are scarce the government deliberately
brings the prices down by importing foreign ones. I expect we'll be
having a lot from New Zealand soon."

"Well, that'll be a mercy. I'm glad the government thinks of our pockets
occasionally. And New Zealand isn't foreign, you know, it's the British
Empire."

"I'm afraid that doesn't make much difference to us."

It was the other woman's turn to soften what she had said.

"Of course not--it can't; and I'm being very tactless. My husband says
I'm the most tactless woman he's ever known. But if you knew what it was
like to clothe and feed and educate four children on three hundred and
fifty a year . . ."

"It must be a terrible struggle. I can sympathise."

For a moment they were both silent, producer and consumer smiling
ruefully at each other. Then the Rector's wife said:

"Don't you find it an awful business shutting up all those fowls every
night?"

"Oh, it isn't so bad. They mostly go of their own accord into the arks
and I've only got to shut the door. It's a tie, of course."

"Doesn't your husband help you?"

"Certainly--when he's here. But he's so busy now that he's very seldom
back in time."

"Oh yes, of course. I'm glad he's busy. . . . Well, I really must be
getting home now--if you'll kindly let me have the eggs."

"They're in the lodge. It won't take me a moment to pack them up."

As they walked to the lodge, the Rector's wife said suddenly:

"Your husband's at the Old Parsonage."

"Oh" . . . a tide of comfort and relief broke over Jess's heart and
surged in every vein.

"Yes, I saw his car standing in the drive as I came down the road."

"Oh, I'm glad. I'd been wondering . . . I mean, it was getting so late
that I was afraid something might have happened."

Mrs. Malpas did not speak for a moment. Then she said:

"I know what it is to worry. I often worry about my husband when he's
late. Not that he's often late--in fact he very seldom goes out at all.
I have the greatest difficulty in driving him out, away from his books."

"It's only this last month or so that my husband's been late. The car
isn't running well and he goes to some very distant markets."

"Do you know Mrs. Light?"

The conversation seemed to be growing rather jerky and Jess could not
immediately follow this new turn.

"Mrs. Light?--who is she? . . . Yes, of course, I know . . . at the Old
Parsonage. I know her by sight, but I've never spoken to her. We supply
her with two dozen eggs a week."

They were in the little lean-to shed where the eggs were sorted and
candled. The Rector's wife peered closely at Jess Marlott through the
dim light.

"She's a very good-looking woman."

"Yes, isn't she? And the daughter's pretty too, don't you think?"

"Quite pretty. I'm sorry for her, poor child."

"Sorry?--why?"

"Haven't you heard the story?"

"No. All I know is that she's a widow and used to live in London. Will
it do if I pack your eggs in this little punnet?--we seem to be out of
boxes."

"That will do very well. I suppose you've never heard that her husband
died quite suddenly?"

"No. How very sad for her, poor thing."

Mrs. Malpas looked restless.

"I'm afraid it was largely her doing. She drove him to it. He had a weak
heart and she'd just asked him to divorce her."

"Oh. . ."

How had Mrs. Malpas heard all this? It was village gossip, she supposed.
As if reading her thoughts, the other woman continued:

"Mrs. Hart of the Manor told me. She knows people who used to know the
Lights in town. She says it was quite an open scandal--a literary
man, I believe, or someone to do with publishing. But he wasn't the
first, by all accounts--only the first her husband found out. Some
people are very easily deceived----" She looked hard at Jess Marlott.

"I wonder why she came down here," said Jess, who was not, however, very
much interested.

"I suppose she wanted to hide herself after what she'd done. And she
used to come here as a child, you know--to stay with the Derrys. I
expect you've heard that old Mr. Derry was the last Rector of Woodhorn
to live in the Old Parsonage, and Mrs. Light was a sort of relation of
his wife's and apparently stayed with them quite a bit when she was a
little girl. She must find things very different now, for of course
nobody's called on her."

"I suppose not."

"No; Mrs. Hart sent round a warning. But we're different, of course, at
the Rectory--my husband's position and all that. Not that I've ever
actually called, but we got to know each other over some of her laundry
that came to us by mistake. And the daughter's quite a sweet child."

"How old is she?"

She wished Mrs Malpas would go, for Greg was bound to be home at any
moment now; but she still loomed in the doorway.

"She's seventeen, but in some ways she's no older than our children. And
yet she's always borrowing my husband's books and talks most
intelligently about them too, he says."

"She must be an unusual sort or girl."

"It's having been so much with her father. He was a professor of
something and a great scholar, and they were inseparable, Mrs. Hart
says. I believe she was ill for weeks when he died like that. If I was
her mother I'd never forgive myself."

For some unexplained reason Jess found herself taking this unknown
woman's part.

"And yet it's a sign of grace that she asked him to divorce her instead
of wanting him to compromise himself and let her bring the petition
. . . some women are very mean about that sort of thing."

"That was to give him the custody of the child. He adored her and would
never have consented to part with her. Of course it was honest, up to a
point. . . . But it doesn't alter the fact that she's a dangerous woman;
and if I were you----"

She stopped and even in the failing light Jess could see her face turn
purple above her tweeds.

"If you were me? . . ."

She forced herself to smile pleasantly at this woman who meant to be
kind and was a customer.

Mrs. Malpas evidently gave up struggling with herself.

"I've let out such a lot that I may as well tell you the rest. It's only
right. You ought to know. Your husband----"

"My husband?" At once a scared look came into Jess's eyes.

"Yes. He goes to see her every evening about this time."

The scared look vanished.

"Does he? I didn't know he knew her, except as a customer."

"Well, he does. He's there at least an hour every evening--sometimes
longer."

Jess looked bewildered, then suddenly she nearly laughed. Was Mrs.
Malpas trying to tell her that Greg was unfaithful?--that he was
flirting with Mrs. Light? The idea was so ridiculous that she could not
even feel resentment.

"I only hope he isn't boring her. We know so few people round here that
I expect he's glad of a chat."

"Chat . . ." repeated the Rector's wife. Then she mumbled: "I hope you
don't mind what I said."

"Oh, no, of course not. It's interesting--about Mrs. Light, I mean."

"Perhaps you and your husband will come and have tea with us some day."

"We should love to--later, when we can shut up the chickens first."

"That will be very nice. Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Thank you so much."

They parted, each thinking the other was a fool.

Jess went back into the field and finished shutting the chicken-houses.
All the while she listened for her husband's car and felt surprised when
her task was done and still she had not heard it. He certainly was
having a very long chat with Mrs. Light, and if she had been at all
inclined to jealousy . . . she smiled--really Mrs. Malpas was rather
ridiculous. How could anyone who had ever seen Greg imagine . . . ? But
then of course Mrs. Malpas did not really know him. She had not lived
with him twenty years, feeling increasingly more of a mother than a
wife, as day by day she realized more deeply his helplessness, his
hopefulness, his integrity?

Poor Greg. He had had a hard time since a grateful nation demobilized
him with five hundred pounds' gratuity. So had his wife, but somehow she
had not felt her own hard time in the same way as she had felt his. They
had started their post-war life in a small Midland town where he had
bought a motor-business with his gratuity, and almost at once things had
begun to go wrong. He had bungled one or two jobs and upset good
customers. Of course, strictly speaking, he should never have attempted
to run a garage, but she hadn't had the heart to dissuade him, finding
him so convinced that garage-keeping was the golden road to wealth and
that what he did not know already he would easily learn. They had been
obliged to engage a mechanic, whose wages had eaten seriously into their
small profits and who had robbed them in various ways as well. Then to
crown all, the town had been by-passed by an arterial road and they had
lost nearly all their custom. They had been forced to cut their losses
and sell.

In those days Greg's Aunt Elizabeth was still alive, and he had been
able to persuade her to come to the rescue, all the more easily because
she had never approved of the garage idea and took its failure as a
personal compliment to herself. She had set him up in a small farm near
Shottisham in Suffolk. Greg had been wild to have a farm--reacting from
his mechanical struggles to nature, from oil to dung, from grease to
grass. She could remember the exquisite happiness of that first night at
Middings, the sense of release, of a new start. How delighted they had
been with the cool, quiet old house--so different from the flat over the
garage--how new again their furniture had looked against those
white walls. She had been as full of hope and contentment as her
husband, and they had not done so badly during the first year. But soon
the shadows had fallen again--illness (it was at about that time she had
had her miscarriage and lost her last hope of a child), falling prices,
disappearing markets, failures in feeding and rearing, unexplained
deaths among the stock.

Of course Greg had had no real experience of farming and in spite of
working hard and reading every book and magazine that could help him,
was still at a disadvantage in his dealings with those who had been
brought up to the job. If only they could move into another district
where the natives were more friendly, less determined to do down and
drive out foreigners. . . . They both began to long for Dorset, where
she had lived as a girl and where he had visited her before their
marriage. It seemed to them there in their exile a county of kindly
people, soft air and sweet, healthful lands, so different from their
present home among the mists and the salt, sour clay. But they were too
deeply involved with circumstances to change. They owed money and they
could not hope to sell at a price sufficient to pay off the mortgage
that was strangling them.

Then once more Aunt Elizabeth had shown herself their friend--this time
by dying. She had left Greg five thousand pounds. They had been able to
pay their debts and clear out of Suffolk, and, best of all, to buy a
grass-farm near Dorchester, only twelve miles from the place where Jess
had been born.

Once again there had been a new beginning, two hearts full of hope and
release, furniture looking if not new, at least a little less battered
against new-papered walls. Greg was determined to make this new farm,
Marklands, a success. He had spent all that was left of his legacy after
the purchase on improvements and repairs. He would start in the best
circumstances possible, on the top of the world. Jess too had felt
convinced that this time all would be well. They had learnt from their
failure on the other farm--they would not make the old mistakes again,
nor should the former shadows overtake them.

That was in 1924. In 1929 they moved into a smaller farm about six miles
inland from Weymouth. Greg had decided that Marklands was too
large for them, and that was why, in spite of all he had spent on it, he
had not been able to make it pay. As for Jess those five years had
brought to a full conviction what had before been just an uneasy sense
of Greg's helplessness. In spite of all his hope and confidence he did
not ever really learn his job. Just as after holding his driver's
licence for twenty years he still drove his car erratically, so after
nearly ten years' experience of farming he still made mistakes and
miscalculations. Indeed his hope and confidence were his enemies, making
him too sure of himself--not in any bumptious, aggressive way, but
innocently as a little boy is sure, when he draws what he thinks is a
beautiful picture with a packet of penny chalks. There was often a lump
in her throat when she thought of Greg.

When they had been at Castlemadder a couple of years she saw that he too
was beginning to feel disquiet--to doubt himself at last. The new, small
farm was failing too, threatening to drag them into bankruptcy, as this
time there was no Aunt Elizabeth behind them. Also by now they had given
up trying to live comfortably. It was years since they had been to the
pictures or bought new clothes, and they had long dropped all their
small acquaintance for lack of money to spend or time to spare.

"What are we to do next?" he had asked her one evening. "Do you think I
could start something that isn't a farm? We don't seem to succeed as
well as I'd hoped. What else could we do?"

She had shaken her head, not knowing an answer. They neither of them had
any experience beyond that which they had so hardly earned. Before the
war he had spent some time in a solicitor's office, but had enlisted
before he was qualified. It was too late for that now--besides, there
would be fees to pay and then no doubt a partnership to buy, and they
had no money. Beyond all this, something secret and uneasy in her told
her that Greg in the law would be probably very like Greg on the land--a
hopeful failure.

"What about a poultry farm?"

"Well . . ."

"There's no doubt whatever that chicken is what pays best--in fact, as
far as this place is concerned, it's the only thing that pays at all.
There's actually a profit on the hens this year--nearly ten
pounds, and we haven't got more than a hundred. If we had a thousand . . ."

She saw the hopeful gleam in his eye, but as she didn't speak it soon
faded.

"I suppose you think I'd muddle that too . . ."

"Oh, Greg-no, no."

It was the first time he had spoken of his failure, and it almost broke
her heart. Up till then they had accepted, outwardly at least, the
convention that everything but his own incapacity was to blame for their
misfortunes--prices, markets, taxes, weather, their neighbours and
general bad luck. Now for the first time the pretence was off, and she
couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear the sight of her little boy staring
at his picture and realizing that it was badly drawn.

"My darling, you mustn't blame yourself--there's been such a lot against
you."

"No more than there is against other chaps."

"Most farmers are doing badly now."

"Not so badly as I am, and I've had all sorts of advantages they
haven't--my gratuity, Aunt Elizabeth's money. . . . Two or three times
I've got in on the ground floor, and yet I've failed. It's no good, Jess
old girl; let's face the facts--it's me. I make mistakes, and there's
not an inch of room for mistakes these days."

She had seen his face working as he spoke, and to hide the unbearable
sight she had taken him in her arms and cried, to let him comfort her.
They had both cried a little. Then they had talked about the future
again--quite calmly, without either much hope or much despair, her heart
murmuring to her secretly all the while that nothing really mattered
because they had each other. As long as they could manage a living
somehow all would be well. She could always be happy while they were
together, even if everything else was gone.


Why didn't he come home? It must be at least an hour since Mrs. Malpas
had seen his car at the Parsonage. All he had to do there was to deliver
a dozen eggs and a table bird. Really if she had been at all of a
jealous or suspicious nature . . . she smiled. Poor old Greg--it
required a considerable effort of the imagination even to think
of him straying after another woman. He was the most loyal, devoted,
dependent old thing in the world. Life at least had given her that.
. . . When, on bad days, she made herself "count her blessings", the
first was always a loving and faithful husband. After that she scarcely
noticed the shortness of the list.

The clock struck seven. If she hadn't known Greg was at the Old
Parsonage she would be frightened. Poor man, he would want his tea . . .
unless Mrs. Light had given him some. That was probably what had
happened--she had good-naturedly asked him in for a cup of tea. Women of
her sort were often extremely good-natured. But the Rector's wife had
said his car was there every evening . . . she must have made a
mistake--she must have seen some other car . . . perhaps it was some
other car that she had seen to-day.

Back tumbled all Jess's old fears. She felt that for the last hour she
had been living in a false assurance. Poor Greg must be still on the
road, for she could not believe that Mrs. Malpas knew what she was
talking about. She began to pace nervously up and down the kitchen--they
could not afford a fire in the sitting-room, so they never used it in
the cold weather. The kitchen was crowded with furniture much too big
for it, furniture that had looked its best in white, spacious rooms.
. . . She grew tired of avoiding bulks and angles. . . . Oh, Greg, come
home. I miss you, I want you, I'm afraid for you, my love. I don't
believe you're at the Old Parsonage. Something must have happened to
keep you out so late.

Then she made up her mind to go and see for herself. Five minutes would
show her if Mrs. Malpas had been romancing. All she had to do was to run
up the lane and look at the car outside the house. Anything was better
than waiting here, blundering about with her body and her mind.

She dragged on her coat and gum-boots and went out. The night was now
quite thick--the fog made half the darkness. She groped her way down the
muddy little path through what she had almost given up hoping might one
day be their garden and opened with difficulty the gate that always
swelled and stuck in damp weather. It was certainly a bad night
for motoring and she began to have doubts about the car's batteries.
Perhaps Greg was stranded somewhere because his lights had failed.

If that had happened only the Lord knew when he would be home again; for
their customers were scattered about the country-side, as far away as
Bibleham in one direction, as Rushmonden in another. Poor Greg might be
anywhere on this dank, obliterated map of the Sussex borders. Really,
now that his business was taking him so far from home he ought to sell
the eggs through a co-operative society. Up till now he had grudged the
ten per cent commission he would have to pay, but this personal
marketing must use up more than that amount in petrol. . . . She would
speak to him about it when he came home and see if she couldn't persuade
him. . . . Perhaps she would be able--after this.

She had so convinced herself that he was either sitting under some hedge
beside his unlighted car or plodding along some lane ten miles from home
that she was as much startled as relieved to find when she reached the
Old Parsonage that it actually was the familiar, shabby old Morris that
stood outside the door. Nobody could mistake it because it had the bull
nosed radiator of 1923, and had been painted in two shades of green by
Greg himself when they first arrived at Woodhorn. What could he have
been doing here all this time?--and all those other times when the
Rector's wife had seen the car? The second question seemed to slide over
the answer she had begun to give the first and change it into a third:
Did he have tea with Mrs. Light every day?

No; it was impossible. He would have told her--he told her everything,
even those things he had better have kept to himself. Then what? . . .
why? . . . She stood irresolutely in the damp drive, lit faintly from
the windows of the house. The Old Rectory was a long low building, set
back from the road under drooping beeches. It had probably been built
somewhere around 1670, but had undergone a Victorian transformation
which had by now acquired a certain beauty of its own. The stuccoed
walls were cloudy with creepers and wistaria, which softened the rents
made by the big sash windows, while the slate roof had purpled into
fusion with the shadows of the trees.

Jess stood fumbling mentally beside the car, which looked scarcely more
battered and shabby than she. What should she do now? Go home, of
course. She was confused, but at least she knew that Greg was safe, and
when she saw him again he would explain everything that seemed so
strange and perplexing now. She could not ring the bell and ask for
him--that would be an extraordinary thing to do, and might offend Mrs.
Light, who was quite a good customer. No, she must go home--she could
not understand why she felt reluctant to turn from that lighted house,
leaving her husband comfortable and warm inside it.

Then as she moved away from the car she suddenly found herself looking
straight into one of the rooms. The curtains were undrawn and through
the big Victorian window she could see lamps burning softly; and under
one of them sat Greg--the light pouring down on his head and showing up
rather mercilessly his rough grey hair and worn, heavy features. He
looked almost an old man in that light, though he was only forty-nine.
He was leaning forward and talking rather earnestly to a woman who sat
with her back to the window--only the top of her sleek, dark head showed
over the back of her chair. That was almost certainly Mrs. Light
herself. . . . There was a small table between them with drinks on
it--not tea. Greg had a whisky and soda . . . poor old man--how he would
enjoy that!

But somehow the effect of it all was to make her feel more than ever
forlorn. She turned away, and just as she did so she saw Greg smile--the
slow, loving, rather fatuous smile that she had never before seen him
give anyone but herself. Her heart made a sudden movement and for the
first time she felt a qualm. . . . No, no, it was impossible--if she let
herself even fear it she was being a bigger fool than Mrs. Malpas. She
was imagining things--because she was so tired. She suddenly knew that
she was tired--every bone in her body felt broken. She would go home and
lie down and rest till Greg came back; then he would tell her everything
and she would laugh at herself.


He did not come for half an hour and when he came he walked in rather
sheepishly.

"Hullo, dear. I'm sorry I'm so late, but the fog hung me up on the marsh
and I thought I should never get home."

She stared at him in bewilderment. Then she felt as if she was going to
be sick.



                                   II

                              BRENDA LIGHT

Brenda Light sighed with relief as she heard the hall door shut. He was
gone at last, and it had seemed as if he would never go. But she liked
him--she could not help liking him. He was so honest, so amiable, and
the clear simplicity of his mind was restful to her mind's clouded
weariness . . . also he was someone to talk to and a man to flirt with
in this desert of Woodhorn. She was sorry for him, too; he seemed
pathetically in need of a little beauty and brightness. She knew nothing
about his wife and he seldom spoke of her, but she looked a poor, drab
creature. If she objected to his spending every evening with another
woman she should brighten up herself a bit.

Yes, she liked old Greg--but he stayed too long. After about an hour he
began to bore her. She was often feeling bored when he came, but only
half as bored as she felt by the time he went. He talked such a lot,
about such dull things. . . . She was weary of the story of his wounding
at Ypres in 1915, of the school behind the lines where he had taught
later on in the War, of the innumerable garages and farms he had
struggled with since--and this evening he had been telling her all about
the diseases of poultry . . . .

Poor old Greg! if it wasn't for the love-light in his eye and the
occasional words of love that blundered to his tongue she did not think
she could have borne him. And yet she was always glad when he came . . .
gladder still when he went? Yes, but she hadn't the heart to send him
away. That was the truth of it: she was too lonely to stop his coming,
too kind to speed his going; she could not tell him that his coming and
his going were both equally welcome.

What time was it? A quarter to eight. If she wanted a bath before dinner
she must go upstairs at once. But though she looked at the clock and at
the door she made no movement out of her chair. She was bored,
but she was not restless--just lethargic, disinclined for exertion. It
was the effect of living in the country. She had felt like this ever
since she came to Woodhorn.

Her eyes closed, as if in sympathy with the darkness of this
thought--the thought that she was bored to death in the very place where
she had expected a new life to begin. It made her sorrowful to realize
that she was too much changed to be happy where formerly happiness had
been so complete. It was in this very room where she now sat that she
had seen the spires of apple-blossom spring up into the blue shadows
under the ceiling, seeming to carry her heart with them into a mystery
of fulfilment and release. They had risen out of two many-coloured vases
on the mantelshelf--where her Chelsea figurines stood now--and below
them the tender wood smoke had clouded out into the sunshine that filled
the room; the smell of it had also been a part of the appeasement in her
soul.

Her sorrow teased itself into a smile.
Mystery--fulfilment--appeasement--heart and soul . . . they seemed a
high-hatted expression of the delight of a little girl of nine, arriving
for the first time to stay with her uncle and aunt in the country. Yet
even now she did not think they were out of place. She did not think she
had ever been as happy as she had been happy then. No doubt the years
had given her memories a bloom--a nimbus, rather. . . . But she was not
yet so old that she need feel sentimental about her own childhood; and
the fact remained that her memories had not faded, though they were
memories only of a single year. They had stayed coloured and alight
until this hour.

It was in their light that a year ago she had read the announcement that
Woodhorn Parsonage was for sale. She had seen it in _The Times_ only a
month after Nicky's death, and it had seemed almost a miracle that the
old house should be waiting to receive and hide and heal her once again.
Until then she had been planning to go abroad--for a while, at least;
though she had no inclination to start for Lucinda the tetherless roving
that had been her own life at her mother's heels until she met Nicky.
But the advertisement had sent her hurrying to her bank manager, to coax
and bully him into letting her buy the place. Three thousand
pounds was the sum the Ecclesiastical Commissioners were asking, and the
house contained thirteen bedrooms, one bathroom, four reception-rooms, a
billiard room and a catacomb of dark, stony "offices". Mrs. Shafto had
given notice at once.

Her furniture had not been enough even for the few rooms they had
decided to live in (closing the whole of one wing), and by the time she
had bought a few more pieces and made the place look fresh with new
paint there was no money over for improvements. Mrs. Shafto--who had as
usual recanted her notice when it came to the point--was obliged to cook
on a huge old kitchen range which made almost every meal an affair of
dramatic uncertainty, while the bath water, dependent on the same
source, was as erratic in temperature as an English June. There was no
electric light; Brenda herself had to fill and trim the lamps, for it
seemed impossible to find even a daily girl to help Mrs. Shafto. In
winter the place would be cold as a cave, in spite of the sweet,
prevailing wood-smoke. She had been told that it would cost more than
two hundred pounds to put in central heating.

But it was not only the lack of those comforts she had lived with for
the last twenty years that told her she had made a mistake in coming
back to Woodhorn. She was disappointed in herself because she realized
what a fool she had been to think that the past could be made a bolt
hole from the present. She could not in any real sense return to the
place where she had been so happy, because she was no longer the person
she remembered then. She was actually coming to Woodhorn for the first
time as Brenda Light--Brenda Light who still held in her heart the
memories of little Brenda Campion, but otherwise was a different being.
Adult, wary, broken, how could she expect to feel again with the heart
of a child? She was like the big Alice in _Alice in Wonderland_, sobbing
pitifully at the door of the lovely little garden, which she had grown
too big to enter. Better have stayed away.

Her memories of those lost days, though numerous and clear, were more of
things than of people: wood-smoke, sunshine, apple-blossom, hens
scratching in the yard, the bower of a weeping willow tree, a cow with
heavy, milky breath, red farms shining far away on the marsh. . . . She
could remember huge dark trees that dripped over Ember Lane and
frightened her a little. . . . She could remember services in Woodhorn
Church, with music that had been to her then the music of another
world--her aunt's playing of the two-manual organ had seemed miraculous
and not altogether reassuring . . .

These things were all there still. She could and did have any day her
fill of wood-smoke, sunshine, flowers, trees, cows and hens. The red
farms on the marsh still shone at her from afar, and Woodhorn Church
rang its bells every Sunday to call her to worship. The trouble was that
she no longer wanted any of it--not more than as a pleasant background
to her real desires. Her desires had changed and her desires had changed
her.

She wanted the talk of amusing, intelligent people; she wanted variety
and stimulation, the gaiety and interest of a cultured, light-hearted
world. She also wanted love and admiration, though when she first
arrived at Woodhorn she had thought she was running away from these
things. She had not expected the local scene to be so empty nor imagined
the gift of solitude apart from a background of at least some free
choice of society. It had been a humiliating aggravation of her lot to
find herself shunned--at least she guessed that her isolation had been
deliberately contrived by the social powers of Woodhorn. Somehow they
must have heard about her and Michael Barney . . . these things have a
way of following one around. She had been ignored by everybody but the
Rector's wife and the egg-man. . . . Which showed, of course, that any
society Woodhorn could have mustered would have been hopelessly
provincial and unsatisfying. Perhaps she would have found it even less
amusing than her own company.

Yes, she had certainly slipped up badly in coming here. She would have
been happier abroad, happier in London. But though she acknowledged she
had made a mistake, she would do nothing at present to retrieve it. She
must live with it at least for a time. She could not afford to leave the
Old Parsonage unless she sold it for the money she had spent, and that
was most unlikely. It was hard to believe that England contained two
people willing to spend three thousand pounds on a house which no amount
of money could make really habitable.

Besides, there was Lucinda. Her thoughts seemed always now to end with
that consideration, in a way that was new since Nicky's death. The child
was happy here. She had returned to something of her old self since they
had come. Though Brenda had always thought of her as more her father's
daughter than her own, she had to acknowledge that Lucinda rather than
herself might have been little lost Brenda Campion, finding in Woodhorn
Parsonage the peace and security that her mother had sought in vain. She
was never bored by country life and seemed content to know only a few
people--the Rectory family and that dull little dolly at Loats Farm
. . . Lucinda was happy (whose mother had thought she would never be
happy again) and it would be robbing her a second time to take her away.
She must not rob Lucinda twice--better live here till she was old,
trimming lamps and listening to Greg Marlott . . . Brenda was up, out of
her chair at last, pacing to and fro among the shadows and lamplight of
the room. Lucinda, Lucinda, Lucinda . . .


There was a tap on the uncurtained window, Her blood seemed to freeze as
she saw pressed against the pane a face--long, serious, pale and pure,
alight with two dark eyes under lint-white hair--Nicky's face. . . . She
gasped. Then her alarm broke up into irritation. She made a sign to the
face outside--two faces, for there was one behind the other, and they
disappeared.

The next minute her daughter came into the room, followed by a
spectacled schoolboy with his arms full of books.

"Hullo, Mummy, did I frighten you?"

Lucinda was nearly four inches taller than her mother--too tall, but
with a maypole grace that set off her woolly, autumn-tinted clothes. She
had always, thought Brenda thankfully, dressed well.

"Yes, you frightened me very much. Why did you have to be so quaint and
elfin? The front door isn't locked, is it?"

"No, it was only seeing you there and you not seeing us. I'm sorry. . . ."
Her eyelids drooped in discouragement, just as Nicky's had done if
she spoke sharply. "Oh, Humfrey, don't hold those books any longer--put
them down on that little table."

"What have you got there?" asked Brenda, feigning interest so as to
revive what she had made droop.

"Books about Woodhorn. Mr. Malpas very kindly lent them to me."

Brenda twisted her head to read the lettering on the worn backs.
"_History of the Parishes of Woodhorn and Potcommon_, _Poems by a Sussex
Gentleman_, _Place Names of the Kent and Sussex Border_--you'll be able
to write a guide to the district very soon."

She felt disquieted that Lucinda should want to read this sort of thing.

"They're very interesting. I really am keen on knowing more about this
place, Mummy. You've no idea what a lot I've found out already. Have you
heard that Ember Lane is haunted?"

"No--by what?"

The schoolboy broke in.

"A highwayman--the ghost of a highwayman called Dickory."

He spoke in a thick, adenoidal voice, his eyes glittering behind his
spectacles. Brenda looked at him repulsively.

"And have you ever seen Dickory?" she asked.

"No, but lots of people have--our gardener's father did once."

"What was he like?"

"Oh, like the ghost of a highwayman--in a cocked hat and purple coat,
with spade guinea buttons and a black mare."

"He evidently knows what's expected of him. And is the mate's name Black
Bess?"

"I don't know," said Humfrey gravely. "That was Dick Turpin's mare,
wasn't it?"

Lucinda looked thoughtful.

"There's nothing about him in any of the books--absolutely nothing. I
wish I could find out . . . the Guide Book tells you about Moll Kemp."

"And who was Moll Kemp?"

"A servant at the Chequers Inn--Chequers Cottage, you know, Mummy. She
was hanged for murdering her baby. There's a place on the marsh called
Moll Kemp's Grave."

"How cheery! I really think I've heard enough of the antiquities of
Woodhorn."

Humfrey said:

"We've started a club called the Woodhorn Antiquarian Society. I'm the
president and Lucinda's the hon. secretary."

"My god!"

"Mummy, you don't mind?" cried Lucinda.

"I don't see why you should become an antiquarian at seventeen. Isn't
there a tennis club round here?"

"I can play tennis at the Rectory."

"Oh well . . . do as you like." And why, she thought, should I try to
stop you growing up like your father? "I'm going to have a drink," she
said. "Lucinda, get the stuff for the cocktails. There's only whisky
here."

"May I get some orangeade for Humfrey and me?"

"Certainly, if you'd rather."

"We would rather--at least I would, and I expect Humfrey would too."

"Oh, yes, please."

His eyes were as round as his spectacles at the mention of cocktails. No
doubt at Woodhorn Rectory they were still symbols of dissipation.

"Sure you won't join me?" asked Brenda, as she mixed hers a few minutes
later. "It's dull as well as dirty to drink alone."

"Oh, no, thanks very much," and Humfrey clutched more tightly his glass
of orangeade.

"Nor you, Lucinda?"

"No thanks. I don't really like them, Mummy, so it seems a waste."

Brenda sighed. Orangeade was far too typical of Lucinda--orangeade and
folk-lore. . . . And such a pretty girl too, if only she looked more
awake. A faint impatience mounted with the alcohol in her mother's
blood. Why couldn't Lucinda be like other girls of seventeen, instead of
a mixture of young child and elderly scholar? It was being so much with
her father, of course. As a tiny girl she had preferred his society. She
had grown up to be his companion, walking with him every day,
taking excursions with him into the country--Brenda could see them
setting out together with eager, child-like faces and a map of
Metroland--going with him to meetings where her youth had shone like a
candle.

It seemed to her mother that she had grown more like him since his
death; as if the shock of it had beaten his image into her. How he had
loved her. . . . How he had loved them both. He had seen them as a pair,
as his two daughters rather than as his daughter and his wife. Certainly
in years they were closer to each other than to him. He had called them
his burning and his shining light; for Brenda's name, he said, had
sprung out of a Viking's fire, while Lucinda's was the name of light
itself. He himself had chosen it, when she was born on St. Lucy's
day--the day of light in darkness.


                  "Lucy Light! Lucy Light!
                   Shortest day, longest night . . ."


She could remember Nicky singing that rhyme to Lucinda in her cradle.

Of course the fact that the child had turned to her elderly father
rather than to her young mother was largely that mother's own fault. She
had not always had time for Lucinda, and often when she and her daughter
had been together the burning light had extinguished the shining light
as the sun puts out the moon in the same sky. Apart from this, Brenda
was never really at ease in Lucinda's company. She felt as if her
simplicity was not quite normal, as if it was rooted in something deeper
and stranger than mere youth and inexperience. As a little girl she had
annoyed her mother and frightened her nurse by appearing sometimes to
see into an invisible world--a world which was usually friendly and
charming but could also be sinister. Brenda hoped and believed that she
had grown out of this tendency--certainly she no longer spoke of it. But
she always had an uneasy feeling that Lucinda's big dark eyes could see
further than was right or comfortable.

At the moment they were occupied harmlessly enough, gazing into the
orange insipidity she was drinking, while she talked in a low voice
to the boy Humfrey. Both their voices were low, and Brenda knew
that it was her presence that had hushed them. Lucinda was protecting
from her critical ear the banalities of their conversation; and Humfrey
whom she had frightened a few minutes ago, was still embarrassed. She
knew that she had a demoralizing effect on awkward people.

Just as she finished her drink he stood up, mumbling something about
being late for supper. Lucinda bade him what her mother thought was an
unnecessarily cordial farewell.

"Darling," said Brenda when he was gone, "I don't think much of the boy
friend."

"Oh, Mummy. . . . He isn't so bad. I like him."

"I daresay you do." She spoke sharply, for she was irritated by her
daughter's tendency to like impossible people. "I believe you like the
whole family."

"Yes, I do--they're nice, and they're quite interesting. At least I
think so, though perhaps you wouldn't."

"I suppose Mrs. Malpas hasn't said any more about finding a maid for
us?"

"No--at least, she's told me that she can't find anybody. All the girls
she knows seem to be in places."

"I believe it's because I don't go to church. She thinks I'm a bad
influence."

"Oh, no, she doesn't. I'm sure she really doesn't know of anyone. She's
much too kind to leave us like this if she did."

"Kind, is she? I'm not sure. My own opinion is that it's curiosity. She
gets a kick out of nosing into our affairs. Besides, she thinks I'm an
adventuress--she as good as told me so the other day--and it must be
gratifying for a parson's wife to see adventuresses having
servant-trouble like ordinary people."

"Oh, Mummy, you're not being fair."

"No, I don't feel fair. I feel spiteful. It's the servant-trouble--I'm
not used to it."

"We'll find somebody in time."

"I don't believe we shall. We've been hunting for five months without
any result. Either there aren't any free girls in Woodhorn or they're
being kept from us. I never knew that life could be so unspeakably
squalid."

Lucinda looked at her anxiously.

"Mummy, you're not tired of being here? You don't want us to go and live
somewhere else, do you?"

"Yes, I do. But we shan't, because I can't afford it. There isn't a hope
of selling this house--at least not for years. Should you hate to go?"

"Yes, I should. This house . . . I can't describe it, but it feels like
a quiet place out of the wind. Directly we arrived here the wind seemed
to go down."

Her eyes looked dangerously through her mother's, through her mother's
heart, through her life, right back to a little girl who was lost.


An hour later they sat at dinner, opposite each other at the ends of the
refectory table. The shadows banked round them like a wall, so that the
chilly vastness of the room was lost and they seemed to be shut together
into a little cell of lamplight. Brenda watched her daughter peeling an
apple.

"Hurry up, child," she said, more abruptly than she meant.

Lucinda looked up with a vague, startled glance--very like Nicky when
she had interrupted him at a book.

"I said hurry up. Mrs. Shafto will be cross if we stay here much
longer."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I mean, I was thinking."

"What were you thinking about?"

The girl's face changed, became veiled.

"Oh, I dunno . . . all sorts of things."

Brenda knew that she had been thinking of her father.

For a minute or so there was silence between them; then Lucinda said in
rather an elaborate voice:

"Mummy, did you know that Aliblasters Farm means 'farm of the bowmen'? I
wonder how it came to be called that. It would be interesting to know
these things."

How clumsily she dodged, poor child . . . for a moment Brenda was tempted
to break through her defence and force her to talk of Nicky.
It was ridiculous that his name should never be mentioned by either of
them, when he was so much in their thoughts. And yet . . . and yet.
. . . Was she really in a position to engage Lucinda in such a
conversation? Didn't their living together in peace depend on their
never talking of the dead? It was a remarkable thing that Lucinda had
never said a word to her mother either of reproach or of comfort . . .
evidently she did not trust herself to speak. Her silence, odd and
unnatural in a girl of her age, had closed like a grave on her father's
memory. Suddenly Brenda realized that she, just as much as Lucinda, was
afraid to force that silence, that grave. In it she might find that more
was buried than the man they both loved.

She gulped the remaining dreg of whisky in her glass, and seeing
Lucinda's apple still unfinished, poured herself out another tot. How
much did the child know? Probably very little. She was not observant and
had lived even more remotely than Nicholas from her mother's world.
Surely if she had known she would have judged . . . if she had known she
would not be sharing her mother's life so amiably, wearing no armour but
silence. The young are stern; she would have seen her mother as a
murderess . . . Brenda felt cold. She wished that she knew Lucinda
better. It was all very well to argue like this in her mind about her,
but she was not really sure. In spite of her daughter's mild and dreamy
manner she did not know for certain that she was not sitting before her
judge.

"That apple was green," said Lucinda, "and I've bolted it, so I'll
probably have tummy-ache to-night. But as long as we don't upset Mrs.
Shafto--hullo! Was that the door-bell?"

"I believe it was."

They both looked at each other in surprise. Any ringing of the doorbell
was an event, and at night it seemed almost portentous--so far had they
travelled from the London nights.

"I'll go and open the door," said Lucinda. "I don't suppose Mrs. Shafto
will."

She ran off and Brenda wondered if Greg Marlott had come back again. He
had never before called twice in a day or called so late, but no
doubt he would be glad to come round at any time. She was beginning to
feel ready to see him again. Lucinda always went to bed early and even
his dull company would be better than solitude, sitting alone among her
thoughts.

She actually felt disappointed when Lucinda's galloping return and
excited face told her that whoever the caller was it was not Greg.

"Oh, Mummy, who do you think it is? It's a girl come after the
situation--quite a nice-looking girl. It seems almost too good to be
true."

"Praise heaven!" cried Brenda, jumping up, her disappointment gone. "I
suppose Mrs. Malpas sent her. I've belied that woman after all."

"She didn't say who'd sent her and I didn't ask. I felt all knocked of
a heap, as they say. Go in, Mother, and see her at once, or I'll begin
to think she wasn't real."

Brenda hurried into the drawing-room, and turning up the lamp--for
Lucinda in her excitement had left the room quite dark--found a young
woman standing by the fire-place. She was hatless and wore a long loose
coat; the firelight played over her and Brenda's first instinctive
thought was: She's going to have a baby. She dismissed it at once,
however. There was really nothing to go by and Mrs. Malpas would
certainly not have sent her round anyone in that condition.

"Good evening," she said in the pleasant voice that had kept Mrs.
Shafto with her fifteen years.

"Good evening."

A pair of bold, rather enchanting black eyes looked into hers, out of a
small, brown face. The girl was not like the common flock of Woodhorn
girls, who were mostly big and fair. She was small, with neat, strong
hands and wrists. She smiled and her teeth were snowy white; her hair,
too, showed no trace of the village permanent wave, set in rather
tumbled tribute to some ruling film-star; it was parted on her forehead
and fell shining over her ears into a big lump of plaits and coils
hanging on her neck.

"You've come after the situation here, I understand. Did Mrs. Malpas
send you?"

"No. Nobody sent me, but I heard there was the job going, so I thought
I'd try for it."

Her voice was the local voice, broad and blurred, but with a difference
which Brenda could not define.

"What experience have you? What can you do?"

"I can do anything--anything you like."

This sounded promising, even though reserves were beginning to pile up
in Brenda's mind, reserves which her past experience brought against her
present need.

"What I want," she said, "is someone who can tackle the rough work and
odd jobs of the house. I have a very capable cook who can do all the
rest if that much is taken off her hands."

"I could do anything--I'm strong," and rolling up her sleeve she
displayed a wiry brown arm for inspection. "I can scrub and clean and
polish. I'm never tired."

"Have ever been in service before?" asked Brenda more doubtfully.

"Not what you'd call in service, but I've done a lot of
housework--helping people, you know. And I do all the work of the place
where me and my mother live."

"Where do you live?"

"At Chequers Cottage--down by the marsh."

"Oh, yes, I remember. . . . That's a big place, isn't it?"

"Big enough, though we haven't got the whole, of course."

"Anyway, it's quite near. What time could you get here in the morning?"

"Any time like."

"Could you be here by eight?"

"Seven if you like."

This was certainly beginning to sound too good to be true. Brenda's
housewifely conscience fought with her desire for unconditional
surrender and compelled her to ask the next question:

"And--and what about references?"

"Eh?"

"References--a character. From some former employer, you know."

The girl looked worried for a moment.

"I don't rightly know. You see it's some time. . . ." She hesitated,
deep in thought. Then she said: "But I reckon Mr. Harry Cobsale would
speak for me."

"Mr. Cobsale of Loats Farm?"

"That's it--but Mr. Harry, not Mr. Richard."

"Doesn't Mrs. Cobsale know you? I'd rather have a wife's reference if I
can. You see . . ."

"Mrs. Cobsale wasn't there when I was. He's only just married her."

"Oh. . . ."

Brenda still struggled with herself. She must not lose her head.
Obviously this young woman was most unsatisfactory from the
professional, registry-office point of view. But to send away a strong
and willing worker simply because she had no moral reinforcements seemed
more than she could manage at the moment.

"If I engaged you," she asked, "how soon would you be able to start?"

"To-morrow if you like."

No lamps to trim to-morrow, no beds to make, no rooms to dust, no tables
to lay and clear--for Mrs. Shafto said she could manage all that if she
had the heavy work done for her.

"And what wages are you asking?"

The young woman hesitated, as if fearing to ask too little or too much.

"Would you give me ten bob?"

Damn it all! I'm going to engage her. Ten bob! . . . Mrs. Malpas told me
it would have to be a pound.

"Look here," she said, "I'll engage you for a week, anyhow, and then if
it works out all right and your--your references are satisfactory, you
can stay on. But I'd like you to start to-morrow."

"Very well, I'll come."

"At eight o'clock?"

The girl nodded solemnly as she walked towards the door.

Well, even a week's rest will be a comfort after the last four months;
but of course Mrs. Shafto mustn't know . . . and I hope to
goodness that Cobsale man speaks well of her. I'll ask Lucinda which he
is.

Then suddenly as the door was closing she remembered a question she had
not asked.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Nan Scallow."


She ran back into the dining-room, where Lucinda was clearing the table.

"I've engaged her. I know I'm a fool, but I just couldn't help it."

"Why are you a fool?"

"Because I don't know a thing about her except that she's strong and
willing. Mrs. Malpas didn't send her. She hasn't got a proper reference
and she's going to have a baby."

"Oh, Mummy, are you sure?"

"No, I'm not. But when I first came into the room I thought her figure
looked odd, and she was wearing one of those long, loose coats which
people imagine hide babies . . . I may be wrong, but if I'm right, it
accounts for Mrs. Malpas not having sent her--which I was beginning to
feel sore about."

"Mrs. Malpas would never send anyone without a reference. I wonder who
she is and how she heard of us."

"Her name's Nan Scallow, if you can believe it; and she lives in
Chequers Cottage at the bottom of the lane. She didn't say how she'd
heard of the job."

Lucinda stood with the crumb-scoop in her hand, her forehead clouded
with thought.

"Nan Scallow . . . I believe I've heard of her. Yes, I remember Joan
Cobsale was talking about her the other day, but I've forgotten what she
said."

"She gave one of the Cobsales as her reference--Harry Cobsale. Which is
he?"

"Oh, he's the elder brother--the unmarried one."

"How can he give her a reference? It all seems very odd to me; but she
says your friend Joan wouldn't know her."

"Old Mrs. Cobsale might."

"Who's she?"

"She's the mother who lives with them."

"I didn't know they had a mother living with them. You've never
mentioned her before."

"Well, I don't know her really. She isn't on Joan's side of the family."

She put down the scoop and began to lift the cloth off the table. Brenda
took one end of it and they faced each other, folding the hems.

"You're not very lucid, darling. What do you mean about not being on
Joan's side? Isn't Mrs. Cobsale her mother-in-law?"

"Yes, but they don't speak to each other, because she doesn't speak to
Richard. You see, the family's divided into two halves and one half
doesn't speak to the other half. Old Mrs. Cobsale and Harry and Daisy
are on one side, and Richard and Joan and Madge on the other."

Their hands touched as they came together, folding the middle seam.

"My dear," said Brenda, "you have some odd acquaintance. Why don't they
speak to one another? Is it because of Joan?"

"Oh, no. It started long before she married Richard. I believe it had
something to do with the farm and old Mr. Cobsale having left it to both
the boys."

"They must find it difficult to run the farm together if they're not on
speaking terms."

"They manage all right. They send messages or get someone else to do the
talking."

"Oh well . . ." Brenda shrugged her shoulders as she put away the
table-cloth. "Never mind the Cobsales--no doubt they live as it suits
them. But I'd like to have that girl's reference all the same. Shall I
write to Harry Cobsale?"

"You might--or I could ask him about her when I go down there to-morrow.
Mrs. Shafto wants me to go there early, as she's forgotten to order any
cream for the week-end."

"Has she, the old devil? I wonder how she'll like Nan Scallow."

"She won't like the baby."

"For God's sake don't breathe a word about that baby. It's only an idea
that came into my head for a moment. I don't really believe there is
one."

"I hope there isn't--for if there is, she won't be able to stay with us
long."

"If she stays only a couple of months, it'll be something. All I want is
a rest. In fact, now I come to think of it, you needn't bother Harry
Cobsale for a reference; he won't know anything useful and I'll soon
find out if she can do her job. It isn't as if I really minded whether
she's respectable or not. We've nothing in the house worth stealing, and
as we know nobody in Woodhorn except the Malpases I can't see that it's
anybody's business if our daily help turns out to be the village tart."

"It would be Mrs. Shafto's business all right."

"I daresay . . . but we needn't worry till it is."

She really felt ridiculously light-hearted.



                                  III

                      HARRY COBSALE--LUCINDA LIGHT

Loats Farm stood just beyond the curve of Ember Lane, where it dipped
towards the marsh through the shadows of Harbolets Shaw. The farm drive
ran through the Shaw from an oaken gate which had not been shut for so
long that brambles and bryony grew over it, choking it back against the
sapling stoles. There was another gate beyond the Shaw, which could be
shut against stock, and out there, you were in a meadow as broad as a
down, the land falling gently towards sheltered hop-gardens.

The farm itself as seen from the marsh looked rather like a village, a
street of houses running along the hill-side towards the black Victorian
oast-house that might have been a steeple. The range of outbuildings was
enormous, and the place's history. There was a huge Elizabethan
tithe-barn, beamed like a forest; there was an oak-ribbed
seventeenth-century cottage, now used as a cake-house. There were two
eighteenth-century oasts, their roundels engulfed in the roof of their
lodge, so that they looked like white-capped heads rising out of broad,
humping shoulders. There was a modern hay-barn with a galvanized iron
roof, which the sea-winds blowing up the marsh had tarnished with the
sea's colours. The nineteenth-century oast towered above the rest,
dominating all times, all styles--thatch, tile, slate, shingle and
corrugated iron.

The dwelling-house too was a patch-work affair of brick, tile and Caen
stone, all weathered over with a sea-born, lichenous yellow, through
which the red glowed faint and rosy like a flame. At one end stood a
high, three-storied gable. This was the oldest part of the building, and
with its dark windows, the topmost of which was set crookedly high in
the point, had a blind malignant look, totally at variance with
the rest of the house, which was in the main, in spite of its age, as
wholesome as a pippin.

In the old days Loats Farm had employed twenty men. At the present time
it employed only three. None of them slept on the premises now--in
either of the great garrets that ran across the roof and once had
sheltered the unmarried hands, while the married ones occupied the old
cottage in the yard or the black wooden row by the lane-side.

At present old Chodd, the eldest of the men and an experienced carter
and cowman, lodged in Summer Row. He was always at his work by half-past
five in summer and six in winter. The other two were married, and for
want of suitable accommodation near the farm lived a couple of miles
away in Woodhorn Street. They were younger men and nobody expected them
to be on the job before seven.

The seven o'clock light of a cloudy, windless day was falling in a pale
shaft through the hay-door of the barn as Chodd came in to speak to
Harry Cobsale.

"Marnun, Maas' Harry. Maas' Richard asked me to say as you aunt to
disremember the lorry coming to take the tegs up to the hill."

"Right you are, Chodd. Tell him I suppose he knows he's sending em up
too early."

"Backreed's all for their going now, Maas' Harry. There's unaccountable
little grass left on the Sweetwillow lands. I know it's full early, but
look at the drythe we've had."

"I'll speak to Backreed when he comes. He ought to be here now. There's
no harm in sending one lorry-load to Waxend, but we might keep the lot
for Idolsfold a bit longer. Even if the grass is on the thin side
there'll be fewer grazing it, and we'll save something like five
pounds."

"You never used to be the slaving one, Maas' Harry."

"No, and I'm not now. It's only if there's five pounds about I'd sooner
it went into my pocket than into Chaffield's or Strudgate's. It wasn't
my father's way to pay money to the hill farmers as long as he was able
to feed his own sheep. But now we've always got to be paying out
money to all the butcher-graziers of the neighbourhood, just because
they're on the District Council and wear plus-fours and put their
carters into chauffeurs' caps to drive their saloon cars, so that we're
proud to marry their daughters."

"Maas' Harry, you shouldn't ought to say that."

"I've said it, though, and I'll go on saying it."

"I'm sorry, fur your father's sake."

"My father would never have stood for all this running in with the
butchers. He was like me--he wanted to respect himself."

"I only wish you wur lik that, Maas' Harry."

His master's face lifted sharply into the grey light.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean as--well, I reckon you know what I mean. It aun't fur me to
say. . . ." His voice died into a thick, low rumbling.

Harry said:

"I don't know, and I don't want to know, so you can stop muttering and
clear out. And, listen: you can tell Maas' Richard he can go to hell in
his blasted lorry with the Waxend tegs. Half the flock is mine and I'll
keep it back to send to Idolsfold next month. You tell him that."

Chodd went out, still mumbling to himself. Harry caught the words:

"You'd bin prouder, you'd bin free-er. . . ."

He had been mending a piece of harness, but he threw it down. He was too
angry for the patience required. He lit a cigarette and leaned against
one of the great oaken posts that soared into the shadows where it
spread like a forest tree. But his eyes were on the floor of the barn.


"Breakfast is ready."

Ten minutes must have passed, for his cigarette was a mere stump which
he ground out on the floor.

He turned his head to see in the doorway a small, slight girl, wearing a
gaily patterned overall. She stood with one hand on the doorpost and the
light behind her made a fret of her cloudy hair. She was smiling
tenderly till she saw his face, when her smile was suddenly nipped like
a frosted bud.

"I beg your pardon. I thought you were Richard."

Harry's smile had come as hers vanished; a broad grin across his
blunt-featured face, with a teasing light in the eyes above it.

"Never mind if I'm not. You don't have to play that game too. Why is
breakfast so early?"

"The lorry . . ." she began, then broke off and walked away.

"That's a good girl!" he shouted after her.

The click of her shoes sounded on the paving of the yard. He watched her
small, coloured figure grow smaller and dimmer . . . then suddenly he
was out in the yard too, beside her, big and stooping over her.

"This is damned nonsense," he said. "You haven't married a family
quarrel."

Still she would not speak pursing her gay little mouth into grimness.

"Oh, well, of course, if you don't stand by Richard he's got nobody but
poor old Madge. I suppose you've got to be on his side since he's your
husband."

He turned away from her with a swagger and heave of his shoulders, as
she reached the door. He was angry because he could not make her speak
to him. Yet why should he care, She was only old Chaffield's daughter.
She came of that dirty lot he hated. Why should he want her to speak to
him? He didn't. From this time forward he wouldn't so much as look at
her. He'd go in now and show her how he meant to treat her.

Viciously wiping the mud off his boots on the door-broom he followed
her--ten yards in arrear--through the white-washed ramble of Loats' back
passages into the big kitchen dining-room where the family still had
their meals. There was an outer kitchen where the cooking was done, and
his mother was busy there, dishing up the breakfast with the help of her
fat daughter Daisy, the only daughter with whom she was on speaking
terms. Madge, his other sister, already sat at the breakfast-table,
talking to his brother's wife. Neither took the slightest notice of
Harry when he came in.

"I don't know where Richard is," said Joan.

"I think he went to the Morgay field; but he knows breakfast's early--I
reminded him before he went out."

"That's all right, then. I shan't go after him. . . . What are you doing
this morning? It'll be an extra long one with breakfast at half-past
seven."

"I thought of taking the 'bus into Marlingate. Like to come too? We
could have lunch at Hozier's and go to a picture afterwards."

Harry opened the morning paper, which, fortunately for the amenities of
Loats Farm, was delivered early, and made all the noise he could as he
turned the pages in quest of the sporting news.

"Yes, I'd like to," said Joan. "Richard will be out all day. He told me
he was going to Rushmonden market when he comes back from Waxend. What's
on at the Plaza?"

"There's a picture--I forget the name--but rather high class, with
French actors. Hullo, Dick! Here you are at last. Considering we're
having breakfast early on purpose to suit you . . ."

"Well, it doesn't look like being ready."

Richard, who was a shorter, darker version of Harry, sat down by the
window and glared at his brother's newspaper.

"Anyone know what's in the paper this morning?" he asked the women.

They shook their heads.

"We ought to have two, for both sides of the family," tittered Joan,
then suddenly met Harry's eye over the top of the sporting page in a
glance that disconcerted them both. He had not meant to look at her, but
her funny little voice had tickled him and he had forgotten his
intention to be as mean to her as possible. She must have forgotten
something too, or she would not have spoken so lightly on a serious
subject.

"It's a rotten paper anyway," said Richard in a tone which might have
meant that he had seen the glance or merely that his wife's remark had
irritated him. "Nothing but racing and sport--I like a paper with news
in it. I think I shall order _The Times_."

Harry felt at a disadvantage, having no one in the room to whom he could
speak. He wanted to point out that _The Times_ cost twopence, but before
his mother came in with a battery of poached eggs on a great flat dish,
the conversation had strayed from newspapers back to the girls'
expedition to Marlingate.

"Good morning, Mother."

Anything to get one's tongue loose.

"Good morning, dear. Here's your breakfast. Daisy, hurry up with the
tea-pot. They're getting impatient."

This was not meant for Harry, who still lounged behind his newspaper;
but apart from the actual words there was nothing in her demeanour to
show that she was even aware of the presence of the other three. It is
true that she put eggs on their plates when they were seated at table,
and cut three slices off the loaf beyond those required for herself,
Harry and Daisy, but her large, light grey eyes seemed blind to the
presence of her other son and daughter or of her daughter-in-law, even
when she gazed most intently at them.

It was now several months since the family, after about a year's noisy
wrangling, had split into two silent halves. The captains of both sides
were the two brothers, who had never been good friends and had been set
at positive enmity by their father's bequest of the farm. Harry was the
elder and till old Cobsale's death had taken for granted that he was
also the heir--when his father died Richard would probably clear out to
some place of his own. But possibly influenced by the financial plight
of agriculture, which ruled out any question of ready money, possibly by
other considerations less favourable to his elder son, the old man had
left his place to the two of them jointly; and they had quarrelled ever
since. It was a clash of dispositions, of individual unlikenesses
embedded in a strong family likeness, which had expressed itself in
conflicting views on every aspect of farming and had benefited the farm
as little as it had benefited the family.

It had not, however, frozen into silence till a few months ago, just
before Richard brought home his wife. He had brought her almost without
warning, not telling even his supporting sister Madge of his plans till
they were mature. She was the daughter of Chaffield of Waxend, a grazier
with whom Richard had had dealings disapproved of by his
brother. She was his youngest daughter, youngest of six, or he would
probably have objected to her marrying into a family like the Cobsales.
They came of good yeoman stock, and old Albion Cobsale had been much
respected in his day; but their quarrels were parish scandal, and Harry
was known to be paying eight shillings weekly on an affiliation order
from a girl at Polthooks.

Richard had brought his bride to Loats after a week-end honeymoon at
Brighton, throwing her into the enmity and silence almost as casually as
he would have thrown a stone into a pond. Daisy said at once that he had
done it to make the numbers even, so that they should be equally
matched, three against three. But no doubt sometimes, especially at
first, she had played her part rather badly, forgetting or else ignoring
the fact that not only must she never speak but she must never smile.
Her smiles had broken on a wall of blankness, spiked here and there with
a wink, as her brother-in-law displayed his enjoyment of the new
situation. Soon this reception had combined with her loyalty to Richard
in giving her as stout a front as any of the other combatants.

Mrs. Cobsale had always completely ignored her existence. She had come
prepared to do her share of the cooking and cleaning, to forget the more
genteel ways at Waxend, where they had kept a little maid running to and
fro. But on the day of her arrival she had found a silent mother-in-law
in the kitchen, unwilling to hand over a single spoon. Madge was glad
enough of her help in the dairy, but Daisy refused to have her in the
chicken yard.

After a time she grew accustomed to this new way of living. She loved
her husband and for his sake she loved as much as she could his sister
Madge; though secretly she was thankful to have made at least one friend
outside the house, in the girl at the Old Parsonage. She was able to
play her daily part without breaking the rules of enmity, though now and
then she had her lapses, as she had had this morning.

Seated at the breakfast-table she was careful not to meet Harry's eye.
He was directly opposite her, which made things difficult, but she
copied the family technique and ate her breakfast and talked to Madge
and Richard as if he did not exist. He on his side was holding rather a
noisy conversation with Daisy and his mother. The room was full
of the sound of talk, and seen by an outsider there was nothing in this
table of talking people to suggest a quarrel. It might have been any
farm-house breakfast--indeed, the noise and occasional laughter
suggested an exceptionally cheerful and united family. Faces were
animated, knives and forks clattered, tongues wagged.


So Lucinda thought, as she passed the window on the way to the back
door. If she had not known she would never have guessed. . . . She
wished she did not know. Knowing and then looking in at that window was
like looking up at the blank gable-end of Loats, which she could never
see without something cold creeping down her spine.

She had been to the front door, but no one had heard her ring; either
they were making too much noise or the bell was broken. So she had gone
round to the back, and at first even there they did not seem to hear.
She was just going to knock again when footsteps sounded in the passage
and the next moment the door was flung open and Harry Cobsale nearly ran
into her.

"Hullo!--Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were there."

"I'm sorry. I knocked, but I suppose nobody heard."

"Don't _you_ be sorry. . . ."

He looked down at her approvingly, as she stood before him in her
scarlet cap and sweater, against which her hair was silver and gold. He
did not think he had ever seen such fair hair--not natural, that is,
though there was a girl in a fruiterer's shop in Marlingate whose hair
seemed pretty much the same till you looked close at it and saw that it
was dead and not living as this girl's was.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"I've come for some cream. Our cook forgot it when she gave the order
yesterday. Is it too late for me to have six pennyworth?"

"I'm sure it isn't. I'll ask my sister. Hi! Daisy!" he called back into
the house, "Miss Light has come for six-pennyworth of cream."

Daisy had no concern with the dairy, but he knew that Madge would hear
and attend to the business.

"Would you come inside and wait?" he asked politely.

"Oh, thank you. . . . Perhaps I could talk to Joan?"

"I'll let her know. Come in, do, and take a seat."

He led the way past the kitchen into the little-used sitting-room, very
tidy, stuffy and cold. Just as he was leaving her there, to summon Joan
by a variation of the same technique he had used to summon Madge, she
suddenly remembered something.

"Oh, Mr. Cobsale . . ."

He paused, smiling in the doorway.

"It's only that I wanted to ask you--Mother says it doesn't really
matter, but I may as well ask as you're here. Can you tell me anything
about a girl called Nan Scallow?"

The change in his face made her think once more of the dark gable. The
smile vanished, the eyes turned secret, and then something looked out of
them that gave her a definite qualm.

"Why do you want----" He broke off, then started again: "What do you
want to know about her?"

"Well, she wants to come to Mother as daily help. We're looking for one,
you know."

"And she's offered? . . . Good Lord!" He threw back his head and laughed
nosily. "I wonder she dared."

"Oh, dear. Then you don't think much of her? But she seemed quite sure
you'd give her a reference."

"The----" Once again he broke off: "Did she really say I'd speak for
her?"

"Yes, she did. We thought it rather queer that she should have given
your name and not Mrs. Cobsale's."

"My mother doesn't know her at all. She's done some hop-tying for me,
but she's never worked indoors."

"I suppose she could do indoor work, though--scrubbing and cleaning?
That's what we want most."

"Oh, yes, I reckon she could do that."

"And is she quite honest and---- Oh, you know all the questions people
ask?"

Harry was silent a moment, and she thought he looked surly.

"I don't know nothing about her," he said, his speech falling back
from its middle way of rather broad, uncultivated English into
the drawling negatives of the Sussex-born. "All she did for me was a bit
of hop-tying and she did that well enough for a diddicoy."

"Diddicoy? What's that?"

"Gippo--gipsy. Leastways, she's that on her mother's side."

"Oh. . . ."

Lucinda felt uneasy. He obviously did not like being asked about Nan
Scallow, and she did not find his answers reassuring. It would have been
better, perhaps, not to have questioned him, especially as her mother
had said she did not really want to know. But it had seemed such a good
opportunity--running into him like that. . . . She decided not to tell
her mother anything about it. It would only upset her and it might be
all for nothing. He might dislike the girl--for he obviously disliked
her--for reasons that had nothing to do with her suitability as a daily
help. Better say no more.

Harry seemed equally anxious to be rid of the conversation.

"I'll go and see about that cream."

"Thank you very much. And if Joan's about, do let her know I'm here."

He hurried away and at once she felt more comfortable. While he was
there she had felt his secret thoughts touching her closely. She did not
know what those thoughts were, but she could feel them rubbing against
hers, dark and bruising. . . . She shivered and turned to the window,
which was full of a breaking light, as the pale ball of the October sun
came rolling out of the clouds in the south-east. The next minute she
heard the sound of cheerful voices coming down the passage towards the
room.


It was more than an hour before she started homewards, carrying
carefully her little jug of cream. She had spent most of the time with
Joan, watching Richard and Backreed the looker coax six dozen
scrambling, bumping tegs into the tiers of a lorry which was to take
them inland to their winter pastures. Harry had not been there, and she
had felt herself in quite a different atmosphere. Richard did not give
her the same uncomfortable feelings as his brother. She was not sure
that she entirely liked him--certainly she did not like him as
much as she liked Joan--but there was nothing about him to make her feel
uneasy, none of that pushing at her heart. Besides, all the time she was
with him and Joan she could feel their love moving round her like a warm
tide, with their secret laughter and private jokes like occasional
gleams of sunlight on the water. Every time their eyes met, the sun
seemed to come out.

She walked fast, leaning her body a little forward into the wind that
blew the dead leaves down the hill to dance round her feet. Every now
and then she smiled and sometimes her steps quickened almost into a run,
then slackened again. It was her thoughts that ruled her pace, now
urging, now releasing her, and her smile expressed their essential
happiness. Her mind was at play and in play creating a world of its own
people, places, things, all seemed to take substance at the fiat of her
imagination. Her memory was an abyss, without form, but giving her the
material for the shapes she created. It seemed all light, as she walked
up the hill over the shadows of Harbolets Shaw sun-cast on the lane; her
memory was once more an abyss of light. It was only when she was with
people like Harry Cobsale that she became aware that there was also a
darkness within her.

She stopped when she reached the end of the Shaw.

"Let me see," she said, talking to herself very gently, "it was
here--just by the hedge of the next field."

She walked slowly for another thirty yards, till she came to the stump
of an old tree from which the beautiful Giant Tuft fungus was sprouting
its golden shelves. She nodded as she recognized it and then carefully
set down her cream jug in a mossy place, where there was no danger of
its being spilt. Having done so she climbed the bank and, stooping
peered between the bare twigs of the hedgerow.

She was looking southward towards the marsh, and in the immediate
foreground the oast-houses of Loats--the two old kilns and the Victorian
steeple--rose above the curve of the meadow. Lower down and further
away, she could see Chequers Cottage with the four roads springing from
it; while out on the marsh beyond stood Limbo Farm, a huddle of black,
tarred walls and golden roofs of lichened slate. The river wound
past it to Puddledock Bridge, and close to the bridge she could see the
old Ironlatch house, as it was called, now empty and ruinous, but used
as a storing-place for ordnance in the days when Sussex was a country of
furnaces and forges and the hammers thumped night and day at Cryalls and
Furnacefield. Far away, on the other side of the marsh, the county of
Kent rose under a patchwork of meadows and chestnut plantations, with
the pale string of the Kent road twisting up to Rushmonden on the top of
the hill.

Lucinda watched it all and wondered. Was she looking through the right
place in the hedge? Ought she to move to some other part of it or were
these the twigs that had framed her earlier view? She hesitated, and
then just as she was about to move she saw that something was happening.
The landscape was growing misty . . . farms, roads and hedges were
fading, were disappearing. . . . For a moment she stared into a void,
feeling giddy and sick.

Then suddenly the darkness cleared and she sighed with comfort. There it
was in all its beauty and strangeness--the Old Country, the country that
had been there more than a hundred years ago, the country that her mind
had seen so many times in books, but her eyes only once before, through
the twigs of this same hedge.

At first it was all flat, as if painted on a backcloth; but almost at
once it seemed to adapt itself to her eyesight and become stereoscopic.
There was nothing except the actual changes in the view to show her that
she was no longer looking across the marsh out of October, 1934. These
changes were the same as those she had noticed the first time. Now as
then she saw that the Kentish hill-side was wilder, that there were
fewer enclosures and that the chestnut woods had disappeared, their
purple softness giving place to hard scrubs of oak and thorn. Many of
the houses were gone too, and Rushmonden seemed shrunken on its hill;
the road to it had darkened and wound hedgeless through rough, common
pastures.

The marsh itself looked much the same, except that eastward she could
actually see the sea coming round the slope of Mispies Hill, scarcely a
mile from Bibleham. A great estuary seemed to open out there, and the
river was wider all along its course, filling the whole span of
Puddledock Bridge. The Ironlatch house looked almost new, with sharp
outlines and bright colours; while Limbo Farm was no longer black and
tarred, but showed a timber and plaster front not unlike the front of
Chequers Cottage, with thatch on all the barns. Thatch seemed more
common throughout the country-side and she could see haystacks and
strawstacks everywhere; and there were at least three windmills--one on
the hill-top at Rushmonden, one at Mispies and one at Idolsfold.

It was all as she had seen it that earlier time, except that now, in the
nearer landscape, she seemed to detect a difference. She looked
intently. Yes, she was right; she was sure that she could see people
moving by Chequers Cottage--the Chequers Inn, as it was now, with a
startling air of trimness about its straight frontage and uncreepered
roof-line. In her first landscape there had been neither movement nor
human life, but this time two blue, boat-shaped wagons had drawn up in
front of the inn, and carters were standing about in long smocks and
small round hats, rather like toy figures in a Noah's Ark. It was all
very small and had suddenly gone far away--she felt as if she were
looking through the wrong end of a telescope--but she could see every
detail distinctly, as if it were on a coloured page in _Memories of a
Sussex Village_. She studied the picture intently, for she had no idea
how long it would remain. Last time the vision had gone very quickly and
now she had a feeling that the page would soon be turned.

She also began to feel frightened. She had not felt frightened before;
but now a cold uneasiness that was partly physical took possession of
her mind and body. She wanted to move away, yet felt unable and
moreover, it seemed, unwilling. There was an absolute silence in her
world; not a bird sang, not a beast lowed, not a cock crew on all these
farms, and the wagon wheels moved over the ruts without a sound. The
name she heard, then, was not spoken from outside her thoughts; yet it
came clearly--a name she already knew. Dickory. . . . It was the name of
the highwayman that Humfrey Malpas had been telling her about last
night. Perhaps he was down there at the inn--she remembered Humfrey
saying that he used to make it his headquarters; and now she thought she
saw a horseman . . .

The vision was fading and at the same time approaching; she was no
longer looking through the wrong end of the telescope but at large
objects much too close to be clear. There was a face close to hers: her
flesh crept and she could have screamed, but the universal silence held
her. The next moment the face lost its cloudy outline and became solid,
moulded, coloured--in fact alive. She was looking through the hedge into
the face of a young man--a clumsy, rough young man, with straw-coloured
hair and a straw-coloured beard on his weathered cheeks. For an instant
she thought her dream was over and that some hedge worker was staring at
her in well-founded amazement; but at once her eyes corrected her. She
could see behind him the oast-houses of Loats Farm rising over the
hill--and there were only two; the big Victorian oast was still out of
existence. Moreover, though his face seemed in many ways the normal
yokel face of the district, in other ways it was different--shaggier,
wilder, more animal. It looked to her the face of a hunted man. The blue
eyes were full of terror and a queer bewilderment, and the gaze they
fixed on her was so beseeching that she felt her own eyes fill with
tears.

She immediately said to herself: This can't be Dickory. She remembered
all that Humfrey had told her about Dickory's black mare, his purple
coat with spade-guinea buttons, his cocked hat and powdered wig. Yet she
felt within herself the conviction that he was Dickory--as sure and as
reasonable as the conviction that she was Lucinda Light. The next moment
she heard herself calling his name, though it may not have been with her
voice.

"Dickory!"

His expression changed; his mouth opened as if to speak. Then suddenly
his features began to blur and fade.

"Dickory!" she cried, "Dickory!" feeling that at all costs she must make
him stay and hear her.

But she was looking at what seemed to be her own face, as if cast by a
magic lantern on a flat, white screen--a page--a picture-book. . . . It
was gone, and the birds sang round her, the smell of wet earth and grass
rose from her feet; while above the hill-top Loats' three oast-houses
looked at her out of a day restored.

She turned thoughtfully from the hedge and climbed down into the lane,
lifting her cream jug out of its mossy bowl. She felt a little shaken,
in need of comfort, but she told herself firmly that she must not mind
the way these things sometimes happened. If they were to happen at
all--and she liked them to happen--you could not expect them to be
always shining and pleasant, nor could you expect always to understand
them . . .

Dickory . . . had she really seen Dickory? She felt almost sure that she
had, and yet he was not at all like the highwayman Humfrey had been
yarning about. He had looked more like a farm-hand. What had made her
think--made her know--he was Dickory? Her father had once told her that
the things she "saw" were a kind of hallucination, a visual projection
of things she had heard and read. If that was so, how was it that she
had seen Dickory like this? There was nothing that she had heard about
him or that she had ever read about highwaymen to make her see this
clumsy, frightened, baffled creature. She could not remember what he had
been wearing, but it was certainly not a purple coat or a powdered wig.
He was not Humfrey's Dickory at all. Did that make him more "real"? Or
was he only a dream, such as she had sometimes had when she was half
awake? Could she possibly have fallen asleep while she stood there at
the hedge?

If only Daddy was here to help her understand. . . . Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I
don't know how long I can go on like this without you. . . . Her throat
suddenly filled with sobs, and she put down the cream jug again for fear
that she should spill it.

In a very short time she had recovered herself and dusted her face with
powder from a little compact--her mother must not see her red eyes. You
could not let Mummy know how dreadfully you missed Daddy, because she
might try to comfort you, and that--because of the things you
knew--might make you hate her. . . . So it was better if she thought you
grim and unnatural; not knowing . . . not knowing. . . .



                                   IV

                             HARRY COBSALE

If ever a house looked condemned to death, it was Chequers Cottage. It
bore its sentence on its sagging front, which leaned over the road at an
angle almost perilous; in its broken weatherboarding from which every
scrap of paint had vanished years ago; in its chimney that tottered
nearly ten degrees out of the straight and was swollen into
shapelessness by a vast, tangled growth of ivy; in its roof which sank
into hollows between the beams and in its windows, many of which were
broken and some completely boarded up. At least three rooms at the back
were unsafe and unoccupied, while two more were occupied in the daytime
only--the old couple who rented them taking refuge at night in the
slightly less dangerous abode of a married daughter who lived in Summer
Row.

All of the tenants were supposed to be looking for other accommodation,
but they were slow to find it, partly for the reason that they did not
try very hard. There were three sets of them--the Naldreds, the Norrups
and the Scallows--and for many reasons, none too clear, they were all
rather fond of Chequers Cottage and disliked the thought of leaving it.
Some of them, too, were the kind of people who would rather live
rent-free in a condemned cottage than in a brand-new Council House at
seven-and-six a week.

The cottage seemed full of them that morning as Harry Cobsale walked
down the hill towards it. It was Saturday, so the children were not at
school, and the wild piece of ground at the back--where the clothes
lines flew their banners three days a week, as Mrs. Norrup's wash
succeeded Mrs. Naldred's, and Mrs. Scallow's succeeded Mrs.
Norrup's--was now given over to an indefinite number, whooping and
rolling about on the grass.

Harry took no notice of them, though one or two of the bigger boys
shouted at him rather rudely. He walked past the front door of the
cottage--above which, on the leaning wall, the remains of a painted
chequer-board spoke feebly of lost honours and thrivings--till he came
to a wooden stair outside the house, mounting to a door on the second
story. The stair looked insecure and the bottom step was missing; Harry
seemed to shake the house as he walked up it and beat on the door.

It opened only just before he was about to knock again and an old woman
appeared wrapped from head to foot in a dirty blanket.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she said. "We haven't seen you for a long time,
gentleman dear."

By the way she stood, clutching the blanket round her, Harry knew that
she was naked and had only just got out of bed.

"I want to see Nan," he said abruptly.

"You can't see her. She isn't here."

She did not speak in the common voice of the country-side. Her voice had
a whine in it, creeping in its softness, and both the softness and the
whine were tough.

"Let me in," said Harry.

"I tell you she isn't here."

"But I'm not going to stand outside. I want a word with you, Mis'
Scallow."

The old woman hesitated and mumbled something about the place not being
fit to be seen.

"Then it's the same as I've always seen it," said Harry, pushing past
her.

The attic in which he found himself was certainly not attractive nor
even reassuring. The roof fell round the window, almost to the floor,
displaying dusty battens and one or two beams hung with dark tattered
veils of cobweb. There was a great deal of furniture in much disorder
and the remains of a meal on the table, including two bottles of beer.
Harry strode across to a second door and looked into the adjoining room,
which was larger and better furnished, with a huge brass bedstead,
gaudily quilted. The old woman followed him.

"I told you she wasn't here."

"I believe you now. Where is she?"

He came back into the first room and sat down on a chair the leg of
which broke under him.

"Damn, what a place!"

The old woman cackled.

"I told you it wasn't fit for a gentleman like you. Mind if I go back to
bed? I'm cold."

She huddled down into a heap of blankets and old clothes that filled one
of the corners, rooting among them till she found a short clay pipe.

"Got any 'baccy on you, dear?"

Harry threw her his pouch and himself lit a cigarette. The smell of
tobacco seemed to cleanse the room and he felt better. He said:

"I shan't go till you've told me where she is."

"What has it got to do with you?"

"It's got to do with me when she uses my name to plant herself on
respectable people."

"Oh, they've asked for her character, have they?"

"Of course they have, and a pretty fool I looked."

"But I hope you were kind and spoke well of my poor daughter."

"I said I knew nothing about her. It was the kindest thing I could say."

"But it wasn't true, gentleman dear."

"If I'd spoken the truth----" He broke of. Her head, rising out of the
shapeless hill of bedding, looked bodiless, set up like a target at a
fair. He wished he had something hard to shy at it.

"Look here," he said. "You've got to tell me where she is."

"Where should she be, but at the place where your kind words sent her?"

"You mean at the Old Parsonage? You don't tell me she's started there
already!"

"She started this morning. She was up at six o'clock, washing herself
with water and plaiting her hair, so that she shouldn't disgrace you."

Harry laughed rudely.

"Well, if they're fools enough to take her without a reference. . . .
She must have been up at the place already when the young lady asked me.
'Can you tell me anything about a girl called Nan Scallow?'" he minced
vindictively, his memory irritated by the image of Lucinda Light. "Oh,
yes, I can tell you a lot, miss--if I told you all I knew you'd be
surprised."

"But you told her nothing."

"Nothing except that her mother was a diddicoy, and she didn't seem to
see any harm in that."

"You've been a kind friend to us, gentleman dear; and the poor people
never forget."

Harry turned on her furiously.

"Look here, you've got to tell me what game you're up to."

"Game?"

"Yes. Why has Nan gone to work at Mrs. Light's?"

"She needs the money."

"Oh, indeed. She must need it badly if she's taken to honest work."

"She's always worked hard, but now nobody will buy her baskets and the
boys don't come near her any more. Since Michaelmas she's scarcely had
so much as a present of half a crown. She's a good girl and has her old
mother to support . . . at Mrs. Light's she gets ten shillings a week,
as well as her meals. I tell you, she needs the money."

Harry had finished his cigarette, which he threw across the room into
the fire.

"Tell me," he said, standing up, "how long will she be able to work
before the child's born?"

The old woman squealed thinly like a mole in her heap of bedding.

"Oh dear, I wonder what ever made you think there's going to be a
child."

"Never mind what made me think of it. I want to know when it's going to
be born."

"None should know better than yourself, gentleman dear--unless you've
never learned to calculate these things."

"Listen to me, you old hag--I know nothing about that child."

"Who should know, then?"

"I couldn't say--though I could give you the names of at least three men
in Woodhorn who might be the father."

A bare, skinny arm shot up above the bedclothes.

"It's a lie. It's a dirty lie against my daughter."

"You're telling me she's a good girl, I suppose."

"She's a good daughter; and if you're going to insult the poor people
you'd better clear out, you dirty gentleman. You go about saying any
more such things and I'll lay my curse upon you--the gipsy's curse that
never fails--to bind and burst your heart."

Harry walked to the door, where he turned and faced her.

"You can't scare me with your fair-ground curses, old Mis' Scallow. I'm
off now, and if you and your daughter play me any more tricks I'll tell
the police."

"And ask them to send poor Nan to prison for going to work?"

"For going to work with a false reference."

"It was you who gave her the reference, gentleman dear."

Her laughter followed him out of the room.


He ran thundering and creaking down the ladder stairs, and hurried away
from the house without looking left or right. But when he came to the
hill he slackened his pace. He was in no hurry to go home--he did not
want to speak to anybody for a while. He wanted to think.

He had expected the old woman to lie to him, so he had got only what he
expected. But he had hoped to be able to find out somehow, in spite of
or even by means of her lies, one or two things he really wanted to
know. He wanted to know why Nan Scallow had taken this job at Mrs.
Light's, if she was going to have a child and if she meant to father it
on him. He was still without an answer to the first and the last of
these questions.

Lucinda Light had given him a shock that morning. "Do you know anything
about a girl called Nan Scallow? . . . she seemed quite sure you'd give
her a reference" . . . He could not think of the episode without
seeing her standing before him in her scarlet coat and cap and hearing
her talk in her clear, gentle voice. He suddenly felt annoyed and kicked
a stone. She was a queer piece, that girl. Not quite all there, some
people said. Well, she and her mother were a couple of fools--no need to
be sorry for them when they found out what they'd got. Besides, by
common report, the mother herself had been going it a bit . . .

The point was: what was Nan up to! No doubt she wanted money, but who
ever had heard of a gipsy working honestly for money if she could get it
any other way? . . . by blackmail, for instance. He had thought from the
start that her application to him for a "character" was a piece of
blackmail. And possibly all the rest was, too. She could do him quite a
lot of harm if she chose.

He was back at his old question: did she mean to father the child on
him? The old woman had certainly pretended to believe that it was his,
but he could not be sure how much further she meant the business to go.
Perhaps her recent conversation with him had only been one of several
with other Woodhorn men. She might hope to get money out of them all. On
the other hand, she might have picked him out because of that other
order against him and because he was better off than any of the rest.

Harry stopped in the lane, feeling sick. He pulled out his pipe and lit
it. He must think clearly, and calmly too if he could. Of course if Nan
meant to bring him before the magistrates, you could see a reason for
taking the job at Mrs. Light's. It would make her appear something more
like a respectable woman: she would run a better chance of impressing
them and bamboozling them . . . alternatively she could charge a higher
price for being bought off.

What a fool he'd been! Looking back now, he could scarcely believe that
he had done it--gone with gipsy trash which no decent farmer would look
at except in contempt. Lord knew he wasn't much of a chap when it came
to morals, but he knew better than that. He'd known all the time that he
was doing wrong, and for none of the time had he been pleased either
with her or with himself. Why had he done it, then? Because of Richard,
of course. Richard was at the bottom of it, as he was at the
bottom of all that was bad and dirty and miserable in his brother's
life. If Richard hadn't brought home Joan . . .

His thoughts broke suddenly. He was close to the lower edge of Harbolets
Shaw, about fifty yards from the gate, when out of it came Lucinda
Light, swinging left up the hill. She was looking straight in front of
her, so she did not see him. He was glad. What a time she had stayed at
the farm--talking to Joan, he supposed. She seemed very friendly with
Joan . . . well, he was lucky to have missed her. If he hadn't stopped
in the lane to light his pipe they'd have met in the shaw.

The sun was shining now, though feebly out of a pale sky. The sky behind
the trees was washed with light rather than sunshine, and the shadows on
the ground looked unreal, as if cast by other shadows. Harry walked a
few yards into the shaw and sat down on a dead stump. He still did not
feel inclined to go home, and there was nothing much he could do there
till the tegs were shipped off and Richard gone. Then he remembered that
the lorry would have to drive past where he sat, and, getting up, he
plunged deeper into the shaw, to where it was thickened by brambles and
he could neither see nor be seen by anyone on the farm lane.

Under one of the few oaks which broke the monotony of the stoles he lay
down on a blanket of dry moss spread over the roots. The leaves had not
yet really begun to fall--only a few earth-coloured chestnut leaves lay
round him; the oak still lifted a full green crown, only faintly dingied
by the autumn cold. He propped himself against the trunk and
smoked--he'd feel better when he'd finished his pipe. After he had been
there a few minutes he heard voices in the lane--women's voices. That
must be Madge and Joan on their way to the 'bus. He straightened his
back against the tree and lifted his head, wondering if he could see
them; he wanted to see if Joan was wearing her new fur-collared coat and
little round felt hat. But the undergrowth was too thick--he could not
see her at all; and soon afterwards the voices died away.

But they had ruined the fragile peace his pipe had brought him. The
sound of Joan's voice had sent him back into the darkness of his
thoughts about Nan. It was because of her that he had gone with Nan. But
he did not blame Joan--he blamed his brother. It was Richard's triumph
in bringing her home like that--so small, so sweet, so lovely, so
different from them all at Loats--that had driven him crazy with the
need to find someone like her for himself, someone just as lovely,
sweet, and different . . .

He would never forget the morning he had first seen her. He had not been
there when she arrived the night before--he had gone up to the Plough in
Woodhorn Street on purpose to miss her and had stayed till closing time.
Daisy had gone out too, to the pictures in Potcommon, but his mother had
stayed at home, because she did not want Richard's wife to touch her
saucepans.

Of course they had all been furious when they heard he had gone away to
be married. Madge had told Chodd the news in front of Harry and Mrs.
Cobsale, which was the way Richard had chosen to break it to the other
side of the family. She had just come back from the wedding, which had
taken place in Marlingate, the big seaside town twelve miles away;
Chaffield was a widower and Joan had been married from an aunt's house.
Madge described it all in detail to Chodd and was telling him about the
bridesmaids' dresses, when Mrs. Cobsale interrupted to ask him how much
money old Chaffield had given his daughter. Madge, properly deaf till
Chodd repeated the question, answered that Mr. Chaffield had so far
given her nothing but her clothes. He had six daughters and his money
was all sunk in his farms; besides, though he thought a lot of Richard
he knew that he was not the sole owner of Loats and there was no
telling. . . . Here Harry had broken into the conversation, which became
very abusive before it was brought to an end by Chodd's running away and
thus depriving the combatants of their means of communication.

A bitter and nearly silent week-end followed--Mrs. Cobsale, Harry and
Daisy feeling too deeply offended to discuss the marriage even among
themselves. Then on Tuesday morning Harry had come into the kitchen for
breakfast and seen a girl standing by the table. She had looked scarcely
more than a child, with her hair hanging to her shoulders in
soft red-brown curls, and her coloured pinafore almost straight from
neck to knees, so slight was the curve of her little breast. The sight
of her had startled him--he had not expected to find her waiting there;
he had expected her to make a swaggering entrance with Richard, later on
when they were all at breakfast. Nor was he prepared to see her so small
and sweet. He had only a dim, collective idea of the Chaffield girls and
would not have known one of them by sight without their father.

His surprise must have shown itself, for she laughed in quite a friendly
way; and almost before he knew what had happened he was laughing too.
Then his laugh had dried, withered by the sudden appearance of Richard
behind her in the scullery doorway. He could tell how his face must have
changed by the change in hers. Her eyes had clouded with dismay and a
look of childish hurt, which had made him even angrier, because for some
unfathomable reason he felt hurt too. . . . Then she had turned to
Richard and he had rushed straight out of the room.

That night he had gone to Nan Scallow. He had gone to her because he
knew that he could never have Joan nor anyone like her. In some
mysterious way his desire for a good and lovely thing was linked with
that black fulfilment. Since he could not triumph ova Richard by showing
him a girl as sweet as his own--there was no one like her in Woodhorn
and if there were she wouldn't look at Harry Cobsale--he would triumph
over him by outraging every convention of his smug, respectable
life--fill him with shame and anger, since he could not fill him with
jealousy.

So he had gone to Nan, spent over ten pounds on her in a month and made
a scandal that had shaken Woodhorn. But the shame and anger were not
Richard's: they were his own. No doubt Richard would feel some of their
heat if Nan brought a paternity suit against his brother, but that was
not the way Harry wanted to plague him.

Perhaps the best thing he could do would be to clear out--get right away
from Loats Farm and start a place of his own. Then he'd be shut of Nan,
shut of Richard, shut of Joan. . . . Yet, how was he to do that with all
the money tied up in the land and in the stock? Everything had
been left to him and Richard jointly; there was nothing that he could
claim as his own and turn into ready cash.

Besides, he was fond of the place--it was his home, he had been born
there and he didn't want to leave it. If he went, Richard would have a
free hand; he would be able to do exactly as he liked, go into business
with Chaffield if he wanted. Whereas if Harry stayed he could keep some
sort of a hold on things, prevent his brother turning the farm into a
butcher-grazier's holding. He felt sure that if he left, Richard would
grub up the hops and sell his quota for cash down--that of course would
be one way out for himself if he really wanted to go. Richard would
certainly agree: he'd be glad to be rid of him and the hops too.

He must not give Richard that chance. Nor did he want the village to say
that he had been driven away by his brother or scared away by Nan
Scallow. No, he would have to stay on where he was, in spite of the
misery of living with people he hated, in spite of this new trouble with
Nan Scallow, in spite of the daily sight of Joan. . . . When he came to
think of Joan he was not sure if he stayed in spite of her or because of
her . . .

Anyway, his pipe was out and he'd spent enough time thinking of awkward
things. He stood up under the oak-tree, stretching his big limbs in the
heavy, farmer's clothes that did not fit him, because he could never
spare the time nor the trouble to get them properly made. He was not
sure if the lorry had gone by or not, but he did not really care. He was
not going to wait any longer in this place. He'd go back to the house
and get his gun and see if he couldn't pot a few conies down by the
marsh.



                                   V

                              JESS MARLOTT

Jess Marlott lifted the lid of the saucepan and looked in sadly. A tear
fell into the hissing stew and she smiled ruefully to herself. Then she
prodded the contents with a fork. . . . Hard as leather, wanted at least
another two hours; by the time that fowl was cooked the fuel would have
paid for a decent joint of meat.

That was one of the things that made life so difficult. Neither she nor
Greg was really practical. On the face of it there seemed much to be
said for living on their superannuated hens; but a really practical
person would have considered at once the price of a boiling that lasted
so many hours on an oil stove, with oil at ninepence a gallon. A really
practical person would have fried a couple of chops, or some fish, or
even--it would have cost very little more--had a cut from the joint and
two veg. at the Plough and saved herself this labour which was breaking
her back. She drew away from the stove; her tears fell so fast into the
saucepan that she was afraid they might put the damn thing off the boil.

But she was not crying because she had wasted a lot of money on trying
to cook an uneatable old hen, nor because she was hot and tired, nor
because she had a very bad pain that came and went under her ribs at
intervals (what part of one was it one had there?--was it kidneys or
liver or what? She'd like to know, because if it went on she'd have to
buy a bottle of patent medicine and she might as well get it for the
right thing. Well, no doubt some illustrated advertisement would tell
her). She was crying because she had scarcely stopped crying for one
moment since Greg came home last night. All night long she had felt the
pillow warm and drenched under her face, and when after an uneasy hour
of slumber she had waked to find her cup of early tea beside the bed she
had cried into that, drinking her own tears, and then she had cried
again when she found that Greg had eaten his breakfast and gone
out; and now the tears still fell, rolling over puffed cheeks out of
smarting eyes--she would really have to see what she could do to her
face before dinner-time.

At dinner-time she would have to see Greg and speak to him again . . .
at the thought of this her tears seemed to rise in a burning flood under
her eyelids, for they were mainly tears of pity, pity for herself and
him--most of all for him. That was what made it all hurt so much . . .
she did not feel what women were expected to feel on these occasions:
anger, jealousy, hatred or disgust. In the novels she used to
read--years ago, for it was years since she had had a library
subscription--women whose husbands had just told them they loved someone
else had a variety of emotions to sustain them. If only she could have
felt the comfort of a good, honest, bursting indignation! If only she
could have hated Greg and locked her door against him, instead of
cherishing him sorrowfully in her arms until at last he had fallen
asleep upon her heart. . . . Was there anything wrong with her, she
wondered, that made her so different from other women and her marriage,
apparently, so different from other marriages? Or was it only because
she and Greg had been married twenty years before this had happened, had
grown into each other and become part of each other, so that each had
for the other the same sort of understanding that one has for oneself?

Of course she felt angry with Mrs. Light--indignant, furious; but it did
not help her much--no more than it helps a mother whose child has been
kidnapped to hate the kidnapper. The thought of that cruel, reckless,
heartless kidnapper only made matters worse. It was Greg she would have
liked to hate and could not. She could only love him whatever he
did--even though he had ceased to love her. . . . But that was
incredible, impossible, and it wasn't true. He loved her still--must
love her still--even though now incredibly and impossibly he loved
someone else.

She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, staring in front of her with
eyes that were dry at last, while her mind returned to the bewildering
scene last night. Had it really happened? But for her aching head and
this sickness of tears she could have thought she had dreamed
it. It was his lying to her that had shown her that the incredible thing
was true. Till then she had not believed it for a moment--not when Mrs.
Malpas had told her that he was at the Old Parsonage and that he went
there every evening, not when she herself had seen him through the
window, sitting and drinking with Mrs. Light. She had accepted the
facts, the evidence of her own and another woman's eyes, but it had
never even occurred to her to put on them what she saw now was the
obvious construction. She had waited for Greg, expecting him to come
home and tell her about it, to explain it all. Instead of which he had
lied.

He had lied expertly, too--at least firmly and fluently--"I'm sorry I'm
late, but the fog hung me up on the marsh. . . ." Now she came to think
of it he must have lied to her on other nights, when he told her he had
been obliged to go to Marlingate or that his car had broken down. He had
become quite an expert liar . . .

No, not so very expert. For directly she challenged him his lie had
broken down.

She had cried out:

"But, Greg, you've been with Mrs. Light at the Old Parsonage for the
last two hours. I saw you sitting there."

At that he had stammered and asked her what she meant, tried to bluster
in a feeble way, accused her of eavesdropping and of listening to
gossip. But he had not been able to keep it up. Her tears came scalding
back again when she remembered how his defences had collapsed, how he
had fumbled and blundered, tripped and contradicted himself, stammered
and blurted.

But even then she had not been prepared for the worst. When she had said
to him: "But, Greg, you're not in love with her?" she had expected him
to answer: "No, of course I'm not, but she's nice to talk to and it's
nice sitting there. I didn't tell you because I thought you mightn't
like it" or that "you might have wanted to come too and it would have
been difficult." She had expected him to say something like that, or
like "she's a vamp and likes to have men sitting around and I was afraid
that if I refused we might lose her custom," or even "it's only
a flirtation--I don't know what made me do it." Instead of which he had
leaned forward--they had both been sitting opposite each other by the
stove--caught her two hands in his and cried out, weeping:

"Oh, Jess, I love her--I love her--I can't help it."

That was a memory which she felt that twenty years of happiness--and she
was not likely to have them--could never wipe out. She had kept his
hands in hers, however, and had met his eyes--his bewildered grey eyes
which seemed to be crying to her for help out of his poor, convulsed
face. Holding hands and looking into each other's eyes they had tried to
explain and to understand this strange and terrible thing that had
happened to them both.

"But, Greg, how did it start? How long have you felt like this? Why . . ."

"I dunno. It's just seeing her, I suppose."

"Did she--Oh, she must have led you on."

"She asked me in to have a drink, but I was pretty far gone before
that."

"How long? A month ago?"

"Two months ago."

Her anger rose against Brenda Light.

"She's a dangerous woman. Mrs. Malpas was speaking to me about her only
this afternoon. She's been in some dreadful scandal up in London and her
husband died of a broken heart."

He did not let go of her hands as he answered:

"I know. I know there's a lot of gossip about her; though I'm sure she's
been more sinned against than sinning. She's not what you think. But
that doesn't excuse me. It's only that I can't--I can't--help myself."

He had bowed his head over their clasped hands and she had felt his
tears upon them. It was then that her own had first started to
fall--that torrent which she felt now would never dry.

"Oh, Jess," he had cried. "Don't hate me."

"My dear, how could I ever hate you?"

"I've tried so hard--yes, really I've tried. I--I've forced myself not
to see her for days. Once I even left the eggs on the kitchen
windowsill."

"My poor, poor old man."

"Oh, Jess, I'm a hound, I'm a fiend."

She had wanted to laugh as she looked down at his bowed, grey head, and
that desire had hurt her more than all her tears.

"It's not your fault," she had cried angrily, "it's hers. She must have
led you on. Greg," with a sudden turn to realism, "has she--have you
ever kissed her?"

He answered sadly:

"Only once or twice--at least," offering her the truth in expiation, "I
don't suppose more than half a dozen times."

She was shocked. Till that moment she had imagined an unexpressed
devotion, a silent "smite." Then suddenly her mind leaped forward into
an idea so appalling that she could hardly express it. She could only
clutch his hands and weep, crying:

"Oh, darling, you don't--Oh, Greg, do you--do you want to--I mean, a
divorce. . . ."

She realized now that at every question she had expected a reassuring
answer and that it had been like a physical blow each time when it never
came.

He had mumbled something and she had felt ready to faint when she caught
the gist of his words. How could he ask a woman like Brenda Light to
share his failure of a life? even if they could afford a divorce, which
they couldn't . . . divorce . . . alimony. . . . It seemed impossible
that he should be saying these words to her--Greg Marlott to Jess
Marlott. Oh, what a fool she had been! She had thought that life held
nothing worse for her than failure--than the struggle to work and
live--illness, perhaps, and death. But now she knew that these were
little things in comparison with what she had had now, so suddenly and
shockingly, been called upon to endure. At this thought for the first
time she felt and feared for herself.

"But, Greg," she cried out, "what am I to do? What about me?"

He lifted his face.

"My poor old girl--nothing. I've told you, there's nothing we can do at
all."

"But do you still love me?"

Another hope: another blow. He had hesitated.

"Darling, I do love you yes, in a way--in lots of ways. But this is
different."

"How is it different?" She forced herself to view the situation calmly
and as she thought practically. "Is it more physical?"

"Ye-es. But it isn't only that. It's not just--just desire. It's
something much, much more. It's like---- Oh, how can I tell you? I can't
find the words. It's like--like a song in my heart--like waking up on a
sunny morning. . . ."

Then for some reason, as they looked at each other, they had both
laughed. It had been funny to hear old Greg speak like that--funny and
terrible. She had almost seemed to feel her heart die within her.

After that all they had done had been to say the same things over and
over again. . . . She could not remember much more, only at last his
falling asleep in her arms, uncomforted but exhausted, while she, as
deeply exhausted, lay awake. During the night she had thought of dozens
of things to say to him, but she had not said one. She had scarcely seen
him at all to-day except in the distance, out of doors. But he would
soon be coming in to his dinner--it was nearly time. Then she would have
to speak. She simply could not let life shut down upon this horrible
thing.

She went back to the stove. The hen seemed tougher than ever. _Poule au
pot_--that was what the French called it, but surely the French did not
eat their hens like that. . . . What magic had the French housewife? No
doubt, she thought, the magic of a cheap fire. The whole thing would
have gone much better if the kitchen range had beeh usable instead of
smoking the room out whenever she attempted to light it. She could have
stood the saucepan all day at the back. . . . But they had been forced
to cook on an oil stove, because it would cost too much to rebuild the
kitchen chimney. The house was new, but it was falling down already. Oh
why did this sort of thing always happen to the Marlotts?

A man's shape went past the window. Was that Greg? No, it was only
Woodsell, the chicken-boy, who worked for them in the mornings. But he
was evidently on his way home to dinner and Greg would be in soon.

Jess ran into the bedroom and took out of a drawer her only aid to
beauty, a compact wherein an elderly powder puff still held the last of
the _trefle incarnat_ that Greg had given her for her birthday in 1929.
With this she carefully dusted her damaged face. She really couldn't let
him see her like this: she had a rival now. The thought was like a dose
of bitter medicine. She had a rival to compete with--she, who when she
was young and gay had never thought of one. Now that she was middle-aged
and tired and ill she must pull herself together and match herself
against a lovely, rich, experienced woman. . . . No, she could never do
it--there was no use trying. Her face looked even worse now with the
powder on it. She threw the compact back into the drawer, and returning
to the kitchen, gave herself a good wash over the sink.


When at last they sat down to dinner she was not surprised to find that
Greg seemed anxious to avoid a repetition of last night's discussion.
Like most men, he would rather have a corpse stinking than a ghost
walking. He would rather that this terrible thing lay patchily buried
between them than that it rose to harrow them with problems they could
not solve and regrets they could not assuage. So he began to talk about
the poultry: the new chicken-house he was building with Woodsell, the
new cockerels he had bought last week at Potcommon market.

"Woodsell says he doesn't like their eyes, but I can't see anything
wrong with them."

"What does Woodsell see?"

"Paralysis. He says he can tell by the eyes, but I don't believe him.
After all, I've kept chicken as long as he has."

"He's all for us having nothing but light Sussex--local feeling, I
suppose."

"He says there's less disease in them. But I say you can't beat a Rhode
Island, neither for the eggs nor for the table."

"I could think of a better table bird than the one we're eating," said
Jess, as with as much decorum as possible she restored a resistant
mouthful to her plate.

"We've evidently kept her a shade too long."

"A shade. . . ."

She found herself actually forgetting, and smiling at him fondly as she
watched him there, chewing away, full of hope and goodwill, making the
best of his dreadful dinner, though it must have been worse for him than
it was for her, as he suffered with his teeth and sometimes found even
ordinary mastication painful. My poor old man . . .

"Well," he said, "it seems a pity to eat a fowl we could get a price for
as a boiler. Wouldn't she do for soup?"

"_Poule au pot_ . . . it would cost far too much, unless we had a proper
kitchen range."

"Well, I don't see why we shouldn't some day. Everyone says that prices
are going up next year."

Next year. They would still be together next year. Of course he had no
thought of leaving her. It was only that he was in love with someone
else.

"Greg," she said in a sharp little voice, "what are you doing this
afternoon?"

She thought that he looked self-conscious.

"I've some eggs to leave at Parislane, and I'm taking half a dozen
cockerels--the ones that Woodsell calls 'they toms'--to a chap at
Diamond Farm who's----"

"Are you going to see Mrs. Light?"

He flushed almost angrily.

"Really, Jess . . . I thought we'd agreed not to talk of that again."

They had agreed no such thing and he knew it.

"I must talk of it, Greg. I must get it settled."

"How can it ever be settled?"

"Settled in my mind, I mean. There are some things I've been thinking
of--that I--I must know."

He took a packet of gaspers out of his pocket and nervously lit one of
them. She was desperately sorry for him, but she knew that she must be
firm, for both their sakes.

"Darling, I'm not blaming you. I know that this is just--is just a thing
that--has happened. I know you've done your best."

He turned to her desperately.

"I have, Jess. I swear I have. I've struggled against it from the moment
I felt it coming. But it's got too much for me."

"My poor old Greg."

She felt thankful as she realized that she did not want to cry. Her mind
and body were drained of grief. All she wanted now was to know these
things that she must make him tell her.

She fixed her eyes on him.

"Tell me this: Have you ever loved me in the way that you love her?"

He shook his head.

"I've never felt this in my life before."

"Then has your feeling for me changed or is it the same as it always
was?"

He looked embarrassed.

"My dear, I can't tell you. I don't know. I only know that this is
different."

"You're quite sure that it isn't just a passing infatuation."

He looked offended.

"It isn't; and I won't say it is--even to comfort you, Jess."

"I don't know that it would comfort me. Greg, tell me this: if we were
as well off as Mrs. Light and in the same social position, would you
want me to divorce you?"

He sprang to his feet and nervously lit another gasper though his first
was not half smoked.

"How can I tell you? Or rather, I have told you. The question simply
doesn't arise. You might as well ask what I'd do if I'd never married
you at all. The point is that a divorce is unthinkable--for any of us."

"Then what do you propose to do?"

He looked surprised.

"Do? Nothing. What can I do?"

"Shall you go on seeing her?"

He was pacing about the room, but at her question he stopped and stared.
She saw his eyes change; they became like a little boy's eyes--both
defiant and afraid.

"I must see her. There's no good your thinking you can stop me doing
that. It's what I live for. It's all I've got."

"But how can it make you happy when you know that nothing can come of
it?"

"I dunno; it does--that's all. All the day seems leading up to it, and
then when I'm with her it's happiness and release; and then when I leave
her it's hell."

"In fact, it's a craving--like drink."

He shook his head impatiently.

"You just don't understand."

For some reason Jess felt desperately offended at this.

"It's her I don't understand," she snapped, "how she can let you come
and sit with her day after day, hour after hour, knowing that you're a
married man. I suppose she does know that?"

"Yes, of course she does."

"Then I think she's behaving very unscrupulously. It only shows the sort
of woman----"

"I'm not going to let you talk against her, Jess."

She suddenly lost her temper with him.

"Don't be such a fool! Of course I'm going to talk against her. I'm
going to say anything I like. Why on earth shouldn't I? She's taken my
husband's love from me and spoilt my life. Why should I be
mealy-mouthed? I'd like to tell her exactly what I think--no, you
needn't be afraid; I shan't do it, but I certainly shan't stop myself
telling _you_."

She was pleased to find that her anger had not led to tears; she was
gradually working herself into a very different mood from the mood of
last night. But she had not struck out any responding anger from him. He
looked guilty rather than angry, saying nothing, merely fumbling out his
last cigarette and throwing away the empty packet. She drew a deep
breath and went on:

"After all, it's common knowledge that she deceived her husband--not
once but many times. I don't know what sort of woman you make out of
that. And I simply can't understand how that sort of woman can attract a
man like you--really attract you, I mean. That's why I say it's an
infatuation--a craving, like drink. Greg, you can't really love her--not
in your inmost heart. It's only that she's excited and upset you,
and--and--you aren't used to these things."

He sighed as he said:

"It's no use, Jess; you _don't_ understand."

"But what is there about her that attracts you? Beyond her looks, of
course."

"It's everything about her--the way she talks, the way she walks, the
way she moves and thinks. Besides, she has a very sweet and lovely mind.
You're entirely wrong about her. She's not 'that sort of woman,' as you
call her. I know she's had a dreadful tragedy and she's come down here
to try to forget it. But she hasn't got the past that you and all the
Woodhorn gossips accuse her of. I tell you," he added solemnly as if he
had discovered a new and final explanation of the whole thing, "she's
more sinned against than sinning."

For a moment Jess was silent. She still felt angry with him, but some of
her old compassion had returned. Greg in love was what she might have
expected--quite silly. Poor old man. . . . What could she do to protect
him from this flame round which he was blundering so heavily and
helplessly? She saw now that something must be done, and done by her,
since he neither could nor would do anything for himself.

"Don't you think," she said, trying to speak reasonably, "that it would
be a good thing if you made a definite resolution not to see her for a
week?"

"I couldn't."

"Not even for a week?"

"No. I should only break my word and start deceiving you again. Jess,
can't we let things stay as they are? Leave it at my going there now and
then in the evenings and seeing her and speaking to her----"

"And kissing her sometimes?"

He turned his head away.

"Look here," said Jess, "what does she feel about it all? Does she know
you love her like this?"

"She must."

"And does she love you?"

"I don't know--I daren't ask her. Oh, won't you see? I've got so
little--I can't bear the thought of having even that little taken away."

"My poor darling."

She went up to him and put her arm round his shoulders. All her
tenderness was back, but without tears, for the thing was looking
different now. The first shock was over and she suddenly found that she
knew what to do. A plan had unfolded itself in her mind, a desperate
remedy needing all her intelligence and courage, but at least providing
her with a field of action and some sort of a hope.

"Jess," he said, "couldn't we make a definite resolution not to talk
about this for a time--say, a week."

"Very well."

"You agree?"

"Yes, for a week; no more--I couldn't manage longer than that. And now,
you really must go out, if you're to finish putting up the new house
before you start for Parislane."

As he went out of the door she saw him fumbling in his pocket for the
packet of fags that wasn't there.

"Greg," she called after him, "you can take sixpence for some more
cigarettes out of my housekeeping purse."



                                   VI

                              BRENDA LIGHT

With no housework to do, Brenda Light felt a princess. She spent the
morning in the freedom of her easy chair, with her cigarettes and a
newspaper and a library novel that had been two days in the house
unread. She did not mean to spend every morning so indolently; this was
just a celebration of the first in her own particular way. Lucinda's way
was different. She had run down to Loats Farm before breakfast, and then
had gone off with the Rectory children to a picnic at Moll Kemp's Grave.
Brenda did not altogether approve of the expedition.

"Why should you go and eat sandwiches on anybody's grave? It seems to me
a ghoulish idea."

"It's a meeting of the Antiquarian Society. Moll Kemp's Grave is very
interesting. I believe the baby's buried there too. It was found in the
garden of the Chequers Inn and dug up."

Really for a dreamy adolescent Lucinda was in some ways surprisingly
tough. Brenda shuddered.

"I think that you and Humfrey Malpas spend far too much time talking
horrors. What was he going on about here last night? The ghost of a
highwayman or something. And now it's a murderess's grave. I should
think the Antiquarian Society could find some better place to meet at.
You and those children are the only members, I suppose.

"Well, the gardener belongs and the maid--May Beeney. But they don't
ever come to the meetings."

"No, I shouldn't think they would. And I don't really like your going. I
wish you could meet some really normal people--people of your own age, I
mean, interested in ordinary things."

"I don't know that I'm interested in ordinary things--at least, if
you mean things like tennis and dances. And it isn't just since
we've come here. I think I always was like that."

It was the first time she had taken a conversation any sort of way into
the past. Brenda obeyed the impulse to follow it there.

"Yes, I know. You always liked the same sort of things as your father."

Once more the veil dropped over Lucinda's eyes.

"I like books," she said carefully, "and walking in the country and
going to see old places. That's why I like being with the Malpas
family--they're keen on that sort of thing."

"So was your father, but he didn't revel in horrors in quite the same
way. Lucinda, you look quite frightened. I object to your frightening
yourself like this."

"I'm not frightening myself. These things like Moll Kemp's Grave don't
frighten me."

"What is it, then?"

"Nothing," said Lucinda almost defiantly.

Brenda realized that she had better drop the subject.

"All right, darling; have it your own way. But kiss me and tell me
you'll take care of yourself."

For a moment, the fraction of a second, Lucinda hesitated . . . then she
ran to her mother and threw her arms round her neck, leaning her golden
head against her dark one. As Brenda felt her fragile tenseness, the
thud of her leaping heart, and smelled the fugitive fragrance of her
young flesh, cool and clean as grass, she experienced a desperate
thankfulness that there was at least one thing in her life that she had
not destroyed.

Later on, when her daughter was gone, the thankfulness became laced with
dread. If Lucinda should ever find out about her and Michael. . . . It
was mere self-deception to suppose that she never would. Even in
Woodhorn they were still surrounded with gossip, and there was no
telling how soon some of it might pierce the golden armour of her
dreams. After all, though in some ways incredibly simple, the child was
no fool. Already she might have her suspicions . . . there had been that
hesitation before the embrace. . . .

Forgetting her royal ease, Brenda sprang out of her chair and began to
walk about the room. Pray God she did not have to lose her daughter as
she had lost her husband and her lover and everything that had once been
her world--as she had lost that other world of Brenda Campion and
Woodhorn Parsonage. . . . When she thought of these lost worlds she
herself felt lost--lost in a dark new world of her own creation. Why had
she left London and come down to this lost, meaningless place? Why had
she quarrelled with Michael? She could have restored at least some part
of her life with his help. But she had broken with it all--run from it
wildly and heedlessly--and now she was lost; with only an occasional,
doubtful touch of Lucinda's hand in the dark to show her she was not
quite alone. And even that touch some day. . . . Hullo! what's that?

It was Mrs. Shafto opening the door and ushering in Mrs. Malpas. One
fruit of domestic liberation was that she now considered herself able to
answer to the front door, a task hitherto performed either by her
mistress or her mistress's daughter. This was just as well, for Brenda
had been too deep in her thoughts to hear the bell ring. Now she felt
startled and not altogether pleased.

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Light. I'm sorry to burst in on you like this,
but----" She turned round and glared at Mrs. Shafto who was leaving the
room.

"I can't very well say it in front of her," she continued just before
she shut the door, "but I felt I ought to come and warn you. Oh, thanks
so much. I don't smoke as a rule, but I do enjoy a cigarette."

She sat down, looking very pleased with herself.

Brenda asked:

"What have you come to warn me about?"

"About that girl, Nan Scallow. Lucinda told us this morning that you'd
got a daily help, and of course I was frightfully pleased, as I know
what it is to be without one, and you've been so long. . . . But I was
surprised, because I know practically all the girls round here who go
out obliging, and they're all booked up or I'd have found you one.
Please believe that."

"I do believe it, I assure you. But what about Nan?"

"Well, Hugo says that if I'm not careful, some day I'll be run in for
slander. But my theory is that this is a privileged occasion. I always
understood that maids' references are privileged, otherwise it wouldn't
be much use having them, would it?"

"Nan Scallow didn't have a proper reference. She said she'd worked at
Loats Farm and that Harry Cobsale, I think it was, would speak for her;
but I didn't bother to ask him. To tell you the honest truth, Mrs.
Malpas, I don't care what she's like as long as she'll scrub my
floors--and that I'm told she does very well."

"But----"

Mrs. Malpas looked deflated and embarrassed.

"I suppose," continued Brenda, "you're going to tell me she's going to
have a baby?"

"Oh, is she? That's something new. I didn't know about that."

Brenda was surprised--and considerably relieved. If Mrs. Malpas didn't
know about that baby then almost certainly it wasn't there.

"What is it, then? Is she dishonest?"

"No-o-o, I really can't say I ever heard anything against her in that
way. Which is queer, as she's half a gipsy, and gipsies are terrible
thieves."

"Oh, she's a gipsy, is she? Perhaps that accounts for her being so much
better looking than most of the girls round here."

"Her mother's a gipsy. Her father was a carter at Limbo Farm."

"I really don't mind who or what she is--or what she does, as long as
she doesn't upset the old cook I've had for fifteen years. I'm glad you
haven't heard anything about a baby--I was only judging by appearances,
and quite probably I'm wrong."

"I hope you are. Poor little thing!"

Again Brenda was surprised.

"I don't think you need feel sorry for her. If there is a baby, I bet
she knew what she was doing."

"Oh . . . it isn't her I'm thinking of--it's the child. It would have a
dreadful mother. But there isn't much good my telling you about her, as
you don't seem to care."

She looked so disappointed that Brenda almost laughed.

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not usually so indifferent as to the sort
of people I engage, but at the moment I'm desperate. I've only this one
old servant here and she won't and can't do all the work of a house like
this. Up till now my daughter and I have been doing quite a lot of it,
but I'm fed up and I want a change. What I should really like to have is
a decent house-parlourmaid, and then I assure you I should be particular
as to her references; but as I can't get her I must be content with
someone who'll come in and do the heavy work. Mrs. Shafto doesn't mind
the rest if she gets that taken off her hands; and I really don't think
it matters who does it."

She spoke amiably, because she did not think that Mrs. Malpas had been
prompted so much by ill nature as by a sort of clerical love of
interference coupled with a blundering goodwill.

"I know, I know, Mrs. Light. Beggars can't be choosers, and she's a
strong, healthy girl and ought to be able to do even _your_ scrubbing
quite easily--I mean, you've got some dreadful passages and kitchen,
haven't you? . . . And of course if she _is_ going to have a baby,
housework's supposed to be good for it. What's worrying me is the way
people will talk."

"Talk about what?"

"About you, I'm afraid. They're sure to say it's because of--I mean
they'll say you can't be very particular if you employ a girl like Nan
Scallow."

"I don't care what they say."

"No, no, of course not; and I don't want to interfere--it isn't my
business, and Hugo would tell me I've no right. . . . But I can't
help--I mean it's Lucinda. She's such a sweet child and it's so bad for
her to have people saying the things they do."

"What do they say?" asked Brenda crisply.

Mrs. Malpas coloured.

"Oh . . . I don't know. All sorts of things. If it isn't one thing, then
it's another. . . . Of course it doesn't really make any difference, and
I shouldn't mind if it wasn't for Lucinda. It's her I worry about."

"I'm quite able to look after her, thanks."

"I know, I know. But I don't think you realize . . . I mean this Nan
Scallow business coming on the top of the other."

Brenda looked at her coldly. She was beginning to feel angry.

"May I ask what you're referring to?"

Mrs. Malpas did not answer for a moment and Brenda suspected that she
had swallowed the end of her cigarette, for she gulped several times and
flushed an even deeper colour before she said in a strangled voice:

"I was referring to Mr. Marlott."

"Mr. Marlott! Where on earth does he come in?"

"Well, you see, his car's outside this house almost every day. . . ."

Brenda suddenly was furious.

"And why shouldn't it be? Can't I have a friend drop in for a drink
without starting a deluge of filthy tattle? This place is hell. If I
wasn't broke I'd clear out to-morrow. Really, Mrs. Malpas, I do think a
clergyman's wife might find something better to do than go about
repeating a lot of miserable gossip. I suppose I've you to thank, as you
live opposite, for spreading this story about Greg Marlott's car."

"I haven't spread it," said Mrs. Malpas, with a sort of clumsy dignity.
"I assure you that gossip doesn't start at the Rectory though it often
ends there. A number of people have spoken to me about Mr. Marlott's
car, but I myself haven't said a word about it to a single
soul--except," blundering into the truth as her memory tactlessly held
it out to her, "except Mrs. Marlott."

"His wife! You've told _her_?"

"Yes. I'm sorry now that I did--I always regret it when I pass things
on. But I called at Honeypools for some more eggs yesterday, and she was
wondering where he was--so I told her."

"I see. And had she no idea till yesterday?"

"No--apparently not the slightest."

"Oh, well," said Brenda, "I don't suppose she minds."

"No," said Mrs. Malpas candidly, "she didn't look as if she minded at
all."

Brenda's anger cooled off into a laugh.

"Then I don't think anyone else need mind--nor about Nan Scallow,
either. Have another cigarette, Mrs. Malpas."

After all, the woman had been very kind to Lucinda.

"No, thanks very much. I really think I must be going now. You don't
mind my having come and said all this, do you? But I simply felt I ought
to tell you about Nan Scallow."

Brenda was too glad to get rid of her to point out to her that she had
told her nothing.


Some of the royal peace of her morning was destroyed by that interview.
She always disliked hearing gossip about herself. The gossips' tongues
were like cats' tongues passing over her, irritating her with a sort of
silky roughness. Also, though she despised Woodhorn society, she did not
like to be reminded that her exclusion from it was deliberate.

Another victim was poor Nan Scallow. . . . No, she certainly would not
get rid of her. Apart from the blessings of her broom and pail, it would
be a mean thing for one focus of Woodhorn scandal to forsake another.
She speculated without much interest as to the nature of Nan's misdeeds.
No doubt the mere fact that she was of gipsy blood would go a long way
in a country of farmers. Perhaps she had been in prison for something
. . . but on the whole she inclined to the idea that she was a sort of
village prostitute. That would account for Mrs. Malpas's rather bridling
manner and also for her obvious lack of direct acquaintance. Brenda had
come to the conclusion that she did not really know the girl, but had
based her warning on a general reputation.

Well, she wasn't going to do anything about it as long as Nan behaved
decently and did her work. The only danger was that Mrs. Shafto might
hear of something. . . . But Mrs. Shafto mixed no more than her mistress
in local society; she did not even have dealings with the village
tradesmen, as Brenda had secured her independence of Farable's Stores by
means of a small car which took her once or twice a week to the better
supplied shops of the market town. So Mrs. Shafto wasn't likely to learn
anything immediately from backdoor gossip; and if it was really
true that there wasn't going to be a baby, the Light household could
look forward to tranquillity for two or three months at least.

During lunch Brenda made inquiries and received an encouraging report.
Evidently Nan Scallow had discretion, for she had spent the time of the
mid-morning cup of tea in listening to particulars of Mrs. Shafto's
family and looking at their photographs.

"And isn't it strange, ma'am? Years ago her mother used to be head
housemaid at Hornaby Grange where my nephew is footman now; and she's
got an aunt married to the butler at Lady Clements', where my poor
sister used to be."

Brenda was pleased to think that Nan evidently meant to stay.

By the time lunch was over she was feeling bored. She had grown
accustomed to her new leisure and wanted some diversion. The only
diversion she could think of was to take the car and drive into
Potcommon for some shopping and perhaps a cinema. It was not an
exhilarating prospect but she could think of nothing else, with Lucinda,
her only chance of a companion, picnicking with the Rectory children on
somebody's grave. If only Lucinda would want to be taken to a
skating-rink or a palais de danse they might sometimes be able to amuse
themselves in Marlingate.

She had gone upstairs rather dejectedly to put on her hat when she heard
the front door bell ring. Who was it? Another visitor was improbable.
Perhaps it was Mrs. Malpas come back with some afterthought. . . . Mrs.
Shafto had gone to the door--she could hear her creaking step. Soon
afterwards it creaked on the stairs.

"Come in," she said, as it reached her door.

Mrs. Shafto came in, wheezing emphatically.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's a person wants to see you."

"What sort of person?"

"I don't know who it is. I told her you were busy and just going out;
but she said she must see you--wouldn't keep you long."

"Damn! what a nuisance." But she must not blame Mrs. Shafto, whose job
it had never been to answer the door. She had better go down and
get rid of the woman herself, since she had no expert parlourmaid to do
it for her.

"I expect she's come to sell something--a vacuum cleaner," she said as
she ran downstairs.

"The companies generally send 'em round better turned out than that,"
Mrs. Shafto replied from above.

Brenda called over her shoulder:

"Perhaps it's a Bible, then."

But the woman on the doorstep did not seem to have even a Bible to sell.
She wore a fawn cloth coat, whose old-fashioned, elaborate cut betrayed
a bygone effort at "best," and a navy blue straw hat, decorated with a
limp rose. Her face had a queer, yellowish look under the skin, which
seemed too tight for it, stretched over high, well-modelled cheek bones,
loose only under the large, rather beautiful grey eyes, which looked out
of the ruin with a sort of unhappy amazement.

"Good afternoon," said Brenda. She felt she ought to invite her in, but
feared that if she did it might be difficult to get rid of her.

"Good afternoon. May I come in, please? I can't very well say what I've
got to say out here."

Brenda guessed that she had come to beg.

"I'm sorry, but I think my maid told you that I'm just going out. I
can't spare more than a moment."

The woman looked stricken, but obstinate.

"I know. But I must see you. I'll be as quick as I can."

One could not help feeling sorry for her.

"Couldn't you come back later? I shall be at home all the evening after
tea, but I want to go out now."

"After tea would be no use. My husband will be here then."

"Your husband! . . ." Brenda started as she guessed what was coming next.

"Yes. I'm Mrs. Marlott."

"Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Marlott. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, but
I don't think we've done more than see each other in the distance."

She spoke easily, but she felt annoyed. What on earth had the woman come
round for at this awkward time? She did not suppose that she had come to
make a scene, for Mrs. Malpas herself had proclaimed her tolerance of
the situation. Perhaps she had come on business--though she did not look
like it--or perhaps she was taking advantage of the friendship she had
just discovered to try to borrow money. . . . However, there was nothing
to do now but to invite her in. After all, the visit to Potcommon was an
expedient rather than a necessity. The week-end orders had already been
fulfilled; she had only prescribed herself a little supplementary grocery
and haberdashery as a specific against boredom. Perhaps Mrs. Marlott and
her mysterious errand would do as well.

"Come in," she said graciously, and led the way into the sitting-room.

Mrs. Marlott sat down in the chair Greg usually occupied, and certainly
lost no time in coming to the point.

"I want to talk to you about my husband. No thanks, I won't have a
cigarette. I know now that he comes to see you nearly every evening."

Brenda was determined to take the situation lightly, though she was not
yet quite sure which way it was going to develop.

"Yes--he quite often drops in on his way home. He brings the eggs and
then sometimes he stops and chats a bit."

The other woman was silent and Brenda guessed that the lightness of her
touch had baffled her. It was what she had intended, but she did not
feel altogether pleased. This adversary was not like some others she had
defeated--there would be little satisfaction in fencing with her
skilfully before running her through the heart.

As she looked at her sitting there, with her worn sick face and shabby
clothes, she had an extraordinary movement of compassion. She had never
before felt sorry for any woman she had made uneasy. It had been her
theory that a straying husband is a wife's responsibility, no one
else's. But who could expect the husband of such a charmless bundle of a
wife not to succumb to even the most half-hearted seduction? Never
before had she met a woman on such unequal terms, and it spoilt the game
for her. It was like stealing a child's sixpence.

"Look here," she said frankly, "I won't pretend not to understand you. I
heard only this morning that there's been a certain amount of gossip
about your husband's visits to this house. But I also heard that you did
not object to them. Is that a mistake?"

"I don't know who could have told you that. Yes, certainly it's a
mistake. I didn't know about them till yesterday--and then I didn't
quite take it all in till he came home and began to--I mean till I asked
him about it and he told me he loved you."

"He's told you he loves me!"

She was startled--almost shocked. That a man should be such a fool--so
little ready with evasion. . . . Besides, she had not thought for a
moment that Greg was in love with her. She had imagined--on the rare
occasions when she thought of it at all--a pretty heavy fascination. She
knew that she had broken like a fireball into the atmosphere of his
dingy world, that she had given him the delight of something strange and
new, and that no doubt he found her as exciting and entertaining as she
found him the reverse. But she had never expected to do more than burn
up a little of the atmosphere--it was an altogether different thing to
realize that she had hit the earth. He had actually told his wife that
he loved her. . . . It seemed incredible--both the loving and the
telling.

"Yes; he was perfectly frank with me," continued Mrs. Marlott. "He told
me that he'd fallen in love with you and couldn't keep away from you."

"Is he given to this sort of thing? Have you had any trouble of this
kind before?"

Better talk to her like that--professionally, as one woman to another.
There was a strange lack of rancour in the grey eyes that seemed to
float up through a pool of tears to fix themselves on hers.

"We've been married twenty years and there's never been anyone else but
me--till now."

"My God!" said Brenda.

The temperature of the interview seemed to have changed. She suddenly
felt herself at a disadvantage--no longer mistress of a situation which
she could mould to her own ends, either of destruction or of clemency.
She had not felt like this since that dreadful hour she had
spent with Michael's mother. . . .

"It's true," continued Mrs. Marlott, "I never even imagined he could.
. . . When Mrs. Malpas started hinting, I didn't understand her." She
broke off: "Of course he knows it's hopeless. He hasn't got a penny; we
can barely keep alive on what we make out of the farm. He couldn't
possibly afford a divorce, even if I agreed not to ask for alimony,
though I don't see how I could manage without it."

Brenda was speechless. She might have known that something like this
would happen in a place like Woodhorn. Divorce . . . alimony . . . the
woman must be mad--the man must be mad too. If he had felt all this, why
on earth couldn't he have shown it and warned her, instead of tumbling
round her like a clumsy sheepdog? Till that moment she had never
imagined that he stood in any different position from the number of
lightly married men who had rubbed round her feet since she was
seventeen. Most of them had been more demonstrative than Greg; but if
anyone had uttered the words divorce or alimony in their hearing they
would have run straight back to their wives. On the single occasion when
one man had been different from the rest she had known that difference
at once; her heart had told her. Mrs. Marlott was still speaking.

". . . So I'm not asking any terrible sacrifice either of you or of
him."

"What are you asking?"

"That you refuse to see him when he comes."

Brenda answered with a touch of malice:

"Wouldn't it be better if he stopped coming?"

Her visitor disarmed her at once.

"I can't stop him. I've tried, but it's no use. That's why I've come to
you. You've got hold of him somehow, so you must let him go. If you do
that I can do the rest--I love him and I can save him. But you've got to
let go. After all, I'm not asking a favour of you--I'm asking for
justice. If," she continued in a milder voice, "if you refuse to see him
when he calls, or even if you're always out, or engaged . . . he'll take
the hint in time."

"Yes, I suppose so."

She envisaged a tiresome fortnight.

"Wouldn't it be better to let him down gently?" she suggested, and
thought to herself: This is an unnaturally amiable conversation.

"I think a clean cut would be best," said Mrs. Marlott earnestly. "He'd
understand it quicker. If there's any hope, Greg's the sort of man
who'll always make the most of it. All his life he's been like that. So
it seems to me that it's the first thing that must be taken away."

"Very well. I'll not be at home when he comes this evening."

To her intense surprise Mrs. Marlott burst into tears.

Brenda was embarrassed. She always found emotional displays disquieting
and this one was complicated by disturbances in her own heart. She was
not sure whether she felt angry or compassionate, whether she wanted to
comfort the weeper or push her out of the room. Damn it all! Was this to
be her reward for enduring poor old Greg five evenings a week? . . .
Enduring him? No, if she was honest she must admit that it had not been
all endurance and that probably now she would miss him very much: He had
been someone to talk to, someone to spice the tasteless hours. When he
was with her she had felt flattered and desired, even if she had also
felt bored. Now that she had released him so lightly she saw that she
still wanted him--a little. A plague on him and his plain wife! Why had
they got to lumber like this through life, talking of love and divorce
and alimony? . . . If only their touch on things had been less heavy she
might now be promising herself some sort of a kick out of her next
meeting with Greg, while getting a very definite kick out of her present
encounter with his wife. Instead of which she was giving up something
that she would rather have kept, and had been made to feel a beast into
the bargain.

Mrs. Marlott dried her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'm awfully sorry to have made a fool of myself
like this. But I never thought you'd be so sweet."

"Sweet . . ."

"Yes. I never thought you'd come like this half way to meet me--give him
up so generously--at once. I thought you were quite different."

"I am."

Her words seemed to fly over the woman's head.

"It shows," she continued, polishing her nose with her handkerchief and
rubbing her eyes into an even greater redness. "It shows how it's always
the best thing to call on people and talk things over face to face. I
don't mind telling you that I hated doing it. But I simply had to do
something for Greg, since he won't--can't, I mean--help himself. You
see, he's never felt anything like this before, and he doesn't know how
to manage. He has absolutely no idea how much worse he's making
everything for himself and everybody by drifting on, when nothing can
come of it. I did what I could to make him realize; but I soon saw that
I wasn't being any use. That's why I came to you. You were the only
person who could help us. But I never expected you'd do it so quickly
. . . or so easily. . . . It's been such a relief! I thought you'd say
some dreadful things."

"What things?"

"About wanting him for yourself and not letting him go--telling me that
now he's found love I'd be a brute to spoil it for him."

Brenda longed to say: But, my dear lady, do you really think your
husband's the sort of man a woman would dig her claws into from any
motives except spite or desperation? I'm not yet so situated either way
that I need blight two people's lives to keep a dull dog at my feet.
Aloud she said:

"But you told me you weren't asking me to send him away as a favour but
as an act of justice. Exactly how bad do you think I am?"

"I--I don't think you're bad at all."

"Then why should I insist on keeping him for myself after I've heard
what you've told me about your marriage?"

Mrs. Marlott hesitated and looked embarrassed.

"I--I didn't know. I thought--I thought--I wasn't sure, but I thought
perhaps you loved him."

Brenda nearly screamed.

"No," she said in a voice made unnaturally soft by refraining. "I don't
love him and I'd no idea till you told me that he was in love with me.
He didn't show it, you know."

"Didn't he? No--I suppose he mightn't."

"I guessed he was bored and wanted someone to talk to, and I was bored
and wanted someone to talk to--so there it was."

Mrs. Marlott looked stern again.

"There was more in it than that. He's told me that he's kissed you."

"What does a kiss matter? It helps a man and woman to talk."

"It meant more than that to Greg."

"I believe you. And I'm trying to tell you that if I'd realized all that
I shouldn't have let it--any of it--happen. This is the last moment I'd
choose to have anyone seriously in love with me."

"Yes--I know--I mean . . . I hope I haven't said anything to hurt your
feelings."

"My feelings are pretty tough by this time, thank you."

"Oh, but I didn't mean. . . ." Mrs. Marlott at once became anxious and
flustered. "What I want to convey is that it isn't anything I've heard
about _you_. . . . I shouldn't have imagined a thing if Greg himself
hadn't told me . . . I never pay any attention to gossip--in fact I took
your part against Mrs. . . . and when I saw him sitting here with you
yesterday evening I only thought: how nice for him."

"Oh, you saw him sitting here, did you?"

Mrs. Marlott blushed.

"Yes--through the window. I was anxious about him not coming home, and
somebody told me his car was outside your door, so as he still didn't
come I ran up the lane to make sure; and there he was--looking so happy
. . ."

Her voice suddenly broke. She really was incredible.

"And you still didn't think there was anything wrong?" asked Brenda.

"No, not until he came back and told me a lot of lies. You see, it never
entered my head for a moment that Greg could do anything like that. It
nearly killed me."

Brenda suddenly felt cold, as she saw before her, not the two Marlotts,
but herself and Nicky, whom her lies had killed as surely as Greg
Marlott's would have killed his wife if she had had aortic disease of
the heart.

"Look here," she said abruptly, "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Marlott looked surprised.

"I'm sorry," continued Brenda, "because I know I took risks. I've often
taken risks before, but I might have guessed that things would be
different in Woodhorn. You can take comfort from the thought that I've
done myself no good, either. The whole place is alive with gossip. Mrs.
Malpas told me so this morning."

"I hope it won't affect Greg's business. We can't afford that."

"I don't suppose it will. I feel quite sure that he appears in the story
only as my victim. I've had a bad name in Woodhorn from the start . . .
no doubt you've heard all about me."

Mrs. Marlott hesitated.

"I don't know. I've heard one or two things, of course; but----"

"What things?"

In spite of her scorn, she could not forego the chance of finding out
exactly where she stood in local reputation.

"Only your--only about your husband. Somebody told me he--you--you had
asked him for a divorce."

This was interesting because untrue.

"I said," continued Mrs. Marlott, "that I thought it honest of you to
ask him to divorce you instead of wanting him to be co-respondent
--respondent, I mean (I always get them mixed). So many women expect
their husbands to do the dirty work for them."

"No doubt they do. But I'm afraid you're paying me a compliment I don't
deserve. Divorce may have been mentioned--I believe it was--but we
didn't get so far as deciding who was to divorce whom. My husband died
before anything could be settled or even talked about."

"Yes--I heard he died very suddenly."

"He had heart disease. I didn't know it--he'd consulted a specialist
while I was away and hadn't told me anything about it."

Mrs. Marlott said something which she did not hear. Her mind had
switched back to the moment when Nicky slumped at her feet. She closed
her eyes, to hide his face which had suddenly filled the room. She
wished she had not begun to talk to this woman about these things; and
yet somehow--for reasons she could not fathom--she would rather
she knew the facts than followed Woodhorn gossip any further into fancy.

"I loved my husband very much. I don't suppose anyone has told you that.
I loved him--but it was more as his daughter than as his wife. He
married me when I was only seventeen, and after Lucinda was born he
became a sort of father to both of us. I was happy with him, though I
flirted like hell, until I'd been married nearly twenty years, when a
man came along who made a fool of me."

"But that's exactly what's happened to Greg," cried Mrs. Marlott. Brenda
nearly laughed in her simple face.

"I should have thought it was quite different--except for the time we've
both been married."

"But that's a very important point--at least, it is to me. I wonder if
you'd mind telling me--I mean, what I want to know is--what sort of
feeling exactly did you have for your husband before you met this other
man? Greg says that what he feels for you is quite different from
anything he's ever felt for me. I believe he thinks----" and her voice
faltered, while she groped once more for her handkerchief. "It's what
makes it all so dreadful--I believe he thinks he's never been really in
love with me at all."

"That's nonsense," said Brenda. "A man doesn't live happily with a wife
and cleave to her only for twenty years if he hasn't at least been in
love with her once. It's different with women; that's why there's no
sense in comparing my married life with yours. I was able to live quite
happily with my husband, even though I was never really in love with
him, and though as I've already told you I flirted like hell most of the
time."

She paused. Why on earth was she talking like this to Mrs. Marlott? She
did not think the woman was particularly interested in her story, at
least only in so far as its details corresponded with the details of her
own.

"Oh, do go on . . . that is if you don't mind telling me . . . I don't
want to pry into your affairs, but there are things I'd like to know
because they'd help me understand Greg . . . this other man--was he
married?"

"No."

"Then--excuse me asking--why haven't you married him? . . . I mean, it's
over a year, isn't it, since your husband died? And I'm sure if anything
happened to _me_ . . ."

"When my husband died I never wanted to see the other man again."

"Oh . . ."

She was silent, evidently striving to digest this communication.

"I don't know where he is now," continued Brenda. "Immediately after our
quarrel he went to Italy. But he may have come back by this time."

Mrs. Marlott suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh I see . . . you weren't really in love with him after all."

"I certainly was."

"But . . ."

"These things are very difficult to arrange tidily. One loves and one
hates . . . the same person--sometimes--often. Anyway, you aren't
necessarily happy with the man you love; especially when you feel you've
done a murder between you."

"Oh . . . but you can't feel like that."

"I do--sometimes. Not always, I'm glad to say."

"You poor thing."

Once again Brenda closed her eyes. She could feel tears burning in dry
ducts. No, she must not--could not cry. She never cried.

Mrs. Marlott's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"But if you didn't know his heart was bad? . . ."

"Even so, I needn't have broken it. But don't worry about me--or about
your husband, either. After what I've told you perhaps you can believe
that the last thing I want is another serious affair. So thank you for
having warned me."

She spoke lightly, wishing to end the interview as she had begun it, on
a light note--though in a different key.

"You mustn't thank me," said Mrs. Marlott. "I must thank you. . . . Oh I
don't know how to thank you!" She suddenly caught sight of the time.
"Why, look at the clock. It's a quarter to four. You said you
could spare me only a few minutes and I've stayed the whole afternoon."

"I was only going into Potcommon and I can go there just as well after
tea. It will give me a truthful reason for not seeing your husband if he
comes this evening."

"He's sure to come--he practically told me he would. And I really must
hurry off now. He might come early, and it would be dreadful if he found
me here."

"Dreadful! It would be the best thing that could possibly happen."

Mrs. Marlott's eyes grew round.

"How could it be?"

"It might choke him off to see us together. I warn you that you're still
going to have a lot of trouble if you're relying for his cure on the
mere fact of his not seeing me for a while."

"It isn't only that. It's knowing you aren't holding him--that I haven't
got to fight you for him."

Just as well for you, thought Brenda. She said aloud:

"You've still got to fight his craving for me--that is, if he's really
as much in love as you think he is." A sudden, mischievous idea took
possession of her mind. "I'm not sure that it wouldn't be better to do
something drastic and disillusion him. For instance, if he turned up
here and found you and me having tea together and I told him all we'd
said about him. . ."

Mrs. Marlott became violently agitated and a loop of hair uncoiled on to
her shoulder.

"He'd kill me. At least, I don't mean he'd really kill me--he's not the
sort of man to do anything rash--but he'd never forgive me, he'd never
speak to me again." She shuddered. "Oh, Mrs. Light, don't suggest such
dreadful things. I know they're clever, but clever things don't work
with us. Please just do what you said and don't see him when he calls;
it doesn't matter whether you're out or in--he'll take your meaning in
time, and then I know how to deal with him. He'll be wretched, of
course; but I can manage him if he's merely unhappy and wanting
something he can't have. Oh please, Mrs. Light, please promise
that you'll never, never let him know that I've been here and told you
all this."

She looked so desperate that Brenda rather reluctantly gave up an idea
which had begun to please her and which she felt had distinct
possibilities.

"Certainly. I promise. If things don't turn out well and you think for
any reason we should change our tactics, you can let me know."

"Thank you so much. I will."

She stood up to go. The preposterous interview had come to an end at
last.

When Brenda had seen her out of the house, she came back and flopped
into her chair. She was utterly exhausted and not at all inclined to
drive into Potcommon. She would much rather stay at home and talk to
Greg Marlott. It was a pity, she thought, that she should not see him
to-day, when for the first time in their acquaintance she would have
found him interesting.



                                Part II

                             SHINING LIGHT



                                   I

                             LUCINDA LIGHT

The trees by the lane-side still wore some of their leaves as coloured
shadows clouding the austere, delicate lines of their branches.
Harbolets Shaw was a glowing spark among the extinguished meadows,
clashing the fiery brown of its chestnut saplings with the more varied
brilliance of Casteye Wood, where maple stood pale as primrose and wild
cherry crimson as flame. All the landscape was coloured and clear under
a childish blue sky, unlike November--which seemed to live only on the
marsh, where the mists hung close to the flooding waters, and underfoot,
where the mud oozed over the flints of Ember Lane.

It splashed Lucinda's brogues as she ran down the hill towards Chequers
Cottage. She would have a fine dirty pair of shoes to clean this
evening--no hope of Mrs. Shafto touching them. It was shoe-cleaning and
lamp-trimming and laying the table and answering the door for Lucinda
and her mother again. Nan Scallow had not been to work for three days
and Mummy said it must be the baby, which meant of course that she could
never come back, as it would be impossible to hide a living, bawling
baby from Mrs. Shafto. Even if it was kept shut up in Chequers Cottage
she was bound to hear of it from someone. Such a mischief could never be
hid. It seemed a pity, as Mummy liked Nan and didn't mind the baby.

Lucinda herself did not like Nan, or it might be more correct to say
that she felt a little afraid of her. She was likeable enough with her
ready smile and obliging manners; she spoke pleasantly in a crooning
voice. But these were only surface decorations, silver-paper stars
tacked on a fold of the universal darkness. Once Lucinda had dreamed of
her looking out of the blind window in the gable-end of Loats, and once
while broad awake she had seen her standing in the midst of a
black cloud.

Of course she had said nothing to her mother. Not that it would have
made Mummy anxious about Nan, but it would have made her anxious about
Lucinda, who never told her when she "saw" things or when she had
strange dreams about people. So she had pretended to her mother about
Nan Scallow, pretended that she wanted her back (as in a way she did,
for it was tiresome doing housework and having Mrs. Shafto give notice
once a week). In fact she had offered to run down and inquire for her at
Chequers Cottage. It had been Mummy who had at first objected to that.

"People will think it's improper--if there's a baby."

"But perhaps there isn't and anyway no one will know we think there is."

"Mrs. Malpas will. But never mind about that. You're my daughter, not
hers, and we can't be more cut by the neighbourhood than we are already.
I think I'd better come with you, though."

"Oh, no, Mummy, I'd much rather go alone."

"Sweet child!"

"Well, you know why. You hate walking and you hate visiting cottages and
you hate people being ill, and I don't mind any of these things.
Besides, I want to see Joan--I can easily run down to Chequers Cottage
first and ask at the door. It won't take me a minute. All I'll ask is if
she's coming back soon and I don't suppose anyone will mention the baby
to a young girl like me."

"Then we shan't know if there is one."

"I'll be able to guess from what they say. Don't worry, I can manage all
right, and at least we'll find out if she's coming back or not."

So she had run off quite gaily down the hill, for she wanted to see Joan
and she felt curious about Chequers Cottage. She knew the outside well,
both as it was now and as it had been two hundred years ago, but she had
never been inside it, and she was curious to see how it looked, how much
its internal shape of beams and plaster had to tell her of those
roistering days that Humfrey Malpas was always talking about,
when it had been the resort of highwaymen. Perhaps he had been as wrong
about the Chequers Inn as he had been wrong about Dickory.

Dickory. . . . She wondered if she would ever see him again. She did not
want to see him, and for that reason she had not gone again to look at
the Old Country through the hedge by Harbolets Shaw. Dickory was
something apart from her normal experiences of "sight." He seemed to
come from outside rather than from within, and she now felt almost
certain that he was "real," in a sense that the other things she saw
were not. According to her father's explanation the Old Country that she
had seen through the hedge had never had any real existence--it was only
a projection of her thinking and her reading into a sort of dissolving
view, with just those resemblances and those mistakes that her mind or a
book might hold. But Dickory, of whom she had read nothing, thought
little, and heard no more than Humfrey's irrelevant legend, must have a
very different origin. He also had a very different effect. He made her
feel unhappy, anxious--helpless, too; for what can one do to help a
ghost? If he was a ghost . . .

There was a part of Ember Lane where the trees of Harbolets Shaw made a
tunnel with the trees of Casteye Wood, which spread to the lane to
shadow it just above Summer Row. Lucinda nearly always ran at this
point--she felt uneasy, as if she might meet something--somebody here.
She never had, but she felt that she might--especially to-day . . . if
Dickory really was a ghost . . .

She ran; but almost at once, it seemed, the tunnel curved and opened,
and the brightness of the marsh lay spread before her--water and mist
with the sun beating down on them, and on sheep-dotted grasslands. In
the near foreground, almost like a human figure in the foreground of a
landscape painting, stood Chequers Cottage. It was leaning away from the
marsh towards the road, the northward slope of the roof increasing the
apparent angle of the frontage. No line of it was straight--beams,
chimneys, windows, door-posts all sagged and leaned. To Lucinda it
looked perilous, as if it must inevitably be pulled down by the great
lump of ivy that hung from its roof and seemed to be dragging it forward
into the lane.

She found herself disliking it intensely and had to make an effort to
walk up to the door under the fading chequer-board. For some time after
she knocked there was silence, and her discomfort grew; then noises
sounded in the house and came nearer. At last the door was opened by a
woman surrounded by small children.

"Good morning," said Lucinda. "I've come to inquire after Nan Scallow.
She lives here, doesn't she?"

The woman had not looked friendly, but now she looked definitely
hostile.

"No. It's up the stairs," she said, and shut the door so promptly that
one of the children, who had strayed forward to examine the visitor, was
nearly shut outside.

Lucinda was vexed and a little disquieted. She saw no stairs and for
some reason she did not enjoy hanging about Chequers Cottage. She had a
mind to give up the attempt and tell her mother she could not get in;
and then either they would let things be or else come down reassuringly
together some other time. But the next moment, just as she stepped back
into the lane, she caught sight of the stairs--a wooden flight, rather
like the steps that lead to the drying floor of an oast-house--running
up the west wall of the cottage to a door just under the roof. That must
be Nan Scallow's door, and as she had come after her she had better go
up and inquire. Besides, in spite of her uneasiness, she still wanted to
see inside the cottage.

She walked up and knocked on the door. This door seemed even more silent
than the other. She waited quite a while for steps, but none came. She
knocked a second time without result. Perhaps no one was there. Perhaps
Nan was not ill at all, but away for some other reason. Lucinda wondered
if she should give up the attempt, but felt unwilling to leave without
at least a glance inside. Perhaps the door wasn't locked. . . . She
turned the handle and found that it was not, so after knocking a third
time out of politeness, just in case anyone was there, she pushed it
open and walked in.

She found herself in the dirtiest, most untidy room she had ever seen.
It seemed full of old clothes and broken furniture and had a revolting
smell. There were plenty of beams, dripping with dirty cobwebs,
but the plaster was nearly all gone from the walls, displaying ugly gaps
of lathe and board. Was this where Nan Scallow lived? The home from
which she came every morning looking so neat and clean? It seemed
incredible and she had much better not say anything to Mummy about it.

She felt a growing distaste, rising almost to nausea--a distaste as much
of the soul as of the body--and turned to go. As she did so she came
into collision with a small table which immediately collapsed. The next
moment a voice came from behind a door which she had hitherto taken for
a cupboard.

"That you, Mother?"

So Nan must be in the next room.

"No, it's me," Lucinda said politely and opened the door.

The inner room was better furnished and altogether brighter than the
outer one; but for some reason it made her feel worse. Nan lay in the
midst of a great bed, with coloured curtains knotted into a curious,
old-fashioned crown above it. Her black hair was spread like a cloud
over rather an unclean pillow, and her arms lay out on the rose-coloured
quilt. Her shoulders were bare--she evidently did not wear a nightgown.

"Oh, it's you, Missy," and she pulled up the quilt to her neck.

"I came to ask how you were," said Lucinda. "When you didn't come we
wondered if you were ill."

"I'm better now," said Nan. "I've been terrible ordinary, but I'm better
now."

Lucinda had an impulse to bolt out of the room, but now she was there
she felt she must stay and find out what her mother chiefly wanted to
know.

"We don't want to hurry you, of course, but my mother would like to have
some idea as to when you're coming back."

"I'll be all right again in a few days. It's one of those flues, Missy,
and I'd better stay away till I gets over it."

"Oh, yes, of course. We don't want to hurry you. I only just came to
inquire."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said Nan pleasantly.

She looked ill, her cheeks had fallen in and she seemed years older than
three days ago. It must have been a very bad attack indeed. Lucinda felt
sorry for her.

"Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get for you? You look too
ill to be left alone."

"Oh, Mother looks after me. I live with her down here. She's gone to the
shop now to buy some good things for me, but she's seldom away long."

Judging by the state of things Lucinda did not think that Mrs. Scallow
could be a very good nurse.

"Would you like Mrs. Shafto to make you some soup?"

"No, thank you, Missy. Mother makes gorgeous soup."

"Well, I'd better be going now." She felt that if she stayed any longer
she wouldn't be able to breathe. The room seemed to be filling with
something--something she couldn't see. Then suddenly she noticed through
the window, which was set very low in the wall, a woman digging in the
garden behind the house.

"There's your mother digging in the garden," she said without thinking
at all.

Nan started up in bed, so suddenly agitated that she forgot about the
bedclothes, and Lucinda saw her breasts, unexpectedly large and
terrifying.

"I tell you my mother's gone up to the shop." She looked out into the
garden. "There's nobody there at all."

"Yes, there is--over there by the shed. But I made a mistake--she can't
be your mother; she's quite a young girl."

Now she came to think of it she had never seen Mrs. Scallow, so could
not have recognized her. She wondered why she had felt so certain it was
Nan's mother that she had seen digging in the garden. It might have been
anyone, for obviously the Scallows were not the only occupiers of
Chequers Cottage.

Nan had fallen back on her pillow; she took no interest in the girl whom
Lucinda was still watching.

"I believe she's burying something."

"What could she be burying? You ain't allowed to bury things in Christian
gardens. That must be Mrs. Norrup digging up her turnips." Once more she
started up in agitation. "I can't see anyone."

This time she was right. Mrs. Norrup or whoever it was had vanished--no
doubt into the shed. Lucinda felt rather ashamed of herself for having
been so interested in her--there seemed now no reason for it. But though
she was no longer interested she still felt distressed, almost ill. She
had a strange feeling that it was night and not day.

"Well, I must be going. I'll tell my Mother you'll be back in about a
week."

"Before a week, I expect, Missy. I tell you there's nothing the matter
but the flues."

"You're sure you don't want us to send you down some soup or anything
like that?"

"No, thank you, Missy. Mother's buying me good healthy soup at the
shop."

Lucinda felt that she had done her duty and could escape at last. Escape
was the word. She felt a desperate need to run from that queer, coloured
room, from the garden view through the window placed monstrously at her
feet, from Nan's brown, sick, anxious body and her cloud of hair--the
black cloud in which she lived. She opened the door and went out, but in
her agitation she must have opened a different door from the one she had
entered by, though she had not noticed that there were two doors in the
room. She found herself at the head of a short flight of stairs leading
down into the house.

She would not go back. There must be a way out down these stairs. She
ran down and opening another door at the bottom, found herself in a
large, low-ceilinged room, which seemed at the first glance full of
people and smoke. A big wood fire on the hearth was smoking badly and
she noticed with some interest that nearly everyone in the room had a
clay churchwarden pipe.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I've been up to see Nan Scallow and came
out the wrong way by mistake."

Nobody answered or took the slightest notice. She went forward a few
steps into the room, and then suddenly was struck all at once by a
number of strange things. The light did not come from the
window but from candles set on small tables, round which sat groups of
farm labourers, smoking and drinking beer. She was surprised to see that
they all wore round frocks, for she did not know that any survived in
Woodhorn. Then a girl appeared from somewhere, carrying a tray with
tankards of beer on it, and Lucinda at once recognized her as the girl
she had seen digging in the garden and had at first so strangely
mistaken for Mrs. Scallow. She was not a pretty girl, her mouth was too
large and her face had a coarse, impudent look which was not attractive.
She wore a cap on her head, which Lucinda thought ridiculous, and
incredibly clumsy shoes. She took no more notice than anyone else of the
stranger.

It looked as if Chequers Cottage was still some sort of inn; but there
was a queer, unnatural feeling about the room and its inmates, which
Lucinda realized must be due to their complete silence. Nobody spoke a
word--at least she could not hear a word spoken, though heads seemed to
wag together over the pipes and beer. And now she came to think of it
those clumsy shoes the girl wore were entirely noiseless. . . . She felt
frightened as she crossed the floor . . . then suddenly outside the
window a lantern swung, and looking out she saw standing at the door one
of those long, boat-shaped wagons that belonged to the Old Country.

Her skin crept.

So that was what had happened. She was no longer a spectator, but a part
of her own dream . . . hallucination . . . vision . . . whatever it was.
She felt utterly confused and helpless. What could she do, since she was
in a dream? She seemed still to have some power over herself, as she
walked across the floor, her steps as noiseless as the waiting-maid's.
She was going out--as quickly as she could. What would she find outside?

She hesitated, stopping in the middle of the room. She suddenly felt
afraid of going out. The door did not, she could see, lead straight into
the road, but into a passage. She had better not go into that passage.
Perhaps, as it was a dream, she could get out some other way. She might
be able to will herself into the road. She felt that she could will
herself to make a noise and immediately heard the stamp of her foot
on the boards.

"Can't you hear me?" she called to the surrounding company, and then
immediately felt afraid in case they could. It was like those dreams in
which you try to do things to make yourself wake up, and then find that
you have only pulled the dream into a yet more horrible shape. She
watched their faces anxiously in case they changed.

Nothing happened, however; that is, nothing happened in the room. But
she had a curious sensation that something was happening outside the
window. She moved towards it, both attracted and repelled, and found
that she was face to face with Dickory.

He was looking in, so closely that his features almost touched the pane.

"Wheesh," he said in a low voice. "Is she in dere?"

Lucinda found herself saying:

"If you mean the maidservant, she's just gone out of the room."

"Oi mun see her," he muttered. "Oi mun see her now."

His voice was not unlike the voice of the farm workers round Woodhorn,
but so broadened and thickened as to be almost incomprehensible. She
noticed that he wore a tattered coat of some dark, fustian material, and
enormously thick cord breeches, gaitered from the knees. So much for
Humfrey Malpas's purple velvet and spade-guinea buttons.

"Oi mun see her," he repeated, and Lucinda realized then that though his
words were almost a foreign language, his voice was clear enough. The
pane of glass between them did not seem to matter at all. The next
moment this was accounted for by the fact that he was standing beside
her in the room. She felt like someone who has made rather an absurd
mistake.

"Can 'ee help me?" he asked wildly. "Can 'ee help me?"

"Perhaps she's gone up upstairs. If you go through that door you may
find her."

"Dere un't no door--'tis gone--'tis arl changed. Dat's wot queers me
so about dis place--'tis arl changed."

Lucinda looked behind her and saw that he spoke the truth. There
was no door. The only door in the room besides that opening
into the passage was one that obviously led into the garden--it was ajar
and she could see the daylight through it. There was daylight outside
the window, too, the pale blue, sunny day she had left behind her when
she climbed up the stairs to visit Nan. No boat-shaped wagon stood in
the lane--she looked clear across its emptiness to the tarred, wooden
front of Summer Row.

She might well have joined her complaint with Dickory's--"'tis arl
changed"--except that it would have been no complaint. She was
intensely relieved to find that the Chequers Inn and its inhabitants had
disappeared. She stood in an ordinary cottage kitchen, with a kettle
boiling on the hob and four small, dirty children crawling about the
floor. It was all sunny, stuffy, cosy and reassuring. Of Dickory,
strangely enough, she now felt no fear at all.

"No, you're right," she said, feeling that she must be as matter-of-fact
as possible, "it's gone. But if you go up the outside staircase you'll
get to the top floor. . . ." She broke off, realizing that under
restored conditions he would probably see nobody but Nan Scallow.

He mumbled: "Oi mun find my poor Moll."

"Oh. . . ." A startling thought occurred to her. "Do you mean Moll
Kemp?"

"Surelye. Oi mun tell her de hornies is arter her sum as arter me. But
Oi can't find her nowheres. 'Tis arl changed."

His voice rose in a great and sudden cry. Till then Lucinda could not
have told if either of them had been audible to anyone but themselves;
but now his voice seemed to tear the veils of time and space that
surrounded them, and to shatter like a blow on glass the common
atmosphere of the room. One of the children, whom she had quite
forgotten while she was talking to Dickory, suddenly looked up and
screamed with fright. The others too began to yell, and immediately a
woman came running into the room from the garden--the same woman who had
opened the front door when Lucinda had knocked at it.

"I beg pardon, miss, but haven't you found Nan Scallow's room? She
doesn't live her."

She seemed offended and Lucinda began to apologize.

"I'm sorry. I've seen her all right, but I took the wrong door out of
her room and found myself down here. This place is very confusing."

"I saw you come in from the garden a moment ago."

Then for the first time Lucinda distinctly remembered coming in from the
garden. She had turned into it without thinking, at the bottom of the
outside steps, and finding herself close to an open door at the back of
the house had decided to walk through it to the lane. Her head swam. For
a moment she seemed to have two distinct sets of memories, then
gradually but swiftly one set faded and became the memory of a dream.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, "I wasn't thinking where I was going. This is
the way out, isn't it?" and she walked towards the passage door.

"Yes, that's the way out," said the woman grimly.

The children had stopped bawling and Dickory had completely disappeared.
As she walked through the passage door Lucinda found herself wondering
if he had ever been there.


Then suddenly, as she shut the door behind her and found herself
enclosed in darkness between two doors, she met him again--this time
only as a voice. She heard him say--in her own head, it seemed:

"Who's dat 'ooman? Oi'm allus of a seeing of her around heres, but she
un't nobody Oi knows."

"She lives here. There's a number of people living in this house."

"Surelye; but nun of 'em's de fakses Oi know. Tell me, whur are de
fakses Oi know?"

Lucinda shook her head sadly--her head with his pleading voice inside
it.

"I can't tell you. I don't know the folks you know."

Her heart ached for him. He seemed so hopelessly confused and lost.
. . . She wondered if he knew he had been dead two hundred years . . .

Then suddenly he asked her:

"Who are you?"

It was a natural question, and she would never have thought that she
could find it so difficult to answer.

"I--I--my name's Lucinda Light; I live at Woodhorn Parsonage."

He shook his head.

"Mus' Williams lives at de Parsonage. He promised to larn Oi a prayer;
but reckon Oi've never bin able to git so far."

"Do you," Lucinda ventured, "do you live here? At the Chequers Inn, I
mean?"

"Naw--reckon Oi've lived nowheres in particular sinst Oi come away from
Loats."

"Loats! Do you come from Loats?"

"Surelye. Oi wur de looker boy at Loats."

"Then it isn't true? You aren't a highwayman at all!"

Here was news for Humfrey Malpas and the Antiquarian Society.

"Highwayman?" He seemed perplexed. "Dat's hightoby, Oi reckon. Naw, Oi
un't no hightobyman. A poor lad wot takes a purse on foot mun't name
hisself wud de hightoby captuns."

"So you do take purses?"

"Oi mun live, sum as odder fakses."

"You don't do lookering any more?"

"Naw. Sinst all dat terrification Oi'd starve if Oi dudn't take a purse
now and agun."

"I see," said Lucinda politely. But there were a great many things she
still did not see clearly.

"Do you--do you ever go to Loats?" she asked him.

"Loats! Naw, Oi dursn't. Dey'd kill Oi if Oi went, and if dey 'oodn't
Oi'm scared o' Mus' Rowfold."

"Who's Mus' Rowfold?"

"My master . . . my master." The voice in her head became agonized.
"Him wot Oi shot dead de marnun arter Christmas Day."

Lucinda felt herself once more afraid. The fear did not seem to come
from her relations with Dickory--from this isolation with him in the
cupboard of her thoughts. It seemed to come from the gable end of Loats,
from the little dead window high up in the point of the roof.

"Oh, Dickory," she cried, and as she cried she knew that her voice was
as soundless as his, speaking in her brain only, like those voices that
talk in unfinished sentences on the verges of sleep. "Oh Dickory, why
had you----"

"Because of de liddle Missus."

"But why . . ."

"'E wur crool and unkind--she wept in her apron. . . ."


Lucinda knew that she was waking up . . . daylight was coming through
the blind--no, for she was in the little dark passage at Chequers
Cottage, where she had been for long ages talking to Dickory. It was
growing light--the woman in the kitchen must have opened the door,
wondering why she was still there. . . . She could see a wallpaper
pattern of trees, a delicate design of green and brown with a background
of tender blue--most exceptional wallpaper for such a cottage . . . not
wallpaper at all, but the tracery of Harbolets Shaw against the
sky--flat, as in a design, not living . . . now suddenly alive . . . and
she herself awake, walking briskly into the mouth of Loats Farm Lane.

. . . Her footsteps flagged as full awareness returned, making her head
spin. So this was where she had been all the time--no, not all the time,
but for the last ten minutes at least, while she thought she was in the
passage of Chequers Cottage, talking to Dickory. . . . She began to feel
giddy and sat down on a lane-side bank of dry, dead leaves. She must
think, clear up the jumble in her memory, before she went on to the
farm.

Once more she had the consciousness of two memories, shouting against
each other. One was entirely normal and practical, the other was strange
and rather alarming. She could remember so clearly walking out of the
kitchen into the passage and then out of the front door into the
lane--yes, and she remembered how half way up the hill a rabbit had
dashed across from the hedge, almost at her feet. She remembered all
that, and yet she also remembered what seemed an age of darkness, with
Dickory talking in her head.

Already that second memory was beginning to fade, as the most vivid
dream will fade. If she did not want to lose it she must try to hold
back at least a part until she had set it in the mould of her
waking thoughts. What had Dickory said about Moll Kemp? . . . And who
was "de liddle Missus"? . . . and he had spoken of Mus' Rowfold . . .
That was probably someone who lived at Loats in olden days . . . and he
had shot him dead on the morning after Christmas Day--because he had
been unkind to "de liddle Missus" . . . perhaps she was his wife. . . .
Anyway, out of the story emerged no dashing highwayman, no purple-coated
captain on a black mare, but a poor yokel in fustian and corduroy, a
looker turned footpad and cutpurse. Was that really Dickory--the ghost
of Ember Lane? . . . Perhaps Humfrey Malpas's highwayman was the real
ghost and the Dickory she had seen and spoken to only a sort of personal
dream--something in her head--a part of illusion. . . . She could not
tell.

For the first time she felt depressed as well as frightened. If to-day's
experience really was an illusion, she must be ill--on the verge of
madness, perhaps; for never had any illusion been so actual, so
convincing. It stood out, entirely different, from anything she had
experienced before. She longed for comfort, for counsel--to tell . . .
to ask. . . . Why was there nobody whom she could ask or tell? when only
a year ago there had been somebody who would have understood everything,
explained everything. . . . Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I can't go on like this
much longer without you--needing you so much. Why can't I ever see
_you_? Talk to you? Why are you more dead than Dickory?

There was no answer in the wood. She rose hurriedly from her seat of
fallen leaves and walked out into the sunshine, where an open downy
field spread over the hill-side towards Loats Farm. She could hear
somebody whistling in the Shaw behind her. The voice, as it drew near,
seemed to mock the world with its untuneful gaiety.



                                   II

                             HARRY COBSALE

Harry Cobsale pushed his bicycle into the lane through Harbolets Shaw.
He had been over to Idolsfold to see his tegs, some of which were
developing liver fluke on water-logged pasture. He had arranged with
Strudgate's looker to drench them all, but he was angry with Strudgate
because he was angry with himself for having sent them there. Richard's
tegs were doing well at Waxend, where the land was lighter; it was those
heavy clay meadows at Idolsfold--the Randiddles they were called--which
were bad for stock in winter. If he hadn't hated Richard and his
butcher-graziers he would have thought of that before Michaelmas.

Apart from this set back, his affairs were not going too badly. It
seemed that at last he had shaken off Nan Scallow. Having won what she
wanted off him in the shape of a "character" she had apparently decided
to let him alone. Certainly it did not look as if she meant to claim him
as her child's father. She had lately been going about the village
saying that there wasn't going to be a child at all and that she'd have
the law on chaps who went about miscalling a poor girl. The grosser part
of Woodhorn had laughed sceptically and immoderately, but some among
them must have shared Harry's relief. She might be lying, but her lie
showed plainly that she did not intend to father her brat on anybody--no
doubt she had come to despair of any court's award. And now the last
rumour of all was that she had had it and her old mother had given it to
the gipsies. That made things brighter still.

So in spite of his superficial annoyance about the tegs, he pushed his
bicycle between the ruts feeling fundamentally satisfied. His relief was
not all material--deliverance from a legal and financial threat. It lay
also in the removal of a conflict from his life--the conflict he himself
had started when he had run, away to hide in the darkest thing
he could find from the brightness of Richard's Joan. He had for a time
belonged to Nan because Joan could not belong to him; but now that Nan
had released her hold he felt free and gay, because he belonged to
neither of them. He was free to strut before Joan and proclaim his
independence of her as well as of Nan. The only drawback was that owing
to the absence of speech between them she probably knew nothing about
it. She would not know why he was strutting and spreading his tail.
Never mind; he'd find a way to show her.

The lane, though deeply rutted at the sides, was hard and smooth in the
middle. When he came to where the slope of it ended he mounted his
bicycle and rode whistling through the Shaw. Just beyond the edge of it
he overtook a girl--Lucinda Light. He recognized her from several yards
away by her height and the roll of golden hair above her collar. He did
not particularly want to speak to her but he did not see that he could
very well pass her without doing so; besides, he felt at the moment
ready to exhibit himself to almost any girl.

"Good morning," he said, dismounting.

She seemed startled, as if suddenly waked out of a dream. Queer sort she
was; he wondered what she and Joan talked about.

"Good morning," she said politely.

"Going to see Joan?"

"Yes; I haven't been round for a long time."

"Well, you might tell her from me that she's a very pretty girl and I
don't see why she should never speak to me just because she's married to
my brother."

She looked at him seriously.

"You know I could never tell her that."

He thought her a mug, but a pretty one. Her roll of hair was like a
wreath of buttercups round her head--he wondered how she had made it
look like that. She was nicely dressed too in a big tartan coat--very
much a lady, he thought. But he did not like her--she was queer, and he
could not like her.

"Well," he said, feeling inclined to plague her a bit, "I don't see
why you shouldn't. What do girls talk about when they're alone
together?"

"Joan and I talk about all sorts of things. But I don't know her well
enough to talk about----"

She broke off. He was opening the farm gate for her to go through.

"Talk about what?"

"About you and your brother Richard not talking to each other."

Something in her voice disconcerted him, almost made him feel abashed.
It was not disapproval--that would only have made him swaggering and
defiant--but a kind of sorrow which for the moment mysteriously he
shared.

"We seem to be talking a lot about talk," he said and laughed uneasily.
"But you still haven't told me what you and Joan talk about."

"I have told you--all sorts of things."

"All sorts? What sorts?"

"Oh, clothes, the films in Marlingate, the serial in _Good
Housekeeping_--things like that."

"I see."

He found it difficult to imagine her talking of such commonplace,
chattering sort of things.

"Do you ride a bike?" he asked irrelevantly.

"No. I don't think I should care for it. I like walking."

They were crossing the first of the two great open meadows between
Harbolets Shaw and the farm. He began to feel discouraged at the thought
of the long way they still had to go together. He would have liked to
mount his bicycle and ride on ahead. It was awkward walking and talking
like this--embarrassing--not a bit like walking with a girl. He wished
that he could take leave of her, but did not see how he could. Then
quite suddenly she asked:

"Isn't there supposed to be a ghost haunting Ember Lane?"

What a fool question!

"I've heard there is, but I don't believe it."

"Why not?"

"I don't believe in ghosts."

"Oh . . . I've been told that it's the ghost of a highwayman--a man
called Dickory."

Harry laughed. He was greatly amused.

"When I was a little chap we had an old woman about the place and if
ever I terrified her she'd say: 'Dickory'ull get you. Mark my words,
Dickory'ull get you.' But this is the first I've heard about his being a
highwayman."

"Humfrey Malpas told me he was a highwayman and that Chequers Cottage
used to be a sort of headquarters for highwaymen, when it was an inn."

"I never heard of that, neither. But Chequers Cottage was an inn all
right. You can see the chequer-board sign still over the door."

"Isn't it supposed to be haunted too?"

"I dunno. These are just old wives' tales. But talking of Chequers
Cottage," tossing his voice with deliberate carelessness, "how's that
girl Nan Scallow getting on at your house?"

"Very well. That's to say she works well and my mother likes her. But
she's been away ill for the last three days."

Harry looked at her intently.

"That's hard luck. I hope she'll be back soon."

"Oh, yes--she said she'd be back at the end of the week."

Of course a diddicoy would get over that sort of thing very quickly.

"I've just been down to see her," continued the girl.

"You've seen her!"

Harry was aghast. The conventional man in him--of whom, in spite of his
freedoms he had a considerable survival--was outraged by the thought of
this young lady going into the harlot's house. It was an outrageous
thing. She must be a fool and her mother something worse.

"Yes; we heard nothing for three days, and Mrs. Shafto--that's our
cook--was beginning to get worked up; so I went to inquire. I'm glad I
did, as we were afraid she might have left us for good."

"Do you know what's the matter with her?"

He asked the question boldly, wondering what she had meant when she said
they were afraid that Nan might have left them for good.

"She said she had 'flu. It must have been a very bad attack. She looked
dreadful."

Something in her voice silenced him. He said no more. He was
sufficiently loutish in his mind to feel awkward with a girl who was not
quite of his own sort--who was, moreover, difficult to talk to in spite
of her occasional fluency. As he walked silently beside her for the last
fifty yards of Loats drive he thought to himself that she was not really
pretty, in spite of her golden hair. She had not the right sort of face
to go with it. It was too long and her skin was pale not unhealthy, just
pale like cream. Besides, she was much too tall.


If there was one thing at Loats which Harry was tremendously proud of it
was his milking machine. He called it his, though technically it was his
and Richard's joint possession, because it was his victory that had
bought it. He had fought Richard for weeks over the Bronson
Milker--fought and won. That was the actual fight which had divided
Loats into two uncommunicating armies.

Richard had disliked the idea of a petrol machine--wait till the
electricity came down Ember Lane, he had said in the days when he still
spoke to his brother. Harry had retorted that they would have to wait
for years before that happened; perhaps it would never happen at all.
Well then, said Richard, never mind--cows had been milked for thousands
of years without machinery and Chodd still had his hands. He'd rather
have no machine at all than a petrol one, which would scare the cows and
affect their yield. Harry had answered that the cows would soon get used
to it, and if Loats wanted to register as a Grade A milk farm they had
better have something more up to date than Chodd about the place.

The matter had been settled by a sale at Clearhedge where, owing to the
slump and the farm's difficulties, a lot of nearly new machinery had
gone at fancifully low prices. Harry had taken the law into his own
hands and had bid for the Bronson on the second day of the sale. Even
Richard had seen it was a bargain, though he had refused to speak to his
brother ever since. The machine was in good condition and Harry
had been right about the cows--they had very soon got used to it. On the
other hand it did not always milk them dry and they often had to be
finished by Chodd.

It was also extremely noisy, but as this did not affect the cows Harry
did not consider it a drawback. On the contrary, the sound, proclaiming
his victory over Richard and advertising the mechanical milking at Loats
to the surrounding country-side, was music in his ears and nearly always
drew him to the cow-lodge, where Chodd played the rather disapproving
part of mechanized farm-hand among mixed odours of cows and petrol. This
morning, in the Morgay field, he no sooner heard the distant whirr and
thump than he wound up the conversation he was having with Backreed
about the Idolsfold tegs and strolled off towards the farm.

In the great dim cow-lodge the noise was deafening and the air fumy. At
first he neither heard nor saw the two girls standing together by
Blossom's stall. When he saw them he hesitated, but not for long. This
was a very good time to tease them both, for they would be embarrassed
by each other's presence and unable to meet him openly. Nor would Joan
be able to leave him abruptly and march off into the house, as was her
wont when he drew near. For a moment he watched them, talking to each
other, unaware of his presence, then he threw back his shoulders and
marched towards them, as a cock might strut towards a couple of hens.

Owing to the noise they did not see him till he had almost reached them
and imprisoned them between Blossom's flank and his own body. They
started and Joan drew herself up, but Lucinda turned to him and smiled.
Then she lifted her voice above the racket.

"Joan brought me in here to see your wonderful machine."

"Handy thing, ain't it?"

He spoke almost faintly, for he was startled. It startled him to find
Joan displaying the machine that Richard would scarcely look at. A gap
between them there. . . . He felt obscurely flattered and delighted. He
had never imagined for a moment that she admired his Bronson milker; and
yet she must admire it or she wouldn't be showing it to Lucinda--they
wouldn't both be standing there to watch it working and making
too much noise for them to talk of the chattering things they talked
about when they were together.

"She says the cows don't mind a bit," continued Lucinda.

"No more they do," said Harry, "though every now and again you'll find
one as does, I'm told."

All the time he watched Joan, but she was not looking at him. She leaned
against the stall, gazing intently at the mechanized cow, her arms
folded across her cherry-coloured pinafore beneath her breast, where
shadows moved lightly with her breathing. Her hair was spun of shadows
and the faint light that hung in the barn, and shadows marked her eyes
as they looked downwards, and her lashes lay like shadows upon her
cheek. Harry suddenly felt his throat tighten with a sort of pity. Her
approval of his machine gave him no sense of triumph, but rather of pity
for her who must ever since she came have admired it secretly and
separately.

"Has Joan showed you how it works?" he asked.

"No. We asked your man one or two questions, but I don't think he quite
likes us being here."

"I don't suppose he does. But I'll show you--it's simple enough."

He explained the machine to them and they both listened though only
Lucinda spoke. He felt in his heart that she wanted him to think well of
Joan, and that though she had refused to persuade her to offend Richard
by speaking to Harry she wanted to change the atmosphere of hate between
them. A little while ago he might have resented this, but now the
thought of it pleased him, coupled as it was with his discovery of
Joan's interest in his machine. He began to see her at last as something
not wholly Richard's; and again it was not triumph but pity that crept
closer to his heart as he thought of her joining perhaps unwillingly in
his brother's campaign of enmity and silence. She would have liked to be
friends if loyalty did not compel her to be otherwise. Poor little Joan
. . . poor little missus . . . no doubt she hated the silent life she
was made to lead. For the first time he saw her marriage to Richard as
something more than a personal outrage on Richard's brother Harry.

"These things," he said, "go better by electricity. But as we'd have
to wait five years at least for the electricity to come to
Loats, it seemed better to get a petrol one when we had the chance."

"Of course," said Joan. He could not swear that he heard her voice above
the rattle of the machine, but he clearly saw the words form themselves
on her lips.


He did not see her again till the evening, when coming into the kitchen
alone to a late tea he unexpectedly found her sewing by the lamp. She
took no notice of his entrance, for it was not part of Loats' method of
warfare for either side to acknowledge the other even by so much as a
withdrawal, unless some special act of aggression made it necessary.
Harry shouted into the scullery for his tea and sat down at the table,
more disturbed by her presence than she appeared to be by his.

Neither of them said a word while he waited for Mrs. Cobsale to make the
tea and bring it in. Then when his mother was in the room he spoke to
her desultorily about the farm and the weather. As a rule the combatants
at Loats were particularly garrulous when talking to their own side, if
only to emphasise their silence towards the enemy. But Harry was neither
very communicative nor very attentive to his mother this evening, and
felt glad when at last she wart away to attend to some of her remoter
affairs. He was now full of his desire to go further on the trail that
he had so surprisingly started this morning.

"I'm glad," he said, breaking almost violently into the silence, "that
you like my Bronson milker."

She did not speak for so long that he was afraid that, after all, she
never would. Then suddenly she said:

"I think it's a useful machine, but I don't want to talk about it."

Her cold little voice exasperated him into a sort of angry banter.

"You mean you don't want to talk about it to me."

"I mean I don't want to talk about it to anyone."

"No; Richard wouldn't like to talk about it either."

She made no reply and her silence was now a challenge that it had not
been before.

"But you liked talking about it to your friend," he plunged on. "You
were even keen enough to show it to her."

"I'm sorry I did. I'm sorry you found us."

He was making her speak, and his anger suddenly left him.

"Don't be sorry. I enjoyed explaining it to you both. I liked feeling,
if only for five minutes, that you didn't hate me."

"I don't hate you. But I'm not going to talk to you, so please let me
alone."

She stood up, gathering her sewing things into a bag.

"Don't go," he said.

But she was determined; though unfortunately, not expecting him, she had
settled herself so elaborately that her going took some time. He
noticed, too, that her hands were shaking and fumbling. Poor little
thing! she was nervous. A reel of cotton slipped out of her fingers and
rolled under the table. He made a dive for it, but she dashed forward to
get it first and before either knew what had happened their heads came
together in a sharp crack.

"Oh. . . ."

For a moment they crouched, blinking at each other, dazed, uncertain.
Then suddenly they both laughed.

"I'm sorry," said Harry, straightening, "that was my fault."

"No, it was mine. Have I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. I've a good thick head. But how about you?"

"Oh, I'm all right."

They smiled, almost easily. After such a concussion, it seemed forced
and unnatural to retreat into the old stiffness. But he saw with some
disappointment that she was still on her way out of the room.

"Why are you going? Just because I'm here? I'll be gone in a minute."

She murmured something about having to go upstairs.

"And after this you're never going to speak to me again?"

She looked at him narrowly, and, he thought, sadly.

"You know I can't."

"Because of Richard."

"Yes, of course--because of Richard. And because of you."

He was startled.

"Why because of me?"

"Because when I first came you sneered at me. You were horrible. I tried
to be pleasant at first, though I didn't speak to you. I tried to be
pleasant to you all. I hoped that the quarrel would blow over and that
then we'd all find we liked one another. The others weren't so
bad--Daisy and Mrs. Cobsale; they just took no notice. But you--you
mocked at me, you made me feel ashamed of my good feelings, and I knew
that Richard was right when he said you were the cad of the family."

"He said that, did he?"

"Yes, and in next to no time you proved it."

She seemed to have forgotten to leave the room, but stood just inside
the door, away from the lamp, so that all of her was dim except her
coloured pinafore and her eyes, which her own words seemed to have set
alight.

"How did I prove it?" he asked, still curiously without anger.

"By going with that woman."

He felt stabbed. Somehow he had not thought of her knowing, certainly
not of her caring. He had gone with Nan Scallow to outrage and mortify
his brother and to stifle something that was tormenting his own soul;
but he had never pictured the effect of his action on her, the spring of
it. He answered awkwardly:

"I don't go with her any more."

"No, but you went with her; you were able to take up with a pikey girl.
And that would have shown me you were what Richard said you were even if
you hadn't shown me already."

He could not bear to let the silence come down over them again while she
thought like this of him.

"Look here," he said, rising from the table, but coming no closer, "look
here. You must listen to me. It ain't fair to think of me like this. I
went with Nan Scallow and I mocked at you--if you call it mocking, but I
didn't mean it for that--I did it all for the same reason. I was mad,
just about mad when Richard brought you here and I saw how pretty you
were." The words limped off his tongue, because he had not many
of them and called them up with difficulty. Even while he said "pretty"
it seemed inadequate for the light and sweetness that had tormented him;
but he could think of no other word to describe a girl. "I don't mean I
was jealous in the ordinary way. I was angry," again a weak, limping
word, "because Richard had something better than anything I'd ever seen.
So I did things I thought would annoy him. So I went with Nan and winked
at you."

That was all he could say, and he knew that his words were miserably
inadequate and as commonplace as the cracking together of their skulls a
few minutes ago. If only they could have brought about as good a feeling
. . . but when she answered he realized that she had understood him only
in part.

"I see," she said slowly. "It wasn't me you hated--it was Richard."

"No more than he hates me."

Then to his consternation she began to cry.

"Joan . . . don't cry."

He moved towards her, but stopped when she flung out her hand as if to
strike him.

"How can I help crying?" she gasped. "This is a dreadful house--full of
hate. Sometimes I can feel murder in it. Oh, why do you hate him so?
He's done you no harm. It isn't his fault that your father left the farm
to him as well as to you."

"He could have sold out and gone."

"Why should he? And why didn't you?"

"I'm the eldest son. I've a right to be here."

She said nothing, but began to dry her eyes.

"He'd no business to bring you here and upset you," he continued,
"things being as they are. He might have known you'd be miserable with
all this going on around you."

"He wanted me all the more because his own mother and brother had turned
against him. I'm glad he brought me here, even if it makes me unhappy
sometimes."

Once more he felt pity moving uncomfortably in his heart; but with it
this time came a hatred of Richard that almost choked him.

"Look here," he said, "wouldn't it make things easier for you if you and
me was friendly--spoke to each other sometimes?"

"No," and he saw shadows move behind her, as she opened the door. "No,"
she repeated with her hand on the latch. "I'm not going to speak to you
again after this. I'm glad we've spoken, for we've cleared up a few
things; but I'm not going against Richard for the sake of a brother
who's treated him the way you have."

She had flicked up some of his old bravado.

"Well, smile at me sometimes--I promise not to mock."

The shadows behind her yawned and swallowed her up.



                                  III

                              JESS MARLOTT

Jess Marlott straightened her back and sighed. Her sigh had started in
the troubled depths of her mind, but with the movement it became an
expression of bodily pain. For a minute she stood half-bent, gripping
her side with both hands. It was worse than ever . . . and she had
really thought Green Kelloids were doing her good; this was the first
time she had felt anything since she started taking them. If they
weren't going to put her right she would have to give them up, as they
were extremely expensive--dearer than that other thing she had tried
first. . . . Perhaps she ought to go and see a doctor. But a doctor
would be sure to tell her to rest; and how was she to rest? . . . Also
you could buy quite a lot at the chemist's for one doctor's fee. She
didn't want to pay five shillings to be told to do what she couldn't.
No, she'd wait till she had finished the Green Kelloids, anyway; she
hadn't really given them a chance.

The pain was gone, and with its going her body and mind--her whole
life--seemed to change. She no longer thought of seeing the doctor or
doubted the promises of patent medicine. Her body became upright,
relaxed, and once more conscious of heatless sunshine in the two-acre
field. At the same time her mind fell back into the pit of anxious
sorrow where it had been lost all the morning. Her release from pain had
brought only a change of evils, not a respite. Her body and mind were
like two buckets in a well--when one came up the other went down, and
she did not know when she was worse of.

She moved on to the next ark. She was cleaning them out, while Greg did
the houses. Up till a fortnight ago the work had been done by Woodsell,
to whom her husband had paid a weekly twelve shillings which must now be
saved. It was Jess herself who had suggested the economy. She
had not had a very high opinion of Woodsell; but now, having done part
of his work for a fortnight, she felt less critical. Either he was a
model of pluck and industry or else--as on the whole she thought more
likely--his bodily construction was quite different from hers.

One of the least pleasant contrasts between poultry and general farming
was the difficulty in feeling any sort of personal affection for the
stock. She remembered how she had loved the beasts on other farms, some
more, some less, but always with a certain individual warmth. When she
had cried over the death of old Blue, the carthorse at Castlemadder, her
tears had had no connection with the financial side of his loss. And the
pigs at Shottisham had all been separate characters, real and
entertaining as children in a class. But these hens seemed less
individualized than sheep, less sensitive than fish, and her feeling for
them was entirely practical and financial, such as she imagined a grocer
might have for his lumps of lard and tins of tea. When she shut the
houses for the night their heads, as she saw them above the shutter,
seemed to suggest no more of life and laughter than a row of
umbrella-handles and walking-sticks. As far as any affectionate emotion
was concerned she would not have minded finding them all dead the next
morning.

This was perhaps as well, for it was a common thing to find one or two
of them dead. Also the Rhode islands, on which Greg had mainly
concentrated, had a way of "falling over," as Woodsell called it, when
they came to the laying stage--which meant that they had to be sold
surreptitiously as table-birds, to the detriment of the stock. Then
lately there had been some ominous mortalities among the young chicks.
This very day she wondered what Greg was finding in the brooder-house.

He came out of it just as she finished her arks. Poor old Greg! He
looked more shuffling and dejected than ever these days. Even to his
hopefulness it was becoming apparent that the chicken weren't doing too
well. Besides, lately he seemed to have lost some of that hopefulness
itself, as if the loss of Brenda Light had extinguished other lights in
his mind. It must be three weeks now since he had spent an evening
at the Old Parsonage--as Jess knew to her cost. Mrs. Light had
kept her word, but the results had not been quite what her victim's wife
had expected.

She signalled to him cheerfully.

"Hullo! Finished?"

He came towards her.

"What, dear?"

She thought that he was growing a little deaf.

"Have you finished in there? How did you find them?"

"Not too good. There's seventeen dead in the bottom foster-mother and
twelve in the top."

"Well, it might be worse. Only two or three more than yesterday. I hear
at Polthooks they lost seventy in a night."

"Oh, yes, it might be worse. I expect that soon we shall be sweeping
them up."

It was not like Greg to show even that amount of irony, and Jess went
anxiously towards him. He looked sunk.

"My poor old boy. . ."

"Don't," he said and moved away from her, so that she might well have
cried "Don't."

Instead she said:

"Well, I'll go in and see about the dinner. It's nearly time."


A quarter of an hour later they were both seated at the table, starting
another of those nearly silent meals to which she had not even yet grown
used. Greg ate fast, seeming hardly to notice his food. She ate slowly,
with difficulty and repulsion. As a rule he went out directly he had
finished, making some excuse about his work, leaving her to struggle on
alone or empty her plate into the fire.

To-day, however, she noticed that he ate more slowly, fiddling with his
food. She wondered if he disliked it; she had released herself from a
part of her toil by buying some large pink slices of sausage, and now
she began to fear that she had been selfish and had spared herself at
his expense.

"Don't you like it, dear?"

"Don't like what?"

"This sausage. I saw it at Farable's yesterday and he said it was very
nice; so I thought it might save me cooking, as I had to do the arks
this morning."

"Oh, it isn't bad at all, and of course with all this extra work you
ought to save yourself as much as possible."

He was always kind and considerate when he thought of her at all.

"It saves firing too."

He made no answer, but dreamed over his plate.

Some time later she asked him what he was doing that afternoon--not so
much out of curiosity as out of her longing to break the silence which
seemed monstrously swollen by the ticking of the clock. She had to
repeat her question twice before he said:

"I dunno. I've some eggs to take to Starnash and to Maidenbower, and a
table-bird for Songhurst--that's all. I shan't go till after tea."

"Wouldn't it be better to go in the afternoon, while it's light?"

"No, I'd rather be here while it's light. I want to fix the roof-lining
in the brooder-house, and I can't do that in the dark."

She knew then that he was intending a new assault on the Parsonage. He
had not been there for several days and she had hoped that he was
beginning to see the uselessness of any further attack. But either Mrs.
Light had not repulsed him firmly enough or he was undefeatable.

There had been a letter. When he refused to take the hint of the closed
door the lady had evidently written to make things clearer. Jess could
only guess what she wrote, though she had seen the letter many times
tortured in his hands. Her curiosity was quite academic, for she had
felt no jealousy or distrust of Mrs. Light since their meeting. In fact
since that day her life had been enlarged by a new relationship. The
woman her husband loved had become something to her personally. It was
difficult to describe to herself what she felt, but she certainly looked
upon her rival as an ally.

Ever since that day when she had challenged her in a sort of cold
despair, fulfilling an urge, an instinct, rather than expecting
achievement, her life had changed in a number of small, almost frivolous
ways. For one thing she never came in from the poultry without brushing
her hair, still holding in her mind the picture of a black,
shining head. She had bought some face-powder, too, which gave to her
skin a faint, childish sweetness of peardrops. She did not seriously
enter into competition with the other woman, but she had seen wisdom in
her looks as well as in her words and ways, and she was humble enough to
take all her lessons to heart.

Again and again while regulating her dealings with Greg she found
herself asking: "What would Mrs. Light do?" An experienced,
sophisticated woman would know how to handle a man, how to manoeuvre him
out of disaster. She would not weep, or fall into futile rages, or
equally futile pleadings; she would act calmly and wisely, with her head
as well as with her heart. Desperately as each situation arose Jess
sought to deal with it as the other woman would. She even had secret
dialogues with her, of which she was ashamed--for it was childish to
hold imaginary conversation with someone you had spoken to only
once--but which seemed nevertheless to clarify things in a mysterious
way.

To-day she said in her heart to the woman Greg loved:

What would you do if you were me? Would you ask him straight out if he
means to go to see you this evening?

The deep, cool voice that her memory held replied:

You have a perfect right to ask him, and as you've already talked over
the matter with him it seems rather unnatural not to.

But we've never said a word about it to each other since that day I came
to see you. I know that he doesn't want to discuss you with me. He'd
rather bear his unhappiness alone.

Are you sure? Are you sure he isn't saying nothing just because he's
ashamed and afraid?

But I've given him plenty of opportunities.

Are you sure he's seen them? He's like a child, you know, hiding in the
bushes. He can't see clearly what you're doing and he's making mistakes
about you.

Jess might have questioned if, though the voice was Mrs. Light's, the
sentiments were not her own. But it was a way of thinking things out
which brought an extraordinary clearness with it--a clearness that had
a sort of objective compulsion, so that she no longer wandered
round and round as she did with her unexternalized thoughts, but felt in
herself also the power to act.

"Greg, dear," she said gently, "I wish you'd be open with me. I don't
want to pry into your secrets, but I want to know, and I--I think I have
a right to know if you're going to see Mrs. Light this evening."

"I don't want to talk about Mrs. Light."

"But, dear, we must. We can't go on like this. I know you're unhappy
about her and I want to know why."

He laughed in a cackling sort of way that was both new and unpleasant.

"Really, Jess! You know that I've fallen in love with a woman who's
quite out of my reach for every reason there is, and then you ask me to
tell you why I'm unhappy, as if there was any mystery about it."

"But there is----" She broke off She must be careful what she said, for
she had a secret too. If he knew of her relations with Brenda he would
be as much upset and shaken as she had been when she had heard of his.
She continued, her mind pausing on every word:

"You weren't unhappy all that time you were going to see her before I
knew anything about it. So as I can't believe that my knowing has made
all the difference, I feel that something--some new thing--must
have--has--cropped up."

She watched his face anxiously as she spoke; but there was no doubt, no
question in his troubled blue eyes. On the contrary they turned to her
with an appeal she had feared she might never see in them again.

"You're right," he said. "She's refused to see me. She doesn't want me
to come any more."

"Oh, Greg."

Her own eyes immediately blinded, and the next moment he was in her
arms, his face hidden in her breast.

"Jess--Oh, Jess, I can't bear it," he mumbled against her body. "What's
made her turn against me like this? What have I done? I've done
nothing. But she won't let me come. Oh, Jess, I can't live without
seeing her sometimes."

If she had given him poison she could not have felt more guilty. She did
not move. With her secret in her heart she could not stroke his hair and
comfort him as she would have done had her heart been clear. She sat
motionless, supporting him lifelessly in her arms, while her inmost soul
seemed to turn upon itself and reproach her for her treachery and
cruelty. At that moment if she could have given him Brenda she would.

"My dear," she faltered at last, "don't you think it's possible that
she's discovered what your feelings for her really are? If she can't
return them it's only natural that she should want to make a complete
break. And wouldn't you be happier--happier in the long run--if you took
the chance she's given you and didn't see her again? You see, it isn't
if--as if anything could ever be _done_."

"I know. I know. But I don't care about that. That isn't what I'm
asking. I'm not even asking her to love me. All I want is to see
her--see her again in the way I used to--sit with her and talk to her--I
don't care about anything else. I know it's all hopeless; but at least I
used to have something that made life worth living. It isn't now."

The tears rolled down her cheeks. She must take this as her punishment
for having deceived him.

"If only I knew," he murmured on, his muffled voice shaking childishly
in her breast, "if only I knew what I'd done to offend her. But I've
been thinking over every single thing I did or said last time we were
together, and there's nothing--absolutely nothing--to explain why she's
treated me like this. I can't believe that it's because she's found out
that I'm in love with her. She must have known that before . . . and
besides, she isn't the sort of woman who'd be so cruel. . . ."

Jess did not speak. She was ashamed to question or persuade him any
more. She must still be glad that he suspected nothing, that he had seen
no ominous connection between dates, that as far as she was concerned he
was simple and trustful as a child. She knew too that she had done only
what her heart dictated as best for them both. Nevertheless she
felt guilty in all her being, a thief who robs the poor. It scarcely
mattered to her then that his happiness had not been come by honestly,
that she had taken away only what he himself had stolen from her.
Impossible as she would have found it--as she found it now--to be happy
while deceiving him, she must acknowledge that his own dishonesty seemed
to have made very little difference to his contentment. He had drugged
himself with those few hours at Brenda's feet, so that he had scarcely
felt the hopelessness of his position or his treachery to the wife of
twenty years. And it was this drug which she had taken away, so that he
was now awake to pain. She knew that both shame and despair had been at
the bottom of his silence during the last three weeks. She could not
argue away the shame or hold out any hope to the despair; but she had it
in her power to give him back his drug.

It seemed to her now almost a harmless one. Since she had seen and
spoken to Brenda Light she had ceased to fear her as an unscrupulous and
predatory rival. She felt that it would do Greg very little harm to see
her occasionally. The trouble was that he would not be satisfied with
merely occasional visits. And there would probably be kisses . . . her
mind recoiled from the thought of those kisses . . . they offended her
conscience as well as her heart. She felt that there could be no
blessing on such a surrender and that it was bound to lead to further
difficulties. Drugs require to be taken in larger and larger doses.

Yet here was Greg's head helpless as a child's upon her breast, while he
strove with a sorrow she herself had inflicted. She thought: Oh, what
can I do? Then she thought: Perhaps Mrs. Light would help me.


It was wonderful, the refreshment that came to her spirit once she had
decided to consult the other woman. It was almost as if she had been
waiting all these weeks for the opportunity and now at last had found
it. She felt convinced that Brenda Light's wider experience and acuter
mind--to say nothing of her more detached point of view--would be able
to supply what she herself lacked in judgment. She might also be willing
to collaborate in any plan they could devise together. But this
was not all; Jess knew that her expectations from the interview were not
limited to its practical results. She saw herself sitting once more in a
spacious, lovely room, talking to a woman who was witty and sad and
kind, whose views of life were ripe with experienced wisdom. Her heart
thrilled with an excitement that had been sterile since her schooldays
. . . not since Miss Mackintosh had invited her to tea in her study had
she felt anything like this.

Could it be possible, she wondered, that she was starting a "crush" on
Mrs. Light? It seemed ridiculous and unnatural, considering the
circumstances and her time of life; but on second thoughts, was it
really so surprising? After all, she had lived for years apart from the
educated, well-bred people she used to know; her poverty and her work
had condemned her to associate with those whom in the far-off years
before her marriage she would have considered ignorant and rough. Save
for an occasional Rector's wife, like Mrs. Malpas, she had scarcely even
spoken to a woman of what used to be her own class. She had renewed the
contact in circumstances that had given it an especially exciting
quality--a sort of sinister glamour. She did not even now entirely
approve of Mrs. Light; but she was impressed by her and she was
surprised by her. She had been flattered by her confidences and she had
been swept into gratitude by her generosity. The rest had been done in
the weeks between then and now, when in all her sorrow and perplexity
she had turned for counsel to the superior image in her heart.

She must go to see her, and it had better be done at once, before Greg
made his assault this evening. She could go this afternoon, while he was
working in the brooder-house; she would tell him that she was just
running up to the village for a few things--it would not be a lie if she
bought some biscuits at Farable's Stores. She would not be able to wear
her best clothes, but somehow she had lost confidence in these after
seeing Mrs. Light in a knitted jumper and old tweed skirt.

She made herself as neat as possible, with a pair of clean shoes, a
mackintosh and a beret, and set off, treacherously carrying her
shopping-bag. Once on the doorstep of the Old Parsonage she was seized
with qualms. Suppose Mrs. Light refused to see her, or, even if she
saw her, refused to discuss the matter with her. After all, she had
spoken to her only once; all the later conversations between them had
been in her imagination alone. Her friend and adviser was no more than
the good fairy of a child's tale--without existence in the world of
facts. For the first time she saw her errand as preposterous and would
have turned from the door if she had not already rung the bell.



                                   IV

                              BRENDA LIGHT

Brenda waited to see if Mrs. Shafto would go to the door. She had done
so once or twice in Nan Scallow's absence as if to emphasise its
temporary and pardonable nature. She always expected Lucinda to answer
the bell when she was at home, but Lucinda had gone out this
afternoon--Brenda was pleased to think that it was to a cinema, though
as she went inevitably with the Malpases the expedition amounted to
little more than a meeting of the Antiquarian Society under another
name.

She waited, listening. There was not a sound in the quiet house. Mrs.
Shafto must have decided that neither duty nor generosity had precedence
of her after-dinner cup of tea. Brenda rose only half unwillingly. A
caller offered at least some diversion, and it would not be Greg Marlott
at this hour. She was surprised when she opened the door to his wife.

"Oh, Mrs. Light, I'm so sorry--I hope I haven't called at an
inconvenient moment."

"No, of course not. Come in."

She felt quite pleased to see her. She liked the situation--two women
talking over confidentially the man who was giving so much trouble to
them both. Perhaps Jess Marlott would be able to help her deal more
expeditiously with Greg. She had faithfully carried out her promises,
she had been scrupulous in her denials; but she was bored with his many
returns. He was evidently the sort of man who could not take a hint, and
the force of the letter she had written him had been weakened by her
conviction that he would certainly be fool enough to show it to his
wife. Perhaps that was why she was here now.

"I've been wanting to see you," she said, as they sat down. "There's
a lot I should like to ask you about your husband. He still
keeps calling here, you know, though I won't see him."

"I--I'm sorry. I'm afraid he's being a nuisance. But he's so dreadfully
unhappy."

The tears stood in her eyes, lighting them up so that they looked large
and liquid, like a child's. Her appearance had changed, Brenda thought.
She looked slimmer, neater--no doubt because she was not wearing the
awful Sunday clothes. She also looked unhappier--or rather perhaps more
worn down with unhappiness, for she had been tragic enough on her first
visit. But then her pain had been sharp and new, while now it was a
dull, accustomed burden, bowing her shoulders and withering her blood.
It seemed dreadful and ridiculous that she should suffer so on account
of that boring, blundering creature's pursuit of a woman he could never
have and who did not want him.

"You mustn't worry about me," said Brenda. "The only difficulty is that
my maid's away ill, so sometimes I have to open the door myself. I hope
he won't call at a moment I'm not expecting him. It would have been
awkward if I'd found him on the doorstep instead of you."

Mrs. Marlott said:

"What I came to ask is this: Don't you think it wouldn't be better
if--if you did see him occasionally? I mean he's so dreadfully unhappy
at never seeing you at all. He says the times he used to spend with you
in the evenings were the greatest happiness he's ever had in his
life--that he used to look forward to them all day--that he can't live
without them.

"Good God!" said Brenda.

"He doesn't expect--in fact I think now he doesn't even want any more."

Brenda looked at her in astonishment.

"My dear Mrs. Marlott, am I right in thinking that you've come to me for
the very opposite reason that you came last time? Then you wanted me to
promise never to see your husband again. Now do you want me to promise
that I _will_ see him?"

"It isn't exactly that I want you to promise anything. I came really
to ask your advice--what I ought to do. I can't bear to see him
suffering the way he is, when such a little thing would satisfy him. It
seems little to me now, though I made such a fuss about it three weeks
ago, and I hope you won't mind my calling it a little thing."

Brenda closed her eyes. She felt again as she had felt on Jess Marlott's
first visit--a confused feeling, mixed of bewilderment and irritation,
of being in contact with a mind and outlook quite apart from life as she
knew it. The Marlotts belonged emotionally to a world as far removed
from hers as Sirius, a world in which, emotionally speaking, there was
no jazz, light verse, or delicate, frivolous art, but where every piece
of music was a symphony, every poem an epic, every picture a masterpiece
in oils; a world in which no such thing existed as a pleasant
flirtation--only love, divorce, happiness and utter sacrifice. For her
to enter such a world was to enter some fantastic place where the law of
gravity has been monstrously exaggerated, so that everything you pick up
weighs ten times what you expected and you stagger loaded with a silver
spoon.

"Look here," she said, "let's get this as clear as possible. You don't
mind your husband coming to see me as he did before. You'd rather he did
that than make himself unhappy. Now I ask you: is it because you trust
him or because you trust me?"

"I trust you both. That is, to be candid, I trust him because I trust
you. I didn't mean him to come as often as he used to--almost every day;
that would be impossible. But if you let him come and see you once a
week . . ."

"It would be worse than nothing, I should imagine."

Mrs. Marlott said earnestly:

"No, I don't think that. I think it would be much better. Greg is used
to having things cut down, having to manage on very little. It's only
the total deprivation that's hurting him so."

"Like cutting out drink?"

"Yes, exactly. You can get delirium tremens if you suddenly cut that out
altogether."

Brenda sighed. Her effort to lighten the conversation had failed
significantly. She looked into her own heart, uncertain of what the
mirror held. Did she really want to start again with Greg
Marlott? His visits had been better than nobody's, but in the days when
she had welcomed at least their beginnings, there had never been in her
mind the smallest suspicion of those weighty emotions which she knew now
would fill every corner of it with unrest. It would be no longer a
question of sitting and listening to him, of receiving his adoration and
his kisses: she would be haunted all through with the thought of Jess
and her stark, honest suffering, by the thought of his own
uncompromising, unfulfilled desire. She still had it in her power to
enjoy an occasional flirtation, but she shrank from a serious love
affair--even if serious only on one side. Neither could she believe as
his wife evidently believed, that such an arrangement could last, or
indeed exist at all without at least some hope on his part. She saw a
future complicated with all sorts of unattractive possibilities.

"Is it really wise," she asked, "to trust either of us? I mean I can't
guarantee to make him happy and keep him unsatisfied at one and the same
time. No woman could. There's no standing still in love, and if he
really loves me I can't believe he'll be content even with an infinite
series of visits of the sort he's paid me hitherto."

She wondered but did not ask: How far does your self-sacrifice go?
Exactly how many tons does it weigh? If I loved him and he could afford
to marry me, would you give him this divorce you talk about so
earnestly, or are you only asking me to see him because you know it
can't lead to anything more?

Jess said:

"I've told you that he's never expected anything more than he's had. And
I'm sure--especially if you show him that from your side--your point of
view--it's all he can get . . . then I believe he'd be satisfied."

Brenda said nothing. She felt reluctant and impatient. Really Jess
Marlott was a little too simple. Yet at the same time she shrank from
sending her away with a mere refusal to oblige her on this rather
strange point. It was queer, but she could not help liking the woman, in
spite of what seemed to her the imbecility of her reactions to life and
love. She was honest and kind and there was no littleness about her: she
ought to be helped in some way to suffer less. . . .

The telephone bell rang in the hall--a welcome interruption. Brenda
stood up.

"Do you mind waiting while I answer it? I shan't be a moment." It was
probably Lucinda, ringing up from Potcommon. Brenda had agreed rather
unwillingly to go over there and drive some of the cinema party home.
She hoped that Lucinda had contrived a respite for her--she had promised
to do her best.

The hope seemed realized when the operator's voice asked:

"Is that Woodhorn seventy-three?"

"Yes."

"Hold on a minute please."

Lucinda in a public call-box.

But it was a man's voice that said:

"May I speak to Mrs. Light?"

Brenda suddenly felt cold. Or rather the sensation was as if a recent
and highly sensitive bruise had been sharply touched. But her voice was
wooden as she answered:

"Speaking."

There was a pause during which she seemed to know everything. She
certainly was not surprised when what seemed ages later the voice said:

"Brenda, this is Michael."

"Oh . . . where are you?"

The words sounded limp and vague, but her voice was still steady.

"I'm at a strange place called Potcommon."

This time it was not a touch on a bruise but a blow full on the chest.
She felt winded, and for a moment could not speak. When she recovered
she said lightly:

"On holiday?"

"Lord, no!"

"Why are you there, then? I thought you were in Italy."

"So I was till a week ago, when I came back and heard you'd gone down to
Sussex."

"How did you find out my telephone number?"

"I looked in the Directory."

It was the first chink she had shown in her armour, and a little arrow
of laughter came to meet it out of the silence.

"Oh, you weren't difficult to trace," he continued. "Did you think you
had hidden yourself?"

"Of course not. I never meant to hide."

She knew that in a sense she was lying.

"Well, when can I come and see you?"

"I don't want to see you, Michael."

She was lying in all senses now and he knew it as well as she.

"Don't be obstructive, my dear. You must let me come. We've done a
year's penance, and I think it's time we forgave each other."

She had been complaining of Mrs. Marlott's heavy touch on life--here in
revenge was somebody whose touch was far too light.

"Don't come, Michael. I haven't changed. If you came it would only make
things difficult for us both."

"I don't think it would. Brenda, there's so much I could explain if
you'd let me."

"I shan't let you."

She moistened her lips. The hand that held the receiver was shaking. Her
mind felt small and lost, like a child wandering through dark rooms. In
one of those rooms lay a grey-haired man asleep--no, not asleep--dead.
Nicky was dead, and Michael did not seem to care.

The far-off voice said:

"There's only a ghost between us."

Still trembling, she hung up the receiver.


An eternity seemed to have passed since she had left the drawing-room;
and it was almost a shock to find Jess Marlott still sitting there. She
was slumped in her chair, obviously a very tired woman. At any other
moment Brenda would have felt compassionate, but now the only reaction
she could bring to her was an earnest desire that she would go. She felt
for the moment absolutely unable to return to the problem of Greg
Marlott and his tiresome fidelities. Why on earth couldn't the woman
look after her own husband?

She heard herself mumbling an apology as she sat down and grabbed a
cigarette.

"Oh, it's quite all right. But I mustn't stay much longer now. I ought
to be getting home, or Greg may miss me."

Thank heaven!

"I don't think I've told you--but I've found out that he means to come
and see you after tea."

"What! To-day?"

"Yes. He was talking about it at dinner-time. That's why I thought I'd
come and ask you if . . ." her voice murmured on, but Brenda was not
listening. Whatever happened Greg must not come--not to-day. For Michael
would be here. She knew now that Michael would be here, and though the
sight of Michael might be the most salutary thing in the world for Greg
she felt that she simply could not endure to meet him again in the
presence of such a visitor. That first encounter would require all that
she had of power and poise, and how can one expect to display power and
poise with an amorous donkey blundering against one?

Greg must not be there. Yet how could she keep him out, condemned as she
probably was to open the door herself? Oh, damn Mrs. Shafto! Damn Nan
Scallow! It really was degrading to have the Servant Problem rearing its
suburban head among the ultimates of passion and regret. In days that
seemed long ago she would have welcomed the intrigue of keeping two
pursuing males apart. But now riot only had her embittered taste
revolted, but the stage was no longer set for a French farce; or rather,
since there still were plenty of doors, an important member of the cast
was missing--the trim, black and white, silk-stockinged maid, with lewd,
laughing eyes and discreet finger on lip. The play simply could not
proceed without her.

". . . so I thought perhaps if you saw him only for a few minutes and
told him that because of scandal and gossip he mustn't come so often or
stay so long, I believe he'd accept it and be happy again--and not
bother you so much."

("An adventuress with servant trouble") . . . Brenda made an effort.
"I'm sorry," she said firmly. "I've been thinking things over and
I can't do that. It wouldn't do any good--I'm sure; and believe
me, I know. He might be happy for a bit, but it wouldn't last and then
he'd feel worse about it than ever. But I tell you what I'll do. I'll
write to him and put the thing in such a way that he'll give up the idea
and settle down to forget me."

"He's--I know that he's had a letter from you already; and it hasn't
helped him--in fact, it's the other way round."

"I daresay it is. I wrote that letter when I was angry and all I said
was that I'd rather he didn't call. He probably thinks he's offended me
and wants to explain."

"That's it--exactly. He says he can't imagine what he's done wrong."

"Well, this time I'll put it differently. I'll ask him to keep away for
my sake--make something rather fine and noble of it on his part. I'll
tell him I'm doing it in both our interests, and that since we can't
have what we want it's better to end it all on a noble memory. You know
the sort of letter."

Jess Marlott obviously didn't.

"Do you really think it'll do any good?"

Brenda could not answer: Yes, I believe he's silly enough for that; so
she said:

"It's a way out for him that doesn't hurt his pride."

"I don't believe he's got any pride."

"Perhaps not the usual sort, but every man who's in love is proud of his
love--he can't help it. If he thinks he's keeping away from me for my
own sake he'll have the gratification of believing that I really love
him and that he isn't just being sent away because he isn't wanted. All
the time he stops away he'll be feeling he's doing something for me.
It's psychological, you know--emotion transformed into action."

She suddenly felt delighted with her own idea. She saw Greg Marlott as
just the sort of idealistic ass to find happiness for the rest of his
life in chivalrous silence. He was emotionally, if not physically, the
typical "second hero" of romantic fiction--the lover who stands aside to
let the best man win. She saw her release and his gratification take
place together.

But Mrs. Marlott did not appear convinced.

"Do you really mean you're going to let him think you love him?"

"That I'm in danger of loving him--it's the best way out. Do you mind?"

"Not for myself--no. But for him. It's deceiving him in rather a
dreadful way."

Brenda suddenly lost patience. She had been in an acutely nervous,
irritable state since her return from the hall, and now she felt unequal
to this new load of Marlott solemnity.

"How do you know;" she asked in a flurry of malice. "I may not be
deceiving him--it may be true."

"That you're in danger of falling in love with him?"

"Yes--if he goes on coming."

She watched the effect of her words.

"But I thought----" Jess Marlott began, and Brenda knew that she was
thinking about Michael. She remembered, telling her quite a lot about
him on her first visit. She felt half-ashamed now of the way in which
she had outpoured herself. It was impossible--she felt the obstacle
throughout her being--that she should tell her of this new development,
which had taken place almost in her presence. She could imagine and
dread her reaction of romantic earnestness. . . . No, let Jess Marlott
think that she was in danger of falling in love with her
husband--already in love with him, even--if that would help her keep him
away.

"My dear friend," she said, "I really do know what I'm talking about.
It's a year since I saw or heard anything of the man I used to love; and
I'm not at all the sort of woman to go about empty hearted. Your husband
has been very kind and attentive to me in a place where I've been worse
than lonely. Surely you're under-rating his attractions if you think I
could go on seeing him day after day for-weeks--talking to him,
listening to him, having him make love to me--without at least some
feeling . . ."

"But you said----"

"I know. I know. Of course I said it. And it was true, as far as it
went. But no woman's such a fish. . . ." Her agitation was
gaining on her. It was preposterous that she should have to think out
lies to persuade Mrs. Marlott, when her whole mind was bent on a
different emergency. "Oh, do please let me tackle this situation my own
way. After all, it concerns me as much as you. Of course you know your
husband better than I do"--or do you?--"but believe me I'm not without
experience of men and their ways. I feel we can arrange things so that
he keeps his pride, while you and I both have some peace. Anyway, please
let me try."

And please, please go. I can't bear sitting here any longer arguing with
you on this ridiculous matter. I want to think. I must think. Please go
and let me think.


But when at last the poor Marlott was gone she could not think. She
leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, but in the darkness only
lightning played on broken images. Her mind was like a deserted stage,
where there is nothing but stacks of disused scenery and a lumber of
properties.

She saw a cloudy back-drop of Switzerland--the peak of the Kubli with
the clouds behind it, looking like ice cream and cotton wool. The
veranda of the hotel where a tall, fair, middle-aged man sat reading the
_Berner Zeitung_ . . . she had thought he was a foreigner till her
mother introduced him.

A high meadow enamelled with Alpine flowers. That was where she had
first known that he wanted her and not her mother. She tried to
recapture him as he had been then, rubbing her eyes till the image came.
But she could see only herself, so young and needy, craving so
desperately for kindness and escape. Good-bye, Mother! be good! . . .
thank God! thank God! . . . Her husband's face looking down on hers,
surprised and thankful. He had made love much more attractively than the
young men who had occasionally taken advantage of dark corners and her
inexperience.

A sob stuck in her throat, dry as a crust. Oh, why had she failed to
keep the happiness that those days had brought her? For she had been
happy. The scenes she saw now were all steeped in sunshine: the
tumbled, craggy, cypress-pricked landscapes of northern Italy--strips
torn out of the background of a Cinquecento picture--the oily blue of
the Bay of Naples--a hill-side in Capri, shadowed as if to glorify the
light of sky and sea and a great white arch of rock sweeping up towards
a rainbow . . . even the sun on Kensington Gardens--the air close, the
colours muffled with heat--a bed of pansies and her little dog on a
string . . . Nicky's face smiling down at her . . . the Dutch Garden.
She had been completely happy then.

Had she ever been so completely happy since?--even in those moments
which should have held the full experience of delight? Had Michael given
her even once what she had accepted from Nicky as a matter of course?
Looking back, she doubted. And yet, if she was honest she must
acknowledge that all her happiness with Nicky had been vitiated in a
greater or less degree by boredom. Again and again she had fallen from
contentment into that debility of spirit which afflicted her now at
Woodhorn. Why was it that all the best things in her life had bored her?
. . . Nicky and Woodhorn Parsonage. . . . Whereas Michael had never
bored her--he had stimulated, enraged, delighted, exasperated, but never
bored. And now he was coming back--to save her again from boredom as he
had saved her once before. This time what price would she have to pay
for the cure of her debility?

She shivered . . . her weakness frightened her; and yet even in fear
there was a stimulation that had been lacking half an hour ago. Michael
would soon be here . . . she felt convinced that he meant to come to
Woodhorn; perhaps he had already started . . .

What should she do? She was no nearer now than she had been twenty
minutes earlier to unravelling the complications of the next few hours.
The only progress that had been made--and made by time rather than by
thought--was that she now knew for certain that Lucinda depended on her
to fetch her home. She would have rung her up before this if she had
been able, to devize another plan.

Should she scrap the engagement and leave her daughter to come home as
best she could? There was always the 'bus.

If she went to Potcommon she would probably miss Michael Barney. Did she
want to miss him? The fact that she was uncertain suggested a
further reason for doing so. She had better be out when he came--to
avoid him was as necessary as to avoid Greg Marlott. Oh hell! She had
forgotten all about Greg Marlott. But now she saw him blundering on the
doorstep--she saw both men on the doorstep . . . well, perhaps to
encounter Barney would mean the cure of Marlott; but she did not want
him cured that way, any more than Mrs. Marlott had wanted him cured by
meeting her there. Oh, damn everything for being so complicated--and all
for the want of a good parlourmaid. Perhaps after all she had better go
to Potcommon; she would at least be out of the house, and since she
seemed to have no power to settle and dispose of events it might be as
well to let as much as possible happen in her absence. Then she could
take up the story an instalment further on and make better sense of it.

It was true that she ran the risk of meeting Michael in Potcommon. A
town of three thousand people, one cinema and one decent hotel must
reduce their orbits and increase their chances of contact. But she had
by now convinced herself that he meant to come to Woodhorn; and even if
she met him on the way it would be at least without the complication of
Greg Marlott.

She was preparing to leave the room when once more the telephone bell
rang in the hall. Her heart beat high and suffocatingly. This must be
Michael again, resuming their broken talk. She half determined not to go
to the instrument. When she did it was only to hear the bathos of
Lucinda's voice.

"That you, Mummy?"

"Yes."

"Look here, you needn't come over if you don't want to."

"Oh . . ."

She suddenly felt angry with Lucinda for leaving her putting off till so
late.

"I'd very nearly started."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't know till three minutes ago that I could get a
lift home. There's someone here we used to know--Mr. Barney."

"Oh."

"He's staying in Potcommon, and he says he'd like to see you before he
goes back. So he suggested driving me home."

"When? At once?"

"In about twenty minutes."

"Is he with you? Can he hear what you're saying?"

"No. He's gone to fetch his car."

She could escape him if she wished--as she felt Lucinda wished. Lucinda
would be her accomplice in any plan she chose to make. But all she said
was:--

"Very well. I'll expect you both for tea."



                                   V

                             LUCINDA LIGHT

The film was _The Ghost Goes West_. Lucinda had been half delighted,
half disturbed by its arrival at the Potcommon Electric Theatre. She was
entirely ignorant of its nature and a little uneasy on the subject of
ghosts. She had gone in some hope of instruction; nevertheless it had
been a relief to find the subject treated lightly. After all, that was
the most reassuring way to treat ghosts. One did not want either to be
terrified or to be mystified by them. Here was a ghost bringing neither
fright nor confusion, and for the moment she was grateful. It was not
till the film was over that she' realized that all her difficulties were
still unsolved.

"Is that the end? Do we go home now?" asked Mrs. Malpas.

But her family ordered her sternly to remain seated.

"There's a Silly Symphony and the News before the Ghost comes on again.
Besides, Mrs. Light isn't coming for us till half-past four."

So they sat on through the interval, while the organ played and the
lights changed from gold to green and from green to blue, and thence to
purple and red and orange and back to gold in a way that Mrs. Malpas
agreed it would have been a pity to miss.

Lucinda sat between the Rector and his daughter Petronilla, who was not
very good company, being engaged throughout the interval in shouting
against the organ at her sister Leonora, with whom she was arguing her
chances of becoming a film star. These chances appeared to Lucinda
exceedingly slender, as she was a phenomenally plain child, with legs
like tree-trunks and a square, mud-coloured face. But she herself
believed in them strongly, and Leonora, though remarkably outspoken, was
unable to convince her that by the time she was seventeen she
would not necessarily look more like Deanna Durbin than she did now.

Lucinda had heard the argument so many times that she turned
automatically from it to her other neighbour. He offered her a
peppermint cream.

"Thank you very much," she said, adding politely: "I enjoyed that film.
Didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. I'm glad we had a chance of seeing it. I'm interested in
ghosts."

"Oh. . . . Have you ever seen one?"

"Dear me, no; and I hope I never do."

"But you believe that people can see them?"

"Well, yes. There's too much evidence for that sort of thing for any
open-minded person to doubt that it can happen sometimes."

"I--I suppose you've heard of the ghost in Ember Lane?"

"Yes, I've heard there's supposed to be one. We once had a gardener--Bob
Wickstreet--who said his father had seen it. But that's just the sort of
ghost I don't believe in."

"Oh . . ."

"In the best authenticated ghost-stories," continued the Rector, "the
apparition is nearly always of someone at the point of death or very
lately dead. These tales of spooks haunting a special place for an
indefinite period, like the one in Ember Lane, are just popular folk
lore based on moonlight and imagination."

Lucinda again said "Oh . . ."

"Remind me to lend you Myers' book on _Phantasms of the Living_--that is
if you've not already read it--and there's a volume on _Ghosts and
Apparitions_ in the Psychical Experiences Series. I think you'd enjoy
them."

"Thank you very much. I--I suppose you don't think that
people--souls--can get imprisoned in places--like Chequers Cottage or
Ember Lane, for instance?"

"Imprisoned? Souls? You'll have to explain to me how the immaterial can
be imprisoned in the material."

"I don't quite mean the material place itself, but their memories of
it. They might--I don't know how to put it exactly--but
mightn't they die with such a strong memory of a place that they
couldn't ever escape from it? . . . I mean, in a way it might be
haunting _them_."

"That doesn't explain how other people can see them in the place they
remember."

No, it didn't. And she hadn't made her meaning clear even to herself.
She was trying to sift it through some deeper thought when she heard a
movement behind her and a man's voice said:

"I'm not mistaken--you _are_ Lucinda Light?"

Before she turned round she knew who had spoken; and her heart seemed to
go tough and leathery--a hard little ball in her breast.

"Yes, I am."

She would much rather have said: "No, I'm not."

"I was sure you were, though you've grown up since I saw you last. I've
been watching you for some time from the circle and hoping I wasn't
mistaken. You know who I am, don't you?"

"Yes--you're Mr. Barney."

She tried to look pleased. After all, she knew nothing definite. She had
deliberately shut her ears to tattling voices, shut her eyes to
censorious looks. She had not been able to suppress all her doubts and
questions, but it was only her guess (though a guess made poignant by
many qualms of certainty) that Mr. Barney had been the subject of that
long talk her mother had had with her father just before he died. Mummy
had never told her what they had been talking about, though once she had
cried: "If only I'd known he was ill I'd have managed things
differently--I'd have been more careful what I said." And never since
that day had Lucinda seen Mr. Barney, though her mother, she believed,
had seen him at least once. She had thrust him out of her mind, with all
the doubts that, if she let herself think of him, would rise between her
and Mummy. And here he was in flesh and blood, a big, square-shouldered,
pleasant man, sitting in the empty row behind her and leaning over the
back of her chair--talking to her, though she scarcely heard a word he
said.

"I beg your pardon."

"I was only saying that I hope I may meet your mother while I'm down
here. Perhaps you will let me drive you home when the performance
is over."

"Oh, thanks--thanks very much. But----" She was going to say "Mummy is
coming for me," then realizing a new set of difficulties here,
substituted: "I'm with Mr. and Mrs. Malpas."

By this time all the eyes and ears of the Malpas family were upon her,
making an introduction inevitable. Moreover, they had heard of the
offered drive back to Woodhorn.

"If Mr. Barney is actually _going_ there," said Mrs. Malpas, "it would
save your mother coming over here."

"Is Mrs. Light coming to fetch you home?"

"Yes--that is----" She hesitated. Which would be worst for Mummy: to
arrive and find him here in the cinema or to have him turn up
unexpectedly at Woodhorn? She had an idea that both would be bad. Then
suddenly her hesitation passed, as she thought of a plan. "I expect
she'd be glad not to have to come. I could 'phone and stop her--I mean,
if it's really all right. There'll be one or two others to take back to
Woodhorn besides me. That's why she was coming--Mr. Malpas has only a
motor-bike and sidecar."

"I can take as many of your friends as like to come."

"Thank you so much. Then I'll go and 'phone at once."

"And I'll go and bring round my car from the hotel. That is--how much
longer are you staying?"

"Oh, only till the big film comes on again, which is quite soon after
the interval."

"Right. Then I'll meet you outside in a quarter of an hour."

She noticed that he did not offer to telephone for her, and she was
glad, for he would have taken Mummy unawares and perhaps lost her a
chance of avoiding him. Lucinda would give her that chance.

"That you, Mummy?"

The familiar voice said:

"Yes."

"Look here, you needn't come over if you don't want to."

"Oh. . . ." The voice did not sound as relieved as Lucinda had
expected, in fact the next moment it spoke quite sharply. "I'd very
nearly started."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't know till three minutes ago that I could get a
lift home. There's someone here we used to know--Mr. Barney."

"Oh . . ."

Again the tone was unexpected. It lacked surprise.

"He's staying in Potcommon and he says he'd like to see you before he
goes back. So he suggested driving me home."

"When? At once?"

"In about twenty minutes."

"Is he with you? Can he hear what you're saying?"

"No. He's gone to fetch his car."

There was a short pause. Mummy was making plans to be out.

"Very well. I'll expect you both for tea."

Lucinda felt a shock. Why hadn't Mummy taken the chance offered her? She
had somehow felt convinced that her mother did not want to meet Mr.
Barney and the thought that she did gave her a queer, disappointed
feeling. But there was nothing that she could do about it--nothing that
she could say. She remained tongue-tied at the telephone till her
mother's voice came again.

"Did you hear that? I'll expect you both for tea."

"Yes--right--I'll tell him. Good-bye."

She put up the receiver and hurried away.


It was nearly five o'clock when Mr. Barney's Vauxhall pulled up at the
door of the Old Parsonage, having deposited three Malpases at their
gate. The hall was lit up and the golden lozenges of the Victorian glass
panels were cast on the drive to light up the dancing feet of the rain.
But Lucinda noticed that her mother had--most unusually--drawn the
curtains in the drawing-room, so that only chinks of light showed
between them.

She opened the door for Mr. Barney and ushered him in, showing him where
to put his hat and coat. Her mother did not appear, but when Lucinda
opened the drawing-room door she was standing just inside it.

"Hullo," she said stiffly. "Hullo, Michael."

"Hullo," he said. "Hullo, my dear;" and picked up the hand that hung
slack at her side.

"Thank you for bringing Lucinda home."

"It was lucky that I saw her. I had a seat in the circle, and till the
lights went up I wasn't sure if it was her or not."

"Do you often go to small-town cinemas?"

"Always," he said smiling, "when I'm in a small town."

Mummy did not smile. She sat down at the little table where tea was
laid, and began to pour out.

"Are you staying long in Potcommon?"

"Till Monday."

"I didn't know there was anywhere decent to stay."

"I'm at the Grenadier Inn."

"Are you comfortable there?"

"So-so."

Then Mummy began talking about the film and Lucinda knew that this sort
of conversation would go on as long as she was in the room. She also
knew--or felt, rather, for it was almost a physical sensation of
unrest--that her mother wanted her to go away. She herself half wanted
to go, half wanted to stay. She did not care for being with Mr. Barney
or for listening to her mother's uneasy talk, but she had a vague yet
powerful objection to giving them the freedom of their tongues. She did
not like to think of what they might say when she was gone.

Yet why should she mind? There could be nothing wrong, no disloyalties
now, no slight to anyone dear. . . . Mummy had just as much right to sit
and talk to Mr. Barney as she had to sit and talk to Mr. Marlott--more,
even, for Mr. Marlott was a married man. She must not think of the past
or of the feelings she had had once, or she would find herself turning
against her mother whom she had promised always to help and love.

("If anything happens to me, I want you to promise to look after your
mother: Try as far as you can to take my place--love her always. . . ."

He had said that when Mummy was away in Copenhagen, the day that the
specialist had told him he was ill--very ill--with aortic disease of the
heart. If he was careful he might live for years, but any sudden shock
or prolonged strain might be too much for him.

"I'm telling you this, my dear, because you and I have always told each
other things; and because you're old enough now to know how much I rely
on you. . . .")

". . . More tea, Lucinda?"

"No thank you, Mummy."

"Then do you very much mind carrying the tray through to Mrs. Shafto?
One of the joys of country life," she added to Mr. Barney. "It's
practically impossible to get servants. I have a girl of sorts, but
she's chosen just this week to have 'flu. You don't mind, do you,
Lucinda?"

"No, rather not. I'll take it through and then I can give her a hand
with the washing-up."

"That will be very sweet of you."

Then just as she was lifting the tray Mummy said:

"And if Mr. Marlott calls--that's the egg man," to Mr. Barney, "will you
tell him that I can't see him this evening, but I'll write."

"That you can't see him this evening, but you'll write."

"Yes--tell him I'll write."

Lucinda was surprised. It was now three weeks since they had started
buying their eggs at Loats instead of from Mr. Marlott. She had taken
for granted that there had been some sort of a quarrel between him and
her mother. He must have annoyed her in some way . . . though all she
had said was that he was becoming a nuisance. He had called several
times since the change-over, but she had always refused to see him. So
what on earth was she writing to him about?

Lucinda knew that she could never ask--not because her mother would
refuse to tell her, but because if she did it might be another of those
things which made loving her so difficult. She had always liked Mr.
Marlott and felt sorry for him. She thought that he must have a very
hard life, and he and his wife lived in such a miserable little
bungalow. . . . She could not bear to think that her mother had added
to his adversities. And yet if he had really been a nuisance--
in the way Mummy usually meant when she said nuisance . . .

To-night he came while Lucinda was still washing-up. Directly the bell
rang she wiped her hands and went to answer it, without waiting to see
if Mrs. Shafto would do so or not.

She opened the door, and there he stood in the rain, with the hall light
shining on the wet shoulders of his mackintosh and on the curtain of
rain behind him.

"Good evening," she said politely.

"Good evening. Is Mrs. Light--is your mother in?"

He was not looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the big Vauxhall
parked on the edge of the light, beside which his own shabby little car
looked like a battered toy.

"I'm sorry--Mummy's engaged this evening. But she said that if you
called I was to tell you she will write."

"Oh . . . she'll write?"

He looked half-pleased, half-anxious and wholly surprised.

"Yes. She told me to be sure to tell you she would write."

He said nothing for so long that she felt embarrassed.

"What a dreadful evening," she said to break the silence.

"Yes, frightful, isn't it?" and he turned slowly towards his car.

It seemed cruel to let him go away like that.


Mr. Barney left very much later--so late, in fact, that Lucinda was
surprised that he did not stay to dinner. Mummy went with him to the
door, and her footsteps sounded heavier as she came back into the house.
She went upstairs immediately to have her bath.

Just before dinner Humfrey Malpas arrived with two books from his
father: _Ghosts and Apparitions_, and _Phantasms of the Living_.

He said:

"Daddy said you wanted to know something about Dickory; but there's
nothing about him anywhere."

"Then how do you know so much?"

"I don't know much," said Humfrey modestly; "I only draw conclusions."

"But what from? I mean, have you ever met anyone that's seen him?"

"Well, our gardener's father did. But I think he was too scared to
notice him much. He said he had a purple light all round him."

(Could that have been the origin of Dickory's purple coat?)

"Whereabouts did he see him?"

"In Ember Lane, down towards Chequers Cottage."

"Has he ever been seen at Loats Farm?"

"No. Why should he?"

"Well, Harry Cobsale told me that when he was a little boy people used
to frighten him with a bogey called Dickory. But he'd never heard
anything about his being a highwayman."

"Well, he was a highwayman," said Humfrey obstinately. "He used to rob
wealthy travellers as they crossed the marsh, and he had his
headquarters at the Chequers Inn."

"Are you sure he wasn't on foot?"

"No, of course he wasn't. He was a highwayman and they were always
mounted. Why are you so interested in him all of a sudden?"

Lucinda blushed. She did not know what to say; she was a truthful child,
but she was determined that he should not know of her experiences with
Dickory. Her very hesitancy betrayed her.

"I believe you've seen him!" he cried.

"No, I haven't." A lie, but it would be uttered. She could think of
nothing else. "I'm only interested. I was talking to your father about
ghosts after the film--he said he thought Dickory was impossible."

"Well, he isn't. He's real. Look here, Lucinda; how would it be if the
Antiquarian Society gave a prize for the best story written about
Dickory? We really ought to have some competitions, just to encourage
the members."

"I don't think I could ever write a story."

"I could."

"I bet you could. But it would be fairer to have a competition that all
the members could go in for."

"Even May and Cotchet?"

"Yes, even May and Cotchet."

"Then it would have to be something to do with digging, for that's about
all Cotchet can do. How would it be if we dug for old iron at
Hammerpots? There's lots buried there, you know--cannon balls from the
Furnace, and Alard tokens. . . ."

When Humfrey had gone home, Lucinda took the books upstairs and stowed
them in her bedroom, knowing that Mummy would not approve of them. Life
at the moment seemed to be involving a certain amount of deceit.

It involved still more at dinner-time. Mummy was in a sweeping,
aggressive mood, so different from her mood at tea-time that she refused
to let Lucinda take refuge behind the little barriers of talk she had
set up against Mr. Barney.

"Oh, yes, I know--you needn't tell me--these provincial Electric Palaces
are more electric and more palatial than anything in London. Were you
surprised when Michael Barney spoke to you?"

"Yes, very. I wish he'd come a little earlier, though, because I missed
half the Silly Symphony."

"How terrible for you, poor child. I suppose you 'phoned in order to
give me a chance of avoiding him?"

Lucinda blushed scarlet.

"Well, as you probably noticed, I didn't take it. This place is such a
hell of boredom that anyone who isn't a bore is welcome to the house. By
the way, did Greg Marlott call?"

"Yes. I gave him your message."

"It's a curse, not having anyone to answer the door. I hope Nan Scallow
really will be back in a few days. If she is, it'll be the quickest baby
I ever heard of."

"But there isn't a baby. She said it was 'flu--and there wasn't any baby
about."

"Miscarriage, perhaps--somehow I don't believe in that 'flu. Or it may
be 'quickly born, quickly die' . . . I wonder."

"Mummy--don't."

She felt quite sick. Her mother's words made Nan Scallow seem like Moll
Kemp.

"Lucinda! Have I shocked you?"

"No, but you've frightened me. Please, Mummy, don't talk like that. I'd
rather talk about Mr. Barney."

"Yes, of course. Let's talk about Mr. Barney. Do you like him?"

"I--I don't know."

"Why shouldn't you like him? He's made himself very agreeable to you."

The tears swam over Lucinda's eyes. Mummy was being cruel, because she
was unhappy, hurting because she was hurt. She knew that her mother was
wretched, wild, desperate, and she felt ashamed of herself because she
could only feel angry and want to run away. She bowed her head into her
hands, and wept.

"My darling." Mummy came round the table, sorry at once. "What is it,
lamb?"

"Nothing--only I want--I don't want . . . Mummy, I'm all right--I'm
quite all right--it's only that I don't want to talk about these
things."

"You mean about Michael Barney?"

"Don't press, Mummy, don't press."

"All right, old thing, I won't. And I don't suppose we shall ever see
Michael Barney again."

That was one good thing, anyway. With a desperate effort she forced back
her tears.


That night she went to bed early, feeling a little ashamed of herself.
She had made a scene--with her mother, too, who hated scenes and
despised scene-makers. It is true that Mummy had in a great measure
provoked the scene--she had teased, plagued, pressed . . . but Lucinda
should have had more self-control. She should have felt more tenderness
and sympathy, been strong and patient and kind and smiling as her father
would have been. Then perhaps Mummy would have confided in her instead
of teasing her. But no, she could not have borne that. Dreadful as it
was, she would rather have been teased.

She did not want to know anything about her mother and Mr. Barney--about
them either before or after her father's death. She was glad that he was
not coming to Woodhorn again--if that was really true--even
though the idea of it undoubtedly distressed her mother. Was Mummy in
love with him? The question was a sort of tic--a spasm of thought,
outside her control--coming back and back, as it had come back and back
in the days when Daddy was alive. She had refused in those days to try
to answer it, but this time it might be as well to find an answer. Was
Mummy in love with Mr. Barney? She could not be, or why should he not be
coming back? He had sought her out--she had sent him away. Then why was
she distressed? Perhaps they had had a quarrel. They had quarrelled
already once, she guessed, when her father died; and Mummy had then been
in terrible misery, though no doubt it was not all on Mr. Barney's
account. Now they had met and quarrelled again . . . it did not seem
much like love. And yet . . . and yet . . .

She must stop thinking like this. _She did not want to know anything
about her mother and Mr. Barney_. If she went on thinking of them she
would have horrible dreams to-night . . .

She opened the books Mr. Malpas had lent her. _Ghosts and Apparitions_,
_Phantasms of the Living_ . . . Mummy would disapprove of her reading
them, especially in bed--she would say they were frightening. . . . How
little she knew! Ghosts weren't nearly so frightening as people . . .
and to-night they would provide a happy escape from people she wished to
forget.

She settled herself against the pillows heaped behind her, candlelight
in a golden cloud upon her head and shoulders and the open page. The
rest of the room was a receding landscape, swallowed up by shadows a few
feet from the bed. Outside the window the mysterious voice of the rain
was the voice of the night itself--a quiet, urgent voice made up of many
voices.

She found her books most interesting, even though they but scantily lit
up the subject that filled her mind. They described appearances that
were, as Mr. Malpas had told her, mainly and certainly of those at the
point of death or very lately dead. These ghosts seemed all to be on
their way from one world to another--like people who are leaving the
house but whom you can hear moving about and talking in the hall,
perhaps even calling back to you, before the hall-door shuts upon
them and they are gone. Dickory did not seem to fit into any
explanation that psychical research could offer--unless it was possible
to remain shut up in the hall, unable to find the door and go out. . . .
And, of course, there was all that stuff about time. . . . Perhaps
Dickory's time was different from hers, like a person whose watch is
slow . . . or perhaps it was her mind that was out of time, a damaged
watch with loose hands falling suddenly through the hours . . . or
perhaps she was dreaming. There was always that last humbling
explanation. Certainly, she felt, the Society for Psychical Research
would never regard Dickory as "veridical." He did not come up to their
standards at all.

She read for about an hour, and then she must have fallen asleep, for
though she had no recollection of doing so, she found herself waking up.
The room was light, and at first she thought that she had slept till
morning, then that she had left the lamp on--though she could have sworn
she had put it out and had read only by the light of her bedside candle.
She sat up to see and suddenly, almost without any feeling of surprise,
found herself looking straight at Dickory.

"Oh," she said. Then: "What are you doing here?"

She had never heard that he was supposed to haunt the Old Parsonage and
she had never expected to see him in the house. He stood looking at her
in his old bewildered way. That is, afterwards she remembered him as
standing, but at the time she had no sense of position at all, either
his or hers. All that was impressed upon her strongly was his face, red
and unshaven, with the muddled, beseeching blue eyes, and round it a
frame of hair cut in pudding-basin style, but straggling into locks on
his shoulders. He looked what he was: the outlawed farm-hand of many
years ago, the man who had murdered his master and now lived
precariously by his poor wits.

An overwhelming pity filled her heart. She longed to comfort him, to
help him if she could. But how could she reach him? Only with words,
perhaps. Oh where are the dead and after what manner do they return?
. . . She stretched out her hand and cried:

"What can I do?"

His thick voice answered her:

"Oi've com arter Mus' Williams."

"Who's Mus' Williams?"

"De parson, surelye. Oi'm scared and he said he'd help Oi."

So that was why he was at the Parsonage--searching for a parson who had
been dead nearly two hundred years.

"I--I'm sorry," said Lucinda. "He isn't here. Isn't there anything I can
do?"

He shook his head sadly.

"He promised to larn Oi a prayer. He said as if Oi com up to de
Parsonage he'd larn Oi a prayer. But den all dis terrification starts
around Mus' Rowfold and Oi cud never com till now. And now Oi can't
find 'un. Oi can't find nobody--Moll Kemp's agone and all de folkses at
de inn. Why is it as Oi can't find nobody and Oi'm allus running up
agunst you, Missus? You dan't belong here."

"I do. This is my home."

He shook his head.

"It queers me, allus meeting a foreigner. Mus' Williams told me to cam
and he'd to teach me a prayer sum as he prays in church--a prayer about
light. Oi'm in want of a prayer about light, being all in the dark."

A thought and a memory flashed into Lucinda's mind.

"Would it be 'Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord'?"

His lost eyes brightened.

"Surelye. Dat wus de way of it--a prayer agunst de darkness of dis
night. 'Tis a long night, Missus."

She wondered then if he knew he was a ghost.

"You mustn't be afraid," she soothed him. "Nothing can really hurt you."

"Oi reckon Mus' Rowfold 'ud hurt Oi if Oi wart near Loats. Oi killed
'un, but he sticks around. I dursn't go fur so much as a look at de
liddle Missus. But mebbe Oi can go now, sinst Oi've larned a prayer
agunst'un--'Lighten our darkness.'"

"That's not a prayer against him or anyone. You don't pray against
people--you pray for them."

She broke off. Was she doubly assuming the part of the dead Mr.
Williams and preaching as well as praying? She did not want to preach,
even to a ghost. And yet she felt that something must be done to help
anyone so lost to find himself. She thought now that he considered
himself as much alive as she was. . . . Would it be any good to question
him, find out exactly how much and how little he knew? Or should she
tell him that he was more than a hundred years out of date? That there
were Cobsales at Loats instead of Rowfolds? That the Chequers Inn was
now a condemned cottage? That Moll Kemp had been hanged for murdering
her child and was buried out on the marsh? That he himself had been--but
she did not know how he had met his end. Humfrey's legend credited him
with being shot by Bow Street Runners; but Humfrey's legend was just a
dainty dish served up by his imagination. She did not know how Dickory
had died--whether he had been hanged or shot or starved. She wondered if
he himself knew . . .

"Look here----" she began. Then she hesitated. Every question she wanted
to ask him sounded impossible. . . . Do you know that you're a ghost?
That I'm alive and you're dead? That you died probably more than a
hundred and fifty years ago? They sounded preposterous. And did she
herself really know anything about it? Did she, for instance, know where
she was now? If she was in bed in her room at Woodhorn parsonage, how
was it that the wallpaper had a quaint Chinese pattern all over it
instead of being the plain primrose she herself had chosen? And those
books over there? And that big chest? And that funny little basin and
pitcher? Whose were they? Certainly not hers. No doubt they belonged to
the Reverend Mr. Williams and Dickory had made no mistake in coming here
to find him.

In that case--what was she doing? No, she certainly couldn't ask him any
of those questions; nor even that other which had begun to form itself
in her mind: Am I haunting you or are you haunting me?

"Dickory!" she cried, and her voice had in it something of his own
helplessness. Then she saw that he was not there. Her eyes had lost him
even while they watched him. And now it seemed as if he had never been
there at all, as if his presence had borne the same relation to
her sight as his voice had borne to her hearing in the passage of
Chequers Cottage that very morning. The strange furniture and wallpaper
were gone too, and she was lying curled up in her bed in the darkness.
She could now remember clearly putting away her books, blowing out her
candle and settling down for the night.

So what?



                                PART III

                             BURNING LIGHT



                                   I

                              JESS MARLOTT

The Sussex Border Railway is a single-line track along the marshes of
the Iron river, from its source at Flattenden to the coast between
Marlingate and Winchelsea. Exactly why it should have taken this course
was no doubt determined for some good reason in the days when small,
single-track railways were springing up all over Kent and Sussex and
their Directors imagined that the transport problems of the nation would
be solved as they linked market-town with market-town.

The principal station was at Potcommon, about half-way down the line,
and unique in that it was within a mile of the town it served. The
others were anything from two to five miles away, and only the initiated
knew if it was best to alight at Bibleham Road for Drungewick or at
Drungewick Road for Bibleham. The passengers travelled democratically in
a class-less vehicle made of two motor-omnibuses set end to end on a
railway chassis, and driven by a sort of chauffeur-engine-driver seated
under the floor, his head on a level with the travellers' knees. As the
last train left Flattenden soon after four it was considered unnecessary
to provide any lights, and on a rainy winter's day the journey ended if
it did not begin in complete interior darkness.

Outside, the weeping edges of the clouds seemed to be lit (as by light
reflected from a mirror) by the gleam striking upwards from the great
pale sheets of floodwater that spread across the valley. The river was
wiped out--only the dark heads of pollard willows marked its course--and
the little causeway of the railway seemed a fragile road across the
desolation.

Jess Marlott sat with her face close to the window, looking out. She
liked the little railway, and indeed found main-line trains flat and
monotonous after the merry bounce along its track. She liked the
intimacy of its course through farmyards and cottage gardens.
She generally used it to go to Marlingate. It cost sixpence less than by
the 'bus and took only an hour longer.

But to-day she had not been to Marlingate. She had been--epochally and
unnaturally--to London. She had walked in London streets, driven in
London 'buses and rubbed her nose on London shop-windows for the first
time for seven years. The reason for her going had added to the
monstrousness of the occasion, for she had gone to consult a doctor.

Following the complete failure about a fortnight ago of the Green
Kelloids to make her feel any better or suffer any less pain she had
reluctantly called on old Dr. Sainsbury at Woodhorn. He had examined her
very carefully and asked her a great many questions. She had asked him
only one: "It's my age, isn't it?" and he had shaken his head and
answered: "I don't think it's that entirely."

Apart from this he had given her very little information, but he had
told her to go and see a specialist at one of the well known London
hospitals for women.

"I'll make an appointment for you. I used to know him pretty well and
he's the best man there is."

"Do--do you think there'll have to be an operation?"

"I shouldn't think so. But I should like another opinion."

Jess had felt cheered, though the doctor did not speak cheerfully. She
thought that he was getting too old for his work.

The expedition to London had seemed a stupendous and unnecessary fuss;
but as Dr. Sainsbury was emphatic that Marlingate would not do as well,
and as Greg seemed to think she had better go, she went, taking
advantage of a cheap excursion train that started at seven o'clock in
the morning. Now, at the close of the afternoon, she was feeling so
tired that she would have been grateful if the train had bumped less
heartily. But she did not want the journey to end. She felt as if she
would like to sit indefinitely here in the dark, watching the twilight
drift past on the water--water that spread all round her from a hill of
shadows to a hill of shadows, while she flew over it, close to its
gleaming surface, like a lonely bird.

This sort of travel must be rather like dying--the veiled, mysterious
landscape of which one took possession in thought, the bumping track no
more than the body's protest at its last ill-usage. She was not afraid
of dying, though she had started and felt a sudden coldness in her mouth
when she realized what the London doctor was talking about. If dying had
been all . . .

But it was not, any more than this journey would last for ever. There
were facts to be faced much harder than death. Just as she could not sit
here for ever drifting over dusk and water, but must leave the train at
Potcommon Station, drag herself up to the town and take the 'bus for
Woodhorn, so she could not die--pass quietly out of the world which
seemed lately to have had a grudge against her--without thinking of Greg
and planning what he could do when she was gone.

How could he manage without her? He loved another woman; he was not
quite sure that he had ever loved his wife at all--not as now he
understood love. But that did not make him any more fit to be left to
look after himself--in fact she was not sure that it did not complicate
the situation almost unbearably. If only she could have thought that her
death would do what a wife's death always did on the films: set the
lovers free to rush into each other's arms. If only Brenda Light could
love him as he loved her . . . if only she had meant one word she had
written in the letter that had calmed and elated him so much . . .

But for many reasons it was difficult to believe that she could have
meant it; and in that case it would have been better if she had not
written at all. Jess had felt uneasy and doubtful about it from the
start. But Mrs. Light had been so determined . . . and she had said
things that had made Jess almost think that what she wrote might at
least be partly true. . . . Then when she saw the change that the letter
had made in Greg, she had felt that the more experienced woman was
right. She forgot her uneasiness as she saw him almost happy again--not
as peacefully and trustfully happy as in the old days when he was
deceiving her, but totally different from the shambling, stricken
creature that her first settlement with the foe had made him.

There was sometimes a queer sort of exultation about him, a strained
nobility, as if he saw himself as love's martyr, bound to the
stake of sacrifice. Then one day a queer thing had happened--a thing
that in its different way had disturbed her as much as the letter being
written. She had read it--and read it, she felt sure, at his own express
desire. He had wanted her to see how much he was loved, how much and how
nobly he was renouncing. But he could not very well hand her the letter
and say "read this." So he had asked her to mend a hole in his coat
pocket--in the old coat that he left at home when he went to market--and
in that pocket she found the letter from Brenda that for days she knew
he had been carrying about and reading over and over again. It had
seemed incredible that he had forgotten it was there. She felt convinced
that he meant her to read it; and she must have read it nearly as many
times as he had. It was quite a short letter, and there were phrases in
it that she knew by heart.


". . . In asking you not to come again to see me I am asking you to help
me. . . . Since we can never be more to each other than we are now.
. . . Help me to spare myself further suffering. . . . I am putting
myself and my happiness in your hands. . . ."


It was terrible to have written all that if you hadn't meant it. And as
Jess still worshipped Brenda Light and still felt grateful to her for so
easily and amiably releasing Greg, she tried to persuade herself that
she had at least partly meant it. After all, there were things she had
said at that last interview. . . . She had definitely said that she
might be in danger of falling in love with him if he went on coming.
. . . She had said: "I'm not at all the sort of woman to go about
empty-hearted" and "You're under-rating his attractions if you think I
can go on seeing him day after day for weeks without some feeling" . . .
Certainly it was difficult to imagine a woman sitting for hours with a
man and letting him kiss her and make love to her without getting any
pleasure out of it at all. Of course there was--or rather had been--the
other man. But she herself had said that it was a year since she had
seen him, that she would never see him again . . . and he could not have
been a good or honourable man, carrying on with her all those years
behind her husband's back . . . she probably realized now that he was a
cad. Greg's simplicity and integrity must appeal to her . . . no,
that would not quite do, but certainty he must offer a contrast
in many ways to the man she had lost.

That was how the situation had appeared to Jess at least during the last
month. That was how she wished it more than ever to appear now. If she
could think that when she was dead Brenda Light would comfort Greg . . .
instead of thinking how terrible it would be if he turned to her
expecting comfort and found a lie. . . . Of course he would not really
be in a position--socially or financially--to offer marriage to a woman
like Brenda. But she could imagine the hope that would rise in him, her
poor hopeful Greg; she could imagine his saying--not at once, for he was
not crude or heartless, but as some later time gave him opportunity:
"Darling, I am free to love you honourably. Will you make me happy at
last?" And Brenda would say . . .

Jess wondered and shuddered. Somehow before she died this matter must be
made clear. She had six months to work in--six months the doctor had
said--about six months.

He had not meant to tell her anything at first. He had said: "I shall
write to Doctor Sainsbury." But she had been desperately anxious to
know, not if she would live or die (she had never considered that
alternative), but if she would have to have an operation. That would
require a lot of preparation--going into hospital and leaving Greg for
perhaps a whole month. . . . She would have to make all sorts of
arrangements. So she had asked the doctor if he thought an operation
would be necessary. He had answered: "No, I don't think it will."

She had felt an intense relief--for a moment, till she saw his face. He
had an expressive, young-old face, and his eyes betrayed him. She had
guessed then.

"You mean, you don't think an operation would be any use?"

He had answered evasively.

So she had pressed him: "Please tell me. It's essential for me to know
what's going to happen. I can take it."

Then he had said:

"I'm afraid you've come to me rather late. There's not much that I can
do now."

"Oh . . ." she had answered stupidly. Then added: "Will it take very
long?"

"That's a difficult question. These things don't follow a prescribed
rule."

"But can you give me any idea? I mean, will it be a year, or six months,
or only a few weeks?"

He had said:

"Probably nearer six months."

"And will it be Very----" She had meant to say "expensive," thinking of
diet and nursing, but he was evidently used to another sort of question,
for he replied:

"You needn't be afraid of that. There are always things we can give you
to deaden pain. Medical science has gone pretty far along that road."

"I wasn't thinking of pain. I want to know if it will cost a lot. We
aren't at all well off and I want to do it as cheaply as possible."

She had heard of survivors being crippled by the money they had spent on
sick relatives.

"There's no need for you to spend a lot of money. If you were well off I
should suggest your going in due course into a nursing home, but you
have an excellent local hospital . . ."

"Then you think I'll have to go away somewhere before the end?"

That would shorten her all too short six months.

"You might require more nursing than would be easy to provide at home . . ."

. . . The train stopped with a jerk at Northease Station, the next to
Potcommon, breaking up the dialogue in her head. Soon she would have to
pull herself together and get out. But already her period of pleasant
drifting was over. She could think of nothing but Greg, or rather of
what he would do without her. It was not only his situation with Mrs.
Light that worried her; a host of lesser cares crowded round and
demanded her providence. The greatness of death was all eaten up by a
swarm of small, nagging difficulties. She rummaged in her handbag and
took out her shopping list. On it she wrote:

1. Induce Greg join Co-op. Society. Medland? Starnash?

2. See that Dec. quarter's mortgage is paid--two months owing.

3. Get Greg put by weekly rent towards mortgage.

4. See that the Incubators are started in good time--March.

5. What about day-olds?


That was all she could think of for the moment, and as the train had
started again it was impossible to write. She put her list away--the
list that she knew would grow longer and longer.


Seven people left the train at Potcommon, and six of them were soon
driving past the seventh as she plodded along the Station Road to the
town. No doubt if she had carried a bag or even a heavy parcel they
would have stopped and offered her a lift. But Jess had most
praiseworthily spent a day in London without buying anything and had
nothing to carry but her own dog-weary body, clad in its best clothes
which were tight and uncomfortable and not warm enough for December.

She walked quickly, because it was cold, and because she had only just
enough time to catch the 'bus. But every now and then she faltered, for
she felt stiff after sitting so long on a hard seat, and the pain, which
for some reason had held off during all the jolting and bumping, now
began to mutter its familiar threats. So far it had only threatened, but
it seldom threatened without performance and she dreaded the thought of
its charging over her while she was in the Station Road or, worse still,
in the High Street. In the 'bus it would not be so bad, as she would be
sitting down. . . . She must try at all risks to stave it off till she
was safe in the 'bus.

The twilight of the town's approaches seemed to change into night itself
as she stepped into the street-glare of the shops, already bright for
Christmas and wiping the last dusk out of the sky with their lights and
their neon signs in blue and red and green. It all looked inexpressibly
cheerful, and suddenly her heart warmed and jumped with delight, as the
thought of Christmas took her back to happy days that seemed no longer
far behind. Her eyes sparkled childishly as she gazed at all the
good things and gay decorations in the windows of Potcommon's
Co-operative Store.

But she had no time to linger. The clock in the Market Square struck
five--her watch must be slow. If she did not hurry the 'bus would have
started. Already she could see a movement in the row of shining chariots
in front of the Grenadier Inn, as the chimes dispersed them to the
villages. The Woodhorn 'bus was a small local affair with a journey's
end no further off than Bibleham, but it was as quick off the mark as
any. When Jess came lumbering and panting up it had gone.

There would be another in two hours. Till then she could go to a
tea-shop and make a pot of tea last as long as she dared, or she could
take a fourpenny seat in the picture house. She would rather have the
tea, but the cinema would be a more hospitable refuge for two hours.

Then while she hesitated, the pain that had been tagging after her all
the way from Potcommon Station, leaped upon her, rolled her over,
stamped on her, broke all her bones and tore her limb from limb. That
was how she felt as she stood swaying and rather faint on the pavement
outside the Grenadier Inn. She put out a hand and gingerly steadied
herself against a lamp-post. If only she could find somewhere less
public, a place where she could hide herself till it was all over. But
she did not dare move a step in case the pain suddenly became unbearable
and she screamed. Suppose she screamed out there in the street . . .

Someone came up to her.

"Are you all right, Mum?"

It was a 'bus conductor. Jess mumbled something about the Woodhorn 'bus.
Her voice came indistinctly through her clenched teeth, and she feared
that the man would think that she was drunk.

"I--I'm all right," she gasped, "only--not--not very well."

That was what drunken people always said.

"There isn't a 'bus to Woodhorn for another two hours. I'd pop in
somewheres and have a cup of tea if I was you."

Jess thanked him desperately and turned away. She would have to go into
the Grenadier, though she did not know the people there and feared
the prices. But she was incapable of walking further--almost of
walking so far. Then just as she had summoned enough courage to drag
herself up the steps she heard another voice behind her--a woman's this
time.

"Mrs. Marlott . . . aren't you well?"

"Oh, Mrs. Light . . ."

In her heart were two contrary feelings--relief at the appearance of an
angel, shame that an angel should see her like this.

"I believe my hat's crooked," she muttered and pushed it still further
over her ear.

"Never mind your hat," said Mrs. Light. "Come in here."

She put her hand under Jess's arm and guided her up the steps. Inside
the door was a little tea-lounge, antique and oaken, with tables set
about under shaded lights. Jess stumbled into the darkest corner she
could find.

"Oh . . ." she said weakly.

Mrs. Light sat down beside her and her dark eyes under their level brows
gave her a single quick survey which seemed to tell her everything. She
spoke to a waitress who had appeared. The waitress said:

"I can't before half-past five."

"It _is_ half-past five," said Mrs. Light, looking at her wrist-watch.
"Please bring it at once. This lady's ill." Then she added: "You can
tell Mr. Harman that Mrs. Light asked for it."

Jess wondered what it was that was giving everybody so much trouble. But
she could not speak, though she felt better now that she was sitting
down. She closed her eyes and seemed to see her pain in coloured waves
passing over her, one after another, first the orange, then the yellow,
then the blue, and then the green. That meant that it was passing away.
The waters would ebb and she would be able to breathe again, to speak,
to apologize.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured.

"_I'm_ sorry," said Mrs. Light, "for you. How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thank you."

"It was a good thing I saw you. You looked as if you were going to
faint."

"Oh, I never do faint."

"Are you often taken ill like this?"

"No--not very often. It's not so bad when I'm at home. I can lie down,
you see."

The waitress arrived with the mysterious "it", which turned out to be a
glass of liqueur brandy.

"There," said Brenda, "drink that. I've ordered tea to follow."

"Oh, how kind you are. But I'm afraid I'm making myself an awful
nuisance."

"Not a bit. Please drink your brandy--I'm sure it's what you need."

"But do I take it just like this? Oughtn't I to have water with it?"

"No--you take it just as it is."

Jess, who had never drunk brandy neat in her life before, raised the
glass rather nervously to her lips. The stuff was like fire and burnt
her throat, but after that it seemed to turn to light, running through
her body like a sunrise, driving away the last lurking shadows of pain
as dawn dispels darkness.

"That was lovely," she said, setting down the glass.

"You must finish it."

"Oh, yes, I will--in a minute."

She had paused to savour the new world in which she found herself. The
oaken lounge with its red lights seemed faintly blurred. It suddenly
struck her as a delightful possibility that the brandy had gone to her
head.

"Oh," she giggled weakly, "I believe I'm tipsy."

"You can't be. You've had only a gulp."

"Well, I'm not used to brandy, and it's on an empty stomach, you know."

But just to show how little she cared she tossed down the rest of the
glass.

"That's good," she said, and added conversationally: "I've been in
London all day."

"Have you? No wonder you're tired. Been shopping?"

"No, I went to see a doctor."

She stopped abruptly, the smile wiped off her face. Brenda Light did not
speak for a moment, then she said:

"I hope he was some use."

"Oh, yes, quite a lot of use." Though, hang it all, what use had he
really been?

"It's hateful being ill," continued Mrs. Light, "and we don't seem
particularly well off for doctors at Woodhorn."

"I know. Doctor Sainsbury's rather old, but he's been extremely kind. So
have you. I'll never forget how kind you've been. I feel perfectly all
right now. I'd no idea a glass of brandy could make such a difference."

"It's useful in an emergency, though I don't suppose your doctor would
approve of it as a regular prescription."

She seemed quite incurious as to the nature of Jess's illness, though
she had taken so much trouble to help and relieve her.

"Here's the tea at last," she said. A new instalment of comfort had
arrived. Jess watched her hostess's fingers arranging the tea-things.
They were small, capable fingers, their whiteness contrasting with
cherry-coloured nails. She looked down in some embarrassment at her own,
and hid them under the table.

"Look here," she said, "I hope you can really spare the time for this."

"For tea? Of course. I was just thinking of going to have some when I
saw you. It's nice having it together."

How kind she was! Jess's whole being, still faintly alight, thrilled
with the thought of her kindness.

"It's nice for me," she said heartily, and set her lips to the steaming
cup.

"I've been doing some Christmas shopping," said Brenda. "Of course,
there isn't much one can buy in a place like Potcommon, but there are
some things in that arty and crafty shop by the church that aren't
bad--one's friends occasionally enjoy local produce."

"I haven't really looked at the shops," said Jess. "I was just
beginning to when I saw how late it was and had to run for the 'bus."

"Did you do much shopping in London?"

"No--no--none. I looked in at Swan and Edgar's window and at Dickins and
Jones, but I hadn't much time even for that. I saw the doctor at the
hospital, you know, and one always has to wait."

She really wished Mrs. Light would show more curiosity, ask more
questions. Then she might be able to tell her about this new problem. It
would be a great relief if she could talk it over with her, partly
because it was painful to have such a vital secret shut up in her heart,
partly because she felt that Brenda Light could help her as no other
woman could. She was kind, and, in spite of some misgivings Jess still
thought that she was wise. She would no doubt, under the pressure of
such a confidence, own frankly what her feelings were for Greg and what
she was prepared to do for him. If it was no more than to watch over him
and advise him when his wife was gone it would still be worth much.

But Brenda went on talking, almost obstinately it seemed, about shopping
and Christmas, the Grenadier Inn, the cinema, London and Woodhorn, all
subjects that Jess would normally have found interesting, especially in
such company, but which now were merely irrelevant. Perhaps it was not
well-bred to talk about illness, or perhaps she was being tactful and
imagined that Jess would not like to talk about it after having been
taken ill in the street; perhaps she thought that she was putting her at
her ease. If that were so it might be as well to enlighten her. The
first rakish effects of the brandy had passed, but Jess's veins were now
coursing with hot tea, her heart sang like a kettle and her head was
steamy with comfort. . . . She felt equal to tackling almost any
situation.

If she was to tackle this one she must do so at once. Already they were
drinking their second cups.

"Yes," she said, rather wildly, "you're right. French films put you
quite out of patience with Hollywood. Not that I've ever seen one; I
hardly ever go to the cinema, and now I don't suppose I shall ever go
again. The doctor told me something that's upset me very much."

"Oh, really. I'm sorry. Doctors are a bore. I wish we could live without
them."

"I have pretty well, hitherto. I mean I've been feeling ill for a long
time, trying all sorts of things, but I didn't go to a doctor till the
Green Kelloids failed. I never thought they would--the advertisement
spoke so well of them--but the last bottle was useless and they're
really too expensive. So I thought I'd go to Doctor Sainsbury and he
sent me to this man in London who's told me that I probably shan't live
more than six months."

Mrs. Light set down her tea-cup rather quickly and did not speak for a
moment. Jess had the queer notion that she was shocked.

"But he'd no business to tell you that," she said at last in a voice
that wasn't quite her own.

"I made him. He was going to write to Doctor Sainsbury, but I wanted to
know at once."

"You should get another opinion."

"He is another opinion. Doctor Sainsbury examined me first and said he
didn't think there'd have to be an operation. Now I know why."

Brenda was lighting a cigarette, though she had not finished her
buttered scone. The conversation seemed temporarily to have died. Jess
felt awkward, but she persevered. Having gone so far she was determined
not to draw back.

"I shouldn't mind so much--I mean death isn't a thing I'm really afraid
of and I feel very tired sometimes. I shouldn't mind so much if it
wasn't for Greg and wondering how he'll manage without me."

She thought she heard Brenda say something under her breath.

"You see," she continued, "even though he's fallen in love with you he
depends on me a lot--for all sorts of things, big and little. We've been
together twenty years and I know his ways and he's used to me. And even
I can't stop him doing stupid things sometimes. I can't think what he'll
do when he's alone."

"He'll be sorry he's treated you so badly, for one thing."

"Oh, don't say that. He hasn't really treated me badly. He couldn't help
falling in love, and he's been perfectly honest with me--at least, ever
since I found out. I'm really terribly sorry for him, falling in love
at his age, so desperately and so hopelessly, too, in spite of
that letter you wrote him."

"You saw it, did you?"

"Yes, I saw it. And now, oh how I wish I could believe you'd meant it!"

Brenda said nothing. She poured herself out another cup of tea.

"I suppose it was only what you said--a way of making him feel pleased
with himself?"

"I thought it the best way of stopping him coming to see me, and by the
results I seem to have been right."

"Yes, you were, in that way. But when I'm gone he'll probably think--I
mean he might think he was free to love you. It would be dreadful if he
hoped for that and then failed."

Mrs. Light looked at her intently.

"Do you mean that you wish now that I was in love with him?"

"Yes, as things have turned out, I do. I didn't at first. I can't tell
you how relieved I was when you told me you wouldn't try to keep him.
But now all my longing is for Greg to have someone to love him and look
after him when I'm gone."

"I told you, didn't I, that I cared for someone else?"

"I know, and it was silly of me . . . but when I read your letter I
felt--I couldn't help feeling that you must mean some of it."

Mrs. Light seemed to be upset by this.

"My God! I was only using a piece of common strategy. I'm sorry; but you
really mustn't take everything quite so seriously."

"I know. But I've only just heard and one can't help being a little
disturbed at first. When I've got used to the idea----"

"I didn't mean that. For heaven's sake don't think I was talking about
that. I'm talking about my letter to your husband. It was a letter I
wrote virtually at your request, to put an end to an impossible
situation. It has been successful, and I really don't think you need
worry about it any more."

"I shouldn't if things were just to go on as usual. But they aren't, and
I'm so afraid he'll hope--Greg always was too hopeful."

Mrs. Light still seemed a little impatient.

"Well, I don't see what's to be done about it--not at present. Later on,
if--if things should turn out badly, I could deal with him then. I
should make myself perfectly plain."

"But that's just what I want to avoid. Oh, how can I bear to leave him,
knowing all he'll have to suffer?"

"My dear Mrs. Marlott, we none of us can escape what's coming to us,
especially when we've brought it on ourselves. Let him take his chance
and think about yourself for a change."

"But, oh please, I do want you to promise me one thing. When I'm gone
you--you won't turn your back on him entirely? If there's anything you
can do for him, you'll do it?"

"Oh, yes, of course I'll do it. Please, please don't worry any more
about him. Probably in six months' time he'll have forgotten me
entirely. And remember that doctors have been mistaken many times before
this. There's no need for you to be so fatalistic."

She was signalling to the waitress. No doubt she wanted to go; the
conversation was upsetting her. A finger of disappointment curled around
Jess's heart, but she tautened against it.

"There are hundreds of people alive to-day," continued Mrs. Light,
"whose doctors gave them six months to live anything from ten to fifty
years ago. Doctors are very fond of that six months. It seems to be just
as much the rule as a nine months' pregnancy--nine months to be born and
six months to die."

"I think it was I who suggested the six months," said Jess meekly. "I
asked him if he thought he could give me some idea. He didn't want to at
first."

"Well, I shouldn't believe him till I'd seen someone else. There must be
other specialists in the same field. I shouldn't accept such a diagnosis
till I'd seen the lot--and perhaps not even then."

"I really don't feel I want to see any more doctors at present--except
Doctor Sainsbury. I'll have to see him, I suppose."

Mrs. Light stood up. She had paid the waitress and was pulling on her
big fur driving gloves. As she watched her a curious thing seemed to
happen to Jess, partly physical, partly mental. It was as if the blood
in her veins suddenly changed its course and flowed the opposite way,
and as if all the comfortable warmth in it had become anger--
burning anger against this woman who did not seem to care a damn if
Greg's heart was broken.

"Do you want to powder your nose?" asked Mrs. Light, "or shall we start
at once?"

"We?"

"You'll let me drive you home, won't you?"

"Thank you very much--it's really too kind of you. But I think I'd
better go home in the 'bus."

"But why? We live practically next door to each other, and you'll find
the car much quicker and more comfortable."

"I daren't take the risk of anyone in Woodhorn seeing me driving with
you."

Mrs. Light looked astonished.

"Surely the worst Woodhorn gossip would see nothing guilty in our
association?"

"But if my husband heard of it--if he hears we've been seen together . . ."

"Can't you tell him just what's happened? That I saw you looking very
ill and offered to drive you home . . ."

"It wouldn't do at all. I don't think he even has an idea that you know
me by sight. He'd be horrified if he knew we'd been together--even if he
didn't actually guess what we were talking about. . . . No, no, please
believe me. I'm right about this, and I'd far rather go home in the
'bus."

"Suppose you're taken ill again."

"I shan't be. It never comes oftener than once in four hours. I'm quite
all right now till I get home."

"And are you going to tell your husband what the doctor said to you?"

"N-n-no--at least, not at once. I must think things over first."

She was still as far as ever from a solution to her problem, from an
assurance as to the future. And now she definitely wished that she had
not spoken so freely to Mrs. Light. She had let her tongue run away with
her. It must have been the brandy . . . "talking in her cups"--the
phrase showed her to herself in a new and shameful light, which
the reflection in the mirror on the wall did nothing to dispel. She saw
herself standing there, flushed, untidy, dishevelled, with her wispy
hair, crumpled clothes, and crooked hat, while Brenda stood before her
so neat and trim and lovely, smiling and holding out her hand.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go. You'd better sit and rest here till the
'bus starts, if you really won't come with me . . ."

"No, thank you, I really won't. But please don't think I'm ungrateful
for all your kindness. You've been very kind----"

She broke off foolishly.



                                   II

                              BRENDA LIGHT

Never had Brenda felt more glad to be back at the Old Parsonage. The
place had something of its old-time quality of refuge, as she stepped
into the dimly-lit hall and saw through the open door of her
sitting-room the firelight fluttering on white walls and polished
furniture. To shut the front door behind her was not only to shut out
the night with its cold, tossing winds, but the thoughts that had
tormented her all the way home, an iron band round her head, a thorny
thicket round her heart.

She was crossing the hall when Lucinda suddenly appeared.

"Hullo, Mother! Mr. Barney's just rung up."

Her refuge had failed her, as it had failed before.

"He asked if he might come round after dinner, and I didn't know what to
say, so I said Yes."

Once more her heart was pricked, and she pricked in her turn.

"Another time when you don't know what to say you had better say No;
it's safer."

"Don't you want him to come, then? I'm sorry."

She looked sullen rather than sorry, and Brenda thought: She hates him.

"I don't particularly want to see him to-night. I've had a tiring day.
But I suppose I shall have to, as you've said he may come."

"I could ring up and explain that you're tired."

"Do you know where he is, then?"

"Yes; at the Plough."

"In Woodhorn?"

"Yes."

Oh heaven! that was much too near. She said:

"I didn't know that was a sort of pub one could stay at."

"I believe they have two bedrooms that they let occasionally. I don't
suppose he's very comfortable."

No; and he's the sort of man who likes his comforts--food and drink and
a good bed. She thought of him tying his tie by candle-light in front of
a dark, mottled glass, she pictured his immaculate clothes hanging
behind a shabby curtain against the wall, saw the shapeless bed in the
shadows behind him, smelt the mixed smells of beer, linoleum and lamp
oil that hung about the passage. The inn was full of her power.

"It must be hell," she said. "You'd better ring up and ask him to
dinner. We haven't got much, but it will be better than anything he'd
have at the Plough."

Was she weak? or was she defiant? or prudent, perhaps, choosing her own
battleground.

"All right," said Lucinda, with an edge to her voice, "I'll go and do it
now."

"And when you've done it, will you please tell Mrs. Shafto, and
then--wait a minute, Lucinda, I haven't finished--will you bring in the
drinks from the dining-room. I'm half dead."

She sank into an arm-chair, tearing off her hat.

"Have you had any tea?" asked Lucinda. "Would you rather have tea?"

"No, I've had tea--I should bloody well think I had. Sorry, darling, to
be so unpleasant, but I've had tea with a woman who's been trying to
make me promise I'll marry her husband when she's dead."

"Mother! Who?"

"Mrs. Marlott. I met her in the street at Potcommon looking as if she
was going to die that moment. However, when she'd had some tea she
thought better of it and put it off for six months."

She hated her own laughter, tearing after her words like dust after a
noisy, stinking car. But she was broken with nerves, her thoughts were
loose and rattling. Through their din she heard Lucinda say:

"Is Mrs. Marlott dying?"

"So she says."

"Oh, Mummy, how dreadful. What of?"

"That was never divulged. By the mystery made of it, I gather it's
cancer. But the only thing she really seemed to mind was----" She pulled
herself up. She must not give way to this savagery against poor Jess.
The fact that her nerves had been shattered first by her and then by
Michael (like having one's ears boxed: take that! and that!) was no
excuse for so bounderishly exposing the poor woman, who was certainly no
worse than a fool and probably much better.

"Darling," she said to Lucinda, "I'm misbehaving. I shouldn't have told
you this and you must forget it. The poor soul doesn't want anybody to
know."

"All right, I promise. I shan't say a word."

She went out of the room.

"Don't forget the drinks," Brenda called after her.

She lay back and closed her eyes, but there was no real darkness till
she put her hand in front of them and shut out the fire. She wanted
darkness; at the moment she almost wanted the darkness of death, of the
only refuge that would not turn into a snare . . . or would she find
that death, too, was a snare, the ultimate snare? perhaps no darker than
the light behind her eyelids, red with the fire of a world scarcely shut
away. . . .

She shivered, and opened her eyes. She was growing morbid, and it was
nonsense to be lounging here, as if she were really tired. She was not
at all tired, only upset . . . disgruntled--let's use all the stupid,
ugly words--because Jess Marlott had made her feel small, ashamed of
herself. And now Michael Barney had made her head sing, so that she
could not forget Jess Marlott. It was not a case of one distress wiping
out another. Michael's return seemed to have made her all the more
conscious of the Marlotts, the need for planning the immediate future
had merely added to the burden of the immediate past; and this time
there was no escape, no refuge, either in light or darkness . . . she
told herself again that she was morbid and wanted a drink. She would
fetch one herself if Lucinda did not come soon.

She came almost at once, or rather someone came, for the step was not
Lucinda's, though as light. The almost noiseless opening of the door
made Brenda turn round, to see Nan Scallow.

"Hullo," she said. "Why haven't you gone home?"

For some reason she felt pleased to find Nan there. She liked her and
found her presence soothing to her present mood--more soothing than
Lucinda's.

"I stayed to help Mrs. Shafto with the pantry shelves," said Nan's
pleasant, sing-song voice, "and then Miss Lucinda came in and said there
would be company for dinner, so I said I'd stay and help with that."

"Won't your mother want you home?"

"Oh, no, madam. She'll guess I'm where I'm needed most."

She had pulled up a low table to the fire and set the drinks on it. Her
movements were quick and neat. During the two months she had worked at
the Parsonage she had shaped into a very promising girl, and Brenda
congratulated herself from time to time on her perspicuity in engaging
her, though in more candid moments she realized that it had not been so
much perspicuity as desperation.

She was always agreeable, willing, quick and skilful. She had picked up
some of the more showy aspects of her job almost without instruction, in
spite of the efforts of Mrs. Shafto to keep her to scrubbing and
cleaning. She lacked the clumsy selfishness of the local girls, just as
she lacked the local turnip face and straw-stack hair. Her laughing eye
and neat, black braided bun made amends even for the undefinable,
undeniable smell of gipsy that rose from her flesh as mist rises from
the earth. Mrs. Shafto said that she told lies and stole cigarettes, but
as Mrs. Shafto always came before long to suspect her underlings of
crimes against the household, Brenda did not take her accusations to
heart.

She herself had never detected Nan in any evil-doing--she had evidently
been wrong about the baby. . . . It seemed incredible that even a gipsy
could have had a baby during so short an absence from work; and if she
had, what had become of it? Yet this evening, as she watched her walk
out of the room, so trim and jaunty in her coloured overall,
she wondered if a woman like herself, ungiven to suspicions of the kind,
could have been entirely misled by her imagination. Well, no matter
. . . that was an old problem now--Nan Scallow's baby.

"I like that girl," she said to Lucinda when she came back.

"What girl?"

"Nan Scallow, of course."

"Oh, yes, I see--she brought in the drinks. It was her own suggestion,
as I had to telephone."

"That's what I mean--she's so pleasant and useful, He's coming, I
suppose--or isn't he?"

"Yes, he's coming. I said half-past seven. Is that right?"

"Quite right. Mrs. Shafto wouldn't be pleased if things were late, and I
don't think it would be fair to Nan, either, as she's staying to help."

"To help with the dinner?"

"Yes. Directly she heard there was extra work she offered to stay and do
it. That's why I like her."

She sat upright in her chair, sipping her whisky, looking almost
cheerful. She felt refreshed both by the drink and by Nan Scallow.
Lucinda, on the other hand, looked depressed. No doubt it was at the
prospect of having dinner with Michael Barney. But she would have to get
over that.

"Run along, child," said Brenda, "and change your dress."

"He said he wasn't dressing. He can't--he hasn't brought any dress
cloches."

"I don't mean that. But you might wear something fresher than that old
thing. What about your yellow crpe?"

"All right."

"Arid cheer up, my sweet. You'll live through it somehow."

"Live through what?"

Lucinda was growing like Jess Marlott and Brenda nearly lost patience
with her.

"Through dinner," she replied, cutting heavily, "dinner with a man you
dislike."

"I don't dislike him."

She was crouching by the fire, on her heels. Her hands--long-fingered,
bony, like her father's--were stretched to the blaze, her shoulders were
hunched childishly into the flaxen fan of her hair.

"I don't dislike him," she repeated, her voice rising a tone higher in
sudden hysterical emphasis. "I can't dislike him, for I scarcely know
him. I never think of him at all. I'm not worrying about him. I'm
worrying about Mr. and Mrs. Marlott."

"My dear, you needn't. That's my trouble."

"But you've told me Mrs. Marlott's ill--that she's going to die; and
that she wants you to marry Mr. Marlott."

Brenda cursed her own loose tongue. It was the threat of Michael Barney
that had made her suddenly indiscreet. Why had he chosen this day to
force himself upon her again? She cursed him, too.

"I don't want you to think any more about that," she said in a voice
that was strangely calm, considering the uproar of her feelings. "I'm
sorry I told you, and I had no business to, for I don't believe she
really meant it. She'd had a shock, and she hadn't got over it; and, of
course, there's no doubt about it that she's very ill. But I refuse to
believe that she's dying, just because a doctor told her so. She ought
to have another opinion immediately."

"If--if she did die, should you marry Mr. Marlott?"

"No, of course not--not in any circumstances."

The girl must be a fool.

"Oh . . . I wish you could. I like him so much."

"I didn't know you knew him."

"I've met him sometimes when he's been here."

"Then you ought to know that he and I could never be happy together.
Besides, he's. . . . Oh, damn it all, if you can't see how impossible it
would be it's a waste of breath to tell you."

She really felt angry with Lucinda for being so childish. There were
times when she found her daughter's simplicity almost unbearable, when
she longed for the normal sophistications of seventeen.

"Sorry, Mummy, if I'm stupid. It's only that he looked so miserable when
I saw him last. And I'm sure he's desperately in love with you. Still,
that's no reason for marrying him, I suppose."

"No, of course it isn't; and if you go through life on that system
you'll crash before you're twenty. But never mind now, darling. I didn't
mean to snap. It's seven o'clock; so go and make yourself lovely. I
shan't change."

This time Lucinda went obediently and Brenda poured herself out another
drink.

She must somehow get her mind in tune for Michael, pitch the right,
clear note of evasive flippancy. Her thoughts reacted to him now, away
from the Marlotts. What had made him come down here again, when she had
told him so firmly that she had not changed? Plainly he did not believe
her.

That was bad. The determination, pugnacious determination of his
character was moulded in his face; in his short, defiant nose, square
chin and low, wide forehead. His very hair seemed to sprout with it,
thick and wiry. His shoulders were broad with it, his flanks lean with
its energy, his voice rang with it--how should she escape?

True, he had left her alone for a year; but that showed only that he
could play a long game as well as a quick one. He had sense enough to
know when his efforts would be wasted. Evidently something had told him
that they would not be wasted now. She tried to recall exactly all that
she had said and he had said at their last meeting. As far as she could
remember she had merely repeated, though with less bitterness and more
calm, the words and phrases that had sent him from her a year ago. A
year ago she had said: "After what's happened, I can't bear the sight of
you." A month ago she had pleaded: "Why rake up everything again when
we're beginning to be peaceful? I shall never change."

Had she changed? She had certainly changed once before, when such
sweetness had turned suddenly to such bitterness. A year ago she had
really hated Michael. But did she hate him now? She could not truthfully
say that she did. She was disturbed by him, distressed by him, in a
manner afraid of him. . . . She would not have been afraid of him if she
had hated him. He was dangerous to her now in a way that he could not
have been dangerous a year ago. If he still loved her and she had ceased
to hate him. . . .

No, no, it couldn't happen. All that was impossible. Even the quiet
house seemed to cry out in protest and condemnation. Words of which she
did not normally acknowledge the validity muttered in the fire and
ticked in the clock. Right-wrong . . . tick-tock . . . right-wrong . . .
tick-tock . . . It was in this room that old Aunt Derry used to sit on
Sunday afternoons, reading a book in a faded purple cover, a book
wherein right and wrong held undisputed sway. "Listen, dear. . . .  No,
we'll skip that bit, because it's sad. But Harry's mother died, because
he was disobedient. If he had not done wrong it would never have
happened" . . . Right-wrong . . . right-wrong . . . tick-tock . . .
tick-tock . . .

The room seemed full of the bygone scene, which asserted itself over the
modern furniture, the painted walls, the tray of drinks and the
gramophone. Was it true, she wondered, that during her stay here thirty
years ago something had been done to her that could never be undone? Was
little Brenda Campion still alive, though no bigger than her conscience?
. . . If so, it would account for a great deal that had baffled and
annoyed her in herself and that had, both a year ago and last month,
exasperated Michael . . . "So Brenda's husband died, because she was
disobedient. If she had not done wrong it would never have happened"
. . . Oh God. . . . She suddenly felt the tears rushing to her eyes,
with the longing to feel Aunt Derry's black satin arms about her and her
black lace bosom under her check: "Listen, dear" . . . and the purple
book drones on--trite, conventional, stupid, stuffy, but mysteriously
reflecting lights from a shining, hidden land. It was those lights,
which she had never clearly seen and never completely lost, that were
confusing her now as she groped her way.

She stood up. She must go and see to her face. Michael would soon be
here.


Dinner was over, and had been about as successful as any meal can be
when each member of the company is presenting to the others no more than
carefully posed externals.

Of the three, Barney had talked most genuinely, telling Brenda and
Lucinda of his coming visit to New York, where he was being
sent after Christmas to open the new American branch of a London
publishing firm. That was encouraging as far as it went, but Brenda felt
that he would not leave without a determined effort to take her with
him. Probably that effort was the purpose of his sudden visit to
Woodhorn.

Such a surmise was bound to add to her difficulties, and brought her
more than once to a troubled silence. But curiously enough she felt less
on the defensive against Barney than against Lucinda. Her daughter sat
primly, talking very little, giving Brenda a curious sensation of being
watched. She was perfectly amiable and in fact seemed more than once to
make a deliberate, if unsuccessful, attempt to be cordial to Michael.
But by the end of the meal her mother was finding her the more awkward
companion of the two. It was almost as if she and Michael were in league
together under the eye of a silent, watchful third. Contrary to her
expectations she felt relieved when Lucinda went early to bed.

Directly she was gone he turned to her and said:

"Your daughter doesn't like me. How much does she know about us?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"In the old days I sometimes asked myself how much she guessed, and now
I think that it must have been more than either of us suspected."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," said Brenda slowly. "She's an
intelligent child--though you wouldn't always think it from her
conversation--and she adored her father. If she had guessed that you and
I were doing him any sort of injury, she would have hated us both."

"Both?"

He looked surprised.

"Yes, both. No doubt she's got some sort of a superficial affection for
me, or we couldn't live together here like this; but underneath it all
I'm convinced that she's never forgiven me for Nicky's death.
Fundamentally she hates me as much as she hates you."

Her voice shook with bitterness, and rising quickly he came over to her
and stood behind her chair, looking down on her face. "Brenda--my poor,
sweet Brenda. I'm not going to leave you here suffering like this."

"I shouldn't suffer any less if I went away."

She suddenly resolved to have things out with him. This new decision to
go to America had made futile all the defences she had planned. There
was no longer anything to be gained by manoeuvring for position, even if
she had not lost so much ground at dinner. She had better bring the
whole thing to an end with a short, decisive action.

"Please don't stand there," she said, "where I can't see you."

"You can see me perfectly well if you want to."

Without thinking she looked up. She saw his eyes, both soft and angry,
above her; then suddenly they were close, a darkness in which she was
blind as his mouth came pressing down on hers. It was not a loving kiss;
she was conscious above all of the hardness of his face, of his teeth
bruising her closed lips, of his bones against her cheeks--a kiss from a
skull. At first she was too surprised to move and then she was taken by
a queer surrender: not to the present moment but to others like it long
past. It left her and she tore her face from under his, burying it in
the cushion of the chair, while with her lifted arm she pushed him from
her, her hand against the wall of his chest.

He was gone, leaving her with her arm extended in an empty gesture of
repulse. She started up, suddenly furious, and saw him leaning against
the mantelpiece at least two yards away. He was lighting a cigarette.

"My God, Michael! This is too much."

He followed her glance to the uncurtained window.

"You're afraid the neighbours will see us? I didn't know you had any.
But I'll draw the curtains if you like."

"Don't be a fool. You know what I mean."

She stood up and in the oval glass above the fire-place she saw herself
looking both angry and defenceless.

"Come, Brenda," he said in a familiar voice of friendly argument, "I had
to do something to get the conversation to the point."

"I was just bringing it to the point when you interrupted me."

"I'm sorry I missed your point."

Their eyes suddenly met and they laughed.

"Forgive me, Brenda--and come with me to New York."

She turned away from him, walking slowly back to her chair.

"It's no good, Michael--no earthly good. I know it's what you've come
for, but it can't happen. Surely after what I've told you about Lucinda
you see that it can't."

"You haven't told me anything about Lucinda that, in my opinion, makes
the slightest difficulty."

"Not when I've told you that she hates us both? She's on the defensive
now as it is; if we married she would loathe us utterly. It would be
fine for us three to be living together then."

"Surely if she hates us she isn't compelled to live with us. She must
have relations or friends she, could go to? . . . Not that I shouldn't
love to have her with us. I think her a very attractive child and not
nearly so sinister as you make out, even though she does dislike me.
Actually that's a point in her favour--I shall enjoy making her adore
her stepfather."

"You don't know what you're talking about. You always think you can do
everything you want."

"Because I know I can. If I can't I don't want it. The fact that I want
to make Lucinda like me makes me know that I can."

"If I believed you . . . but I don't. And I refuse to rob her twice."

"What are you robbing her of?"

"Her mother--to match her father last year."

He moved a few steps closer and again she could feel him looking down at
her as she sat with her hands clenched between her knees, her head
twisted away from him towards the fire. He said:

"Isn't this a new scruple?"

"I'm not dealing in scruples."

"But you are--that's just what you are, If you think you're being
realistic, you're mistaken. There's something at the back of
your mind that's tormenting you, that's creating a guilty conscience for
you. You're afraid to take your chance of happiness because you feel it
hasn't been honestly come by."

"How little you really know me----" she began; then faltered as she
heard the clock tick. "Can't you understand," she continued after a
pause, "that I feel that I never _could_ be happy with you? You don't
seem to realize that I loved Nicky."

"We were talking about Lucinda a minute ago."

"I know, and we're talking of her still. She and Nicky are together in
this--innocent sufferers for our sins."

He sat down in the chair opposite her, and she saw his face creased with
puzzled lines, which were also lines of amusement. His strength could be
read in the fact that all through their argument he had never ceased to
be a little amused.

"My sweet," he said very seriously, "you're using some strange words
to-night. Is it because we're in a parsonage? This is the first time, I
think, that I've heard you talk of sins."

She said nothing, and for a time all that could be heard was the ticking
of the clock.

"If you were a religious woman----" he began.

She was still silent and he went on:

"When I was in Italy I heard about a young fellow--the son of rather a
highly-placed family--who'd killed another man in some sort of a
quarrel. I don't know the rights of it, but he got off with a year's
imprisonment, so I suppose it was only manslaughter--it may have been
self-defence. But when he came out of gaol nothing would satisfy him but
to sell up everything he'd got and make it over to the chap's widow.
Then he went into a monastery to spend the rest of his life expiating
what he'd done and praying for the dead man's soul. Now I can understand
all that. He was religious and he was simply putting his religion into
practice. He was making practical amends to the people whose breadwinner
he had taken away and he was doing everything in his power for a soul
which no doubt he thought he had sent out of the world unprepared. The
whole thing, from his point of view, was based on logic and
common sense. But your idea isn't. You're making a sacrifice very like
his, but it doesn't mean anything because you don't believe any of the
things he believed. You don't believe that you're helping your husband
in his eternal state, and you're not making any practical provision for
Lucinda. You're acting as if you were under the compulsion of a religion
you haven't got--and that's silly, my sweet, and damned unfair to both
of us."

All Brenda could say was:

"You don't understand."

"Of course I don't. There's nothing to understand. It's all emotional.
You've come down here and hidden yourself in very much the same mood as
my young chap went into his monastery; but with you it's only a mood.
You've no vows to bind you and no beliefs, and in a few months you'll
snap out of it--if you haven't already snapped out. Don't tell me you're
living a life of penance and expiation. If you were you wouldn't be
flirting again so soon."

"Flirting--what do you mean?"

"That poultry fellow--I don't know his name, but I've heard about him."

She was stunned.

"How can you have heard?"

"In the bar of the Plough, if you want to know, my lovely. Don't get
angry; they were quite pleasant chaps and directly I told them I knew
you they begged my pardon and shut up. But I'd heard enough to gather
that you've started to amuse yourself again."

She turned crimson. She was furious.

"This is a bloody little place. I knew the tabbies were gossiping about
me, but I'd no idea I'd got into the bars."

"The bars probably started first. It's only natural, my dear. You must
be very innocent if you expect to come to a small village and not be
gossiped about. But I'm sorry for the poultry farmer."

"You needn't be. I haven't set eyes on him for two months."

"Over so soon?"

"Yes; your pub evidently doesn't get the hot news."

"Oh, well. . . ." He took his pipe out of his pocket. "Do you mind if I
smoke this?"

"I'd rather you went away."

"Darling you're not very hospitable. It's only half-past nine. Besides,
I haven't yet proposed to you. I came here to ask you to marry me and
leave this odious, gossiping village, where quite rightly you're bored
stiff--so stiff that you flirt with the tradesmen--and come with me to
New York, either with or without Lucinda--who, I can almost promise you,
out there will marry within the year, so it won't really matter if she
hates us or not."

"Thanks, but your offer is too frivolous to tempt me."

"My sweet Brenda, I've taken you seriously for a year. I've already
explained to you why I can't take you seriously any longer."

"You've made no effort to understand my position."

She was falling back on stereotyped female reproaches, and though she
would not look up she felt he must be smiling as he asked:

"Is this the Brenda that I used to know?"

Her question had a still greater air of inconsequence.

"How long are you staying here?"

"I can't tell you--unless you tell me."

She suddenly felt anxious.

"You surely aren't meaning to stay more than a night?"

"I've told the people at the inn that I can't give them any definite
period for my visit. I'm writing a book and may want the room till after
Christmas."

"Good God, Michael! You must be mad."

"Not so much mad, my dear, as tough."

"But what about your people--your affairs? I don't believe you're really
writing a book."

"Oh yes, I am--for Lotts' new Cornet series. Fifty thousand words on
Count Corvo, whose tracks I was on during some of last year. It will
fill my time up nicely when I'm not with you."

She was silent, listening to the clock.



                                  III

                             LUCINDA LIGHT

As a child Lucinda had thought her birthday came too near Christmas; the
big lamp of Christmas had washed out all its pretty candle-light.
Friends and relatives had a way of sending combined presents for the two
and Mummy said it was impossible to give two parties so close together.

But as she grew older she and her father had come to make a sort of
special celebration of their own. He had told her that only very special
people are born on the thirteenth of December, which is St. Lucy's day
and the first day of the Scandinavian Yule.


                  "Lucy Light! Lucy Light!
                   Shortest day--longest night . . ."


The old rhyme always came back to her now with the memory of his voice.
Lucy Light had been his own particular name for her--the light which had
come into the darkness of his age, the shortest day lying in the arms of
the longest night. And when she had argued that the shortest day was not
till later in the month, he had told her that the shortest day is the
darkest, and the Northern world is darker in mid-December than at
Christmas time, when the sun comes out of Baldur's Gate to start his new
journey across the heavens. Lucy Light! Lucy Light! . . . He had called
her his shining light--shining in the darkest, stormiest part of the
year.

That was why she would have been pleased if no one, especially Mummy,
had noticed her eighteenth birthday. But of course she could not really
expect that. This year Mummy had made a point of asking her what she'd
like to do by way of celebration.

"I don't know that I really want to do anything."

Her mother had seemed irritated.

"Why not? It's an important birthday. You're grown-up at eighteen."

"I don't feel grown-up."

"Well, it's time you did, my lamb. Do have a try."

It had ended in her saying that she would like to do something with the
Malpases in Potcommon, which had annoyed her mother still more. But
Lucinda, now she had decided, insisted; for she was afraid that her
mother might suggest Mr. Barney's taking them somewhere--to the pictures
in Marlingate or even up to London for the day.

"Please let me. They'd enjoy it so much, and so would I. We could have
lunch at the Mikado, and then we could go to the pictures, or do our
Christmas shopping--I haven't done any of mine yet."

"My dear, what a ghastly programme. And aren't your friends at school
all day?"

"We'd have to wait till the Saturday, but that wouldn't matter.
Wednesday is early-closing."

"But there's nothing worth buying in Potcommon."

"Oh, don't you think so? I think some of the shops are rather good."

She spoke anxiously, defending herself against the danger of being taken
up to London, to see the big stores all crowded and lit up for
Christmas. Every year Daddy had taken her round the stores and they had
visited all the Christmas Bazaars. They had had their tea in hollied
palaces, decorated in all the candy colours and had bought numberless
unofficial Christmas presents for each other, to be secretly bestowed,
apart from the official tennis racquet or dolls' house. The memory,
composite and complete, filled her with such unbearable longing that she
bit her lips and turned pale in her fight against tears. Her mother must
have guessed at least something of what she felt, for she said kindly:

"Very well. It's your own birthday, so celebrate it your own way."

But in the end it was her way--at least the start of it--for the
original plan of going over all together in the 'bus and having lunch
at the Mikado Caf was suddenly and splendidly enlarged by Mr.
Barney's offer to drive them in his Vauxhall and give them lunch at the
Grenadier Hotel. Mummy would come too, and they would all have a
birthday lunch together, and then she and Mr. Barney would go home,
leaving the others to their devices.

Lucinda was disturbed, but the Malpases were uproariously delighted. It
turned out that none of them had ever had lunch in a hotel before, and
she saw that she could not without the blackest treachery and cruelty
say or do anything to convince Mr. Barney that they would much rather
stick to the original plan.

He was always doing things that he thought she would like--arranging
trips to the cinema, taking her and Mummy out to luncheon in Marlingate
or Bulverhythe, making himself agreeable to her friends. He had even
subscribed five shillings to the Antiquarian Society, thus enabling the
members to provide ices at their Annual Meeting. He seemed to want to
please her, and yet she did not think he really liked her.

She certainly did not like him, and sometimes her heart sickened at the
thought of what might happen some day. Her mother had told her that she
was not going to marry Mr. Barney; at least she had said: "You needn't
be afraid, child. You're not going to have a stepfather just yet." But
she was going about with him just as much as she used to in London, and
he came even more often to the house.

Of course there was no reason now why they should not go about
together--nor, come to that, why she should not marry him. Lucinda
sometimes told herself that her father would have wanted her mother to
marry again. He once had said to her: "Your mother loves life and
gaiety, and I love her to have what she loves, even though I keep out of
it myself." Certainly Mummy could not live without a man around, and it
was better no doubt for her to marry Mr. Barney than to flirt with poor
Mr. Marlott. Nevertheless, in spite of these considerations Lucinda
shrank from the prospect; especially as it would doubtless involve their
going all three to New York, away from this place where she found life
so full of interest and contentment. Mr. Barney, in spite of all his
kindness, was her enemy--as once he had been her father's. It
was this last thought that made her heart knock angrily and almost
turned her dislike of him to positive hatred. . . . It hurt her to hate
him and she struggled not to do so. She tried especially not to hate him
on this expedition to Potcommon, which she guessed he had planned
especially to please her.


The luncheon at the Grenadier turned out to be an even more practical
arrangement than when it first was planned; for just before the chosen
day Nan Scallow disappeared--this time for good. It had all started
rather suddenly with Mrs. Shafto bursting into the dining-room while
Lucinda and her mother were at lunch, and saying:

"May I speak to you, madam?"

She spoke in what Lucinda called her buttoned voice: that is a voice
which seemed to be straining like the buttons on her bodice to prevent a
mountain bursting. Mummy answered coolly:

"Yes, certainly, Mrs. Shafto. What is it?"

"It's difficult for me to say before Miss Lucinda."

"Then you had better wait till after lunch."

But evidently Mrs. Shafto could not wait till after lunch.

"It's that Nan Scallow. Either she must go or I do."

"Why should either of you go?"

"Well," said Mrs. Shafto mysteriously, "I'm a pure woman."

"Surely nobody's been questioning that?"

"No, but it's doing my reputation no good to be in the same house with a
girl who's----" She broke off; glaring at Lucinda.

Mummy smiled rather acidly, and the next minute Mrs. Shafto charged.

"It all comes of us not going to the local tradesmen. I'd have heard
about this weeks ago if we'd been like any other family in Woodhorn and
dealt at Farable's. But we've got to be different and go to Potcommon,
where the shops don't deliver so as they can be relied on and neither
know nor care what goes on round here."

"That's one good reason for going to them. But do come to the point,
Mrs. Shafto. What's happened? No, I'm not going to send Miss Lucinda out
of the room."

For a moment Mrs. Shafto's bosom heaved with the struggles of her
indignation against her sense of propriety. Lucinda was afraid that
propriety might win, but so short was the battle that it evidently
hadn't a chance.

"That girl," she burst out, "she had a baby last month."

"Are you sure?" said Mummy.

"Sure? Why, it's known all over the village, in every house but the
house where she's working. And we shouldn't know now if May from the
Rectory hadn't hopped over with Mrs. Malpas's compliments and could I
lend them a loaf of bread till this evening when the baker calls? She
sees Nan through the open door, sitting at her dinner in the kitchen,
and she says to me: 'You've still got her, then,' and I said: 'Of
course--our maids stay,' and she says, the impertinent creature, 'Till
the police comes for them'--and she'd no cause for impertinence as I'd
given her the loaf as soon as she asked for it. So I says, 'What are you
insinuating?' and she says, 'If you go down to Chequers Cottage you'll
see the police digging in the garden for the baby she buried last
month.'"

Mummy said:

"My gosh!"

"Yes, madam. I got it all out of her, and I understand it's known all
over the village. Apparently she had it that time when we thought she
was having 'flu--and she never so much as asked to see the District
Nurse. They say her mother saw to her"--she had evidently forgotten all
about Lucinda, who listened in a sort of bewildered sickness--"and
between 'em the baby was born dead, or if it wasn't--well, anyway, they
buried it in the garden."

"Oh, no," cried Lucinda, "that was Moll Kemp."

Both her mother and Mrs. Shafto looked at her in surprise, but luckily
they were too deeply absorbed in their conversation to waste any time on
her. Mummy immediately asked:

"But why has nothing been done before this?"

"Oh, there's been anonymous letters to the police, May says. But you
know what police are: they don't like to do anything till it's all been
proved to them. I suppose they've got some evidence at last."

"Well," said Mummy, "even now I can hardly believe it's true. Did you
suspect when she first came here that she was going to have a baby?"

"No, madam, I didn't; or I should certainly not have passed it over."

"I'll confess to you now that I had my doubts; but I spoke to Mrs.
Malpas, who hears all the gossip in Woodhorn, and she didn't know
anything about it, so I thought I must be mistaken."

How crafty Mummy was, hiding her treachery from Mrs. Shafto; who
rejoined, however:

"She isn't the one you should have gone to. It's the village people. If
only we'd dealt at Farable's I'd have heard it all at the back door, and
we shouldn't be in the oomiliating position we're in now."

Mummy suddenly lost her temper.

"Hold your tongue, Mrs. Shafto! If we'd dealt at Farable's you'd have
been the first to complain. Please send Nan Scallow to me at once."

Mrs. Shafto marched out of the room with a glance at Lucinda which
showed that she had remembered her again. Even her mother seemed to
think it unsuitable that she should stay any longer, for she said:

"I think you'd better let me see her alone."

"Yes, perhaps I had."

She did not want to stay. Already the cloud in which Nan Scallow, moved
seemed to be in the room--the corners were growing darker. . . . She
rose quickly from her chair, but before she could leave the table, Mrs.
Shafto was back again.

"She's gone!" she cried. "She's gone! Left her dinner on her plate and
bolted. She must have heard May telling me at the back door or else me
talking in here."

Mummy shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh well, that settles it. This time, I take it, she's gone for good."

"I hope the police get her before she's gone far."

"If they do, she's in for murder, I suppose."

There was brief, appalled silence.

Lucinda, looking into the darkness of Nan Scallow's cloud, saw Moll
Kemp's grave.


After this life seemed to be full of Nan Scallow--the noise of her,
rather, for she herself had totally disappeared. She was not at Chequers
Cottage, from which her mother had vanished too. The police were
searching their rooms as well as the garden both unsuccessfully, by
popular account. No one had seen Nan since she ran away from the Old
Parsonage, and her mother had not been at Chequers Cottage when the
police arrived. They had waited a long time, but she never came back.

Early in the afternoon Mrs. Malpas appeared, fermenting with curiosity.
She asked nearly as many questions as the police when they called later.
She as well as Mrs. Shafto seemed to think that Lucinda should not be in
the room; but the police had other notions of decorum--or rather, they
doubtless thought that decorum must give way to necessity. For in some
ways Lucinda was an important witness; she had visited Nan when she was
supposed to be having 'flu, but was really having the baby. What had the
girl said about herself? Did she seem to have anything on her mind? Was
there anything that, on looking back in the light of recent events,
seemed to point to what had really happened?

All the time they were questioning her Lucinda was thinking of the woman
she had seen digging in the garden. Should she tell them about it? It
might have been someone burying the baby. . . . The police had been
digging all day, but had still, according to local report, found
nothing. Should she tell them to try just outside the little shed? . . .
She hesitated, but decided to hold her tongue unless questioned directly
on the subject. She disliked the position of informer--in spite of the
horrible thing that Nan was said to have done--and she could not be sure
if the woman she had seen was "real." She certainly was not old Mrs.
Scallow, and no one else was suspected of any complicity in the affair.
Lucinda had seen her just as Chequers Cottage was on the verge of
"changing"--a moment later she had found herself in that mysterious,
silent tap-room--and perhaps the woman in the garden had
belonged to the Old Country. She might even have been Moll Kemp herself.
. . . It was rather late in the day to send the police after Moll Kemp.

Nan Scallow--Moll Kemp. . . . It was all very puzzling and frightening,
and when she thought about it she could find only questions. Was it mere
chance and coincidence that two women living in the same house two
hundred years apart had both killed their new-born children? Or had it
anything to do with the place itself, which certainly seemed
malevolent--as malevolent as the gable-end of Loats? Or did events
repeat themselves at intervals like designs in a pattern?

She even asked herself if it wasn't possible that Humfrey Malpas might
have invented Moll Kemp . . . but no; the local guide-book, _Rambles
Round Woodhorn_, written by Mr. Malpas's predecessor at the Rectory,
vouched for the fact that "Moll Kemp's grave marks the place where a
local woman was buried after being hanged for infanticide in 1738." Moll
Kemp had better credentials than Dickory.

This brought up a new question: had she any evidence beyond Humfrey's
word for believing that Moll had been a servant at the Chequers Inn? The
guide-book had said nothing about this. It was Humfrey who had produced
the story of her being a maid at the Inn when it was a resort of
highwaymen, including the gay and gallant Dickory. Since he had been so
grossly wrong about Dickory he might be equally wrong about Moll Kemp.
And yet she herself had met Dickory at the Chequers Inn, trying to find
Moll Kemp to warn her of the police who were after them both. Had that
been merely an hallucination based on Humfrey's legend, or did it belong
to a part of experience which she felt almost convinced was real, though
attached to a world outside conventional reality?

One morning, the morning of a windy day, when the branches of Harbolets
Shaw were rattling together like bones, she went to the familiar place
in the hedge and looked through the bare twigs, over the roofs of Loats
Farm, towards the marsh. For quite a long time nothing happened, and she
was beginning to wonder if either she or the place had lost power when
she suddenly noticed that the big, black oast-house at Loats
had disappeared, and that the country side beyond it hung like a painted
cloth, without bulk or distances.

She watched it slowly develop a third dimension, and when at last it was
fully stereoscoped she looked down towards Four Legged Crouch and the
Chequers Inn. It seemed much as usual, with the boat-shaped wagons
drowsing in front of it; but as she gazed she became aware of some
distant commotion. She could see nothing, merely sensed an approaching
danger, which became real when a group of horsemen appeared on the marsh
road, galloping over Puddledock Bridge. As usual everything was silent;
she could not hear the rattle of their hoofs on the road. But evidently
the people in the inn could hear, for terror spread among them. Again
she saw nothing, merely sensed confusion and anguish behind the walls.

Then suddenly the door burst open and a man rushed out. She watched him
running--running up the hill towards her; she could see him running
through Harbolets Shaw even though the trees were dense and green. But
it was not till he was out of the shaw that she realized he was Dickory.
He came running up the field, his hair dragged off his forehead by the
wind, his eyes starting like a hare's, his face distorted with terror.
He did not seem aware of her, and she had a sudden horrible conviction
that he would run through her. As far as he was concerned she was not
there, nor was the hedge, which had been planted since his day.

She felt as if she would faint with fear--fear and an extraordinary
revulsion which made her flesh shudder and creep--but she was quite
unable to move. She was as powerless to move out of his way as if she
were a painted figure in a picture. On he came and the world went
suddenly dark, with a dreadful scream--her own--splitting the darkness.
She screamed again and seemed to wake up. She was looking through the
hedge at Harry Cobsale.

"Hullo!" he said. "I'm sorry if I scared you, but I thought you saw me
come up."

"N-no. I didn't see you."

She stood upright, looking at him over the top of the hedge, for it
seemed ridiculous to be peering at him through it.

"Seen anything in there?" he asked.

How could she answer him?

"I thought I saw a bird's nest," she faltered. A lie, and a lame one. He
grinned at her.

"You _are_ a queer girl."

"What are _you_ doing?" she asked him.

"I came out to see if I could pick up a coney"--he was carrying a
gun--"and then I saw something moving behind the hedge, so I came up to
have a look at it. Once again, I'm sorry I scared you."

She did not speak for a moment, because over his shoulder she could see
what seemed to be workmen and ladders against the walls of Chequers
Cottage.

"What's happening down there?" she asked.

He turned to look, and she thought his expression changed.

"They're pulling it down."

"Why? Is it to----"

"There's been a demolition order for it out a year or more, but the
people in it couldn't find anywhere to go. I heard they all moved out
last night."

She wondered if he would say anything to her about Nan Scallow, but
rather to her surprise he did not. She herself felt reluctant to begin.
All she said was:

"It's a dreadful old place. I'm glad they're pulling it down."

He exclaimed almost savagely:

"It should ought to have been pulled down years ago."

He was standing close enough for her to see where the tanned skin of his
face ended suddenly in a weathered line above the whiteness of his neck.
Red-brown hairs sprang from it like wire, and there seemed to come from
him, from his hair, his skin, even his clothes, an exhalation of
strength, of ardour, of virility, which for a moment almost overpowered
her. She had never felt anything like it before, and once again her
heart pumped with fear--a fear which was different from the fear she had
felt when Dickory rushed up the field towards her, and yet was
mysteriously allied to it. Suppose he should touch her. . . . She
would be as powerless to escape as when she thought Dickory would
pass through her. But he did not touch her; he merely turned to her and
said:

"Why don't you come down to the farm? I reckon Joan 'ud be middling
pleased to see you."

She felt as if she would like to go--like it above all things. She
hesitated . . . then suddenly thought of Loats' blind gable-end hanging
over the yard. In a moment thought had become vision; she seemed to see
it, and it looked as dark and dangerous as Chequers Cottage.

"Thank you very much, but I must be getting home. I'm late as it is.
Good-bye."

"Good-bye, then."

As she turned from the hedge she thought she heard him mutter to
himself:

"You _are_ a queer girl."


Two days later she met him again. This time it was in the 'bus, coming
back from Potcommon. It seemed strange to meet him there. Hitherto all
their encounters had been out of doors or in one of the buildings at
Loats Farm. He looked quite different in the 'bus, wearing a ready-made
suit and rather cheap-looking brown shoes. It was difficult to connect
him in her mind with the strange tide of feeling that had rushed over
her and frightened her at the hedge by Harbolets Shaw. She certainly
felt nothing like it now, though she was sitting close to him.

She had not seen him before she sat down. She and the Malpases had only
just succeeded in catching the 'bus. They had tumbled in, their arms
full of parcels, some of which had dropped on the floor or on the laps
of the other passengers. There had been a lot of "I beg your pardon" and
"Excuse me, miss" and "Oh, I say," and it had ended in Humfrey standing
on the platform beside the conductor, while Petronilla and Leonora found
seats near the door, with Nigel, who was small enough to sit on
Petronilla's knee. Lucinda had made her way to the only other empty
seat, which was at the far end, near the driver. She had a parcel
hanging on every finger and it was some time before she could
settle herself and look up; when she did so she saw Harry Cobsale.

"Hello," he said smiling, "who'd have thought of meeting you here?"

He was sitting opposite her, with a big parcel on his knee. She wondered
if he had been doing his Christmas shopping too.

"Oh, how do you do. I never saw you when I came in--there's such a
crowd."

"Very nearly missed the 'bus, didn't you?"

"Yes--we had to run for it. I've been shopping all the afternoon with
the Malpases."

"Got what you wanted?"

"Yes--n-no. . . ." She hesitated. She had been very pleased with the
things she had bought, and yet her general feeling was of
dissatisfaction. She said: "I've been buying Christmas presents."

He grinned.

"So have I."

"Oh, have you? I wondered what that big parcel was."

Harry said nothing, but he looked pleased.

Lucinda wondered what he was thinking of, but evidently he would not
tell her in front of the other passengers. They were sitting facing each
other in two double seats, she beside an old woman, he beside a little
girl. For a time they rumbled on in silence. She felt tired after her
crowded day. The lunch at the Grenadier had been a great success as far
as the Malpas family was concerned, but she herself had not enjoyed it
much. She had always a feeling of weight and strain in Mr. Barney's
company--as if everything she did or said were pushing against a closing
door . . . one of those doors which are weighted so that they won't stay
open of themselves. Then about half way through the meal she had dropped
her napkin, and groping for it on the floor she had seen his foot
pressing against her mother's under the table. Her mother had
immediately taken her foot away, but that might only have been because
she saw Lucinda stooping. . . . She wished she could forget what she had
seen, but, doubtless just because she wished so hard, she could not get
the incident out of her head.

The old woman and the little girl left the 'bus together at Waxend
corner, and Harry and Lucinda were alone on their two seats. He
stretched himself.

"That gives me more room," he said. The next minute he tapped the
package on his knee. "Guess what I got here."

"You've told me," she said smiling. "It's a Christmas present."

"But guess who it's for."

He looked so pleased with himself that she ventured:

"For your young lady?"

"I haven't got a young lady--not at the moment. But it's a lady's
present all right."

"For your mother, then, or your sister?"

"If it was for them I shouldn't feel so pleased with myself."

He certainly looked pleased; he had the air of a man who thinks he has
done something rather smart.

"I'll tell you," he said the next minute. "It's for Joan."

She was surprised and a little uneasy.

"But I thought she wouldn't speak to you."

"She'll speak to me after this. It's a work-basket, all lined with blue
satin and fitted out with scissors and needles and thimbles and such.
She's got nothing of her own but a broken old bag."

"But what will your brother say?"

"I don't care what he says. If he's angry I'll be pleased."

Lucinda felt worried. Though she and Joan never discussed and hardly
ever mentioned the family quarrel, she knew how bitter it was,
especially between the captains of the two sides. That innocent, blue
satin work-basket would be in the nature of a bomb thrown into the midst
of the Cobsales.

"But she won't be expecting anything from you. . . . Do you really think
you're wise? I mean, it's no business of mine, but unless you really
want to make friends with your brother . . . and even then, some other
way of doing it might be better."

"I don't want to make friends with Richard. The present's for her, not
him. A month ago I promised myself I'd buy a Christmas present for the
little Missus."

Lucinda could not speak. His last three words seemed to have punched her
right out.

"She has a middling poor time of it," he continued, "he shouldn't have
brought her to Loats, knowing how everything was. And he never spends a
shilling on her himself. She'll be lucky if he gives her a pocket
handkerchief as a Christmas box."

She passed her tongue over her dry lips. Moll Kemp--Nan Scallow . . .
Dickory--Harry Cobsale. She saw it clearly now--the gable-end of Loats
as threatening as Chequers Cottage. . . . Oh, what can I do to prevent
_this_ happening again? . . . She began almost wildly:

"I know I haven't any right to interfere. But won't it make it all the
worse if you give her something expensive and he doesn't? Please, Mr.
Cobsale, don't give it to her. If you do I feel that some harm will come
of it--to her, perhaps, as well as to you."

He laughed at her earnestness.

"You are a queer girl."

"I know I am," she said desperately. "I'm queer because I can't help
knowing things other people don't. That's why I'm so afraid. . . . I beg
you not to upset your brother over this. If you do, I've a feeling it
may lead to--lead to--to--murder."

He stared at her, but he did not laugh. The next minute he said in quite
a different voice:

"I'm sorry if I've upset you at all."

He probably thought she was mental. Perhaps she was. . . . She felt that
in time she would be, if things went on happening like this. She must
stop them somehow. She made an effort that sounded pathetic even to
herself.

"Oh, won't you?" she asked. "Oh, won't you give that work-basket to me?"

He looked at her queerly and obstinately. No doubt he felt that he ought
to humour her, but he was determined to give his present to no one but
Joan.

"I'll give you something nicer," he said. "I'll give you a puppy."

She shook her head, while the tears brimmed up in her eyes. If she spoke
they would fall.

"Our collie bitch is due for a litter next month," he continued, "and
her pups are always fine. You shall have the pick."

She swallowed and managed to say:

"I don't think my mother would agree. Besides, that wouldn't help me--or
you--or Joan. I asked you to give me the work-basket only because I'm
sure that if you give it to her there will be trouble."

He still spoke soothingly.

"Oh, no, there won't be any trouble. I know Richard, and he'll be only
too pleased if she gets a present he hasn't got to pay for."

"You don't believe that really. A minute ago you said . . . but you
think I'm mad; you're trying to smooth me down. There's no need to. I'm
being perfectly sensible and only saying what anyone else would say. You
know yourself that if you give a present like that to Joan--or any sort
of present--it'll lead to a quarrel."

She had at least convinced him of her sanity, for his manner changed the
third time. It had begun as jaunty, had become careful and now was
truculent.

"I don't care if it does," he answered roughly. "And what business is it
of yours, anyway?"

"I'm fond of Joan."

"So am I--or I shouldn't have bought her a Christmas box."

"You've no right to be fond of her."

"Why not? I'm her brother-in-law, ain't I?"

"But----"

She broke off. Their voices had risen and people were turning in their
seats. Perhaps it was lucky that, his attention thus called to her,
Nigel Malpas came sliding down the 'bus, discovering the two empty
seats, which he proclaimed so loudly that both his sisters decided to
occupy them. The rest of the journey was lost in babble--a babble which
still clamoured round her when they all left the 'bus together at Ember
Lane.

Harry Cobsale did not speak another word except to wish her rather a
churlish good night.



                                   IV

                              JOAN COBSALE

When Christmas came after a week of changing weather it was the usual
green Christmas of the south. But though the unfrosted fields wore the
damp colours that had darkened on them since they lost the brightness of
summer pasture, and the water of ponds and dykes rippled under the
stroke of a southerly breeze, the air was chillier than many a sharper
air. Moisture hung globed in it, distilled from low, swagging clouds and
exhaled from sodden clays, hazing and thickening objects only a few
yards off, enlarging sounds, enriching scents, till the lanes seemed
noisy with the song of last night's rain in the ditches and odorous with
the rotting leaves in the woods.

Across the marsh Kent had almost disappeared; the windings of the road
had been rubbed out on the hill, and Rushmonden was lost--smudged into
the woods. Even the church steeple was nothing but a sound, a clamour of
bells, swinging across the marsh to Loats Farm, where the rising fields
caught it with queer, jangling echoes.

The bells wove themselves into Joan Cobsale's sleep and for a time kept
her lingering in an innocent childish dream. She saw the Christmas tree
in the parlour at Waxend, herself and her sisters in their party frocks
holding hands in a gay circle round it, while her father on a
step-ladder cut down the star from the topmost bough of the tree. The
little picture shone for a moment, then wavered into confusion as alien
figures appeared--Harry Cobsale and fat Daisy mocking her, Lucinda Light
offering her a fairy doll, becoming herself a fairy doll with a star on
her forehead; and Richard--Oh, where was Richard? She had lost Richard.
Oh, where had he gone?

She woke, her arm groping for him across the bed. He was not there, and
for a moment her waking was full of the blankness of her dream.
Even when she saw the clock and realized that he must have gone
downstairs half an hour ago, she still felt anxious--as if his going
from her side were not a natural thing that happened every morning, but
some new calamity.

She sat up, fully awake at last, and the shadow left her. The room was
full of hesitating light and the sound of bells. It was Christmas
morning--the first since her marriage. She slid out of bed, shivering in
the heavy, damp cold, yet not waiting to put on either slippers or
dressing-gown before she ran to the window and looked out. At first she
could see nothing--the panes of the little window were beaded with a
damp which a hundred miles further north would have been frost and no
colder. She wiped it away and saw a landscape of grey and white mists
and green shadows--shadows which as she gazed revealed themselves as
trees and hedges and strips of meadowland.

Out of doors it was the Christmas she was accustomed to--her fading,
familiar bedroom at Waxend would have given her a view differing only in
detail from what she saw now. But the indoor circumstances had changed.
She missed the chattering of her sisters, as they all sat on the bed,
snuggling together in the cold and untying their presents. The floor
would soon be covered with the wrappings of thirty parcels, the
arithmetic of six girls each giving a present to each of the
others--pretty or funny trifles, to suit their purses. Their father's
more imposing gifts would be awaiting them at breakfast time, and when
all the pleasure and fun upstairs were exhausted they would go crowding
and laughing down in search of more in the dining-room.

At Loats there were also six present givers, but the arithmetic worked
out very differently. Joan felt a chill sharper than any in the room as
she thought of the Christmas breakfast-table at Loats Farm, with its
divisions maintained and its conversational camouflages exaggerated to
cover their insult to the season of goodwill.

She felt a chill, and then immediately a hot prick of irritation. It
really was silly to go on like this. For a time--yes. She could remember
refusing to speak to Daphne for a whole day after she had been so mean
about those cinema tickets. . . . But the Cobsales had been going
on like this for months, and as far as she could tell would go
on like this for ever. Their quarrel had become a matter of tradition
and family pride, and to ignore it by so much as wishing a Merry
Christmas to anyone on the other side of the house would be as big a
disloyalty to your own side as stealing their money. It really had come
to that. If it hadn't, she told herself, she would have braved things
to-day and wished Harry and Daisy and her mother-in-law the greetings of
the season.

She began to dress, for by this time she felt cold right through. The
mirror on her dressing-table was clouded with moisture, and as she wiped
it she noticed a little parcel beside her hair-brush, which she had not
seen before in the dim light. Opening it she found a plain white linen
handkerchief with a large J embroidered in the corner.

There was no message, but she guessed that it was Richard's present. For
a moment she felt a pang of disappointment--she had expected something
better, something more in her father's style of giving. But immediately
she remembered how far outside Richard's scope and experience were
presents of any kind. He had hardly ever given her anything, sweet and
devoted as he was. His tenderness did not express itself that way and no
doubt he had a little surprised himself by giving her anything at all.

Anyway, she had her father's present to look forward to, as well as all
her sisters' funny little gifts, and some hours of friendliness and
laughter. She and Richard were going to spend the evening at Waxend, and
the thought seemed to break like sunshine into the mists of the day. Her
only trouble was that she had all the main business of Christmas to live
through first at Loats--breakfast, at which all the Cobsales ought to be
opening their presents from one another, instead of emphasizing their
division with limited exchanges; dinner, which she ought to be helping
her mother-in-law prepare, instead of leaving her to Daisy's waddling
ministrations.

If it wasn't for Richard she could never endure all this . . . she
picked up the handkerchief. She would go down and find him and thank him
for it, and give him the hair-brushes she had bought him--he had asked
for something useful. She would also give Madge her box of
silk-covered coat-hangers. She had decided some time ago to bestow these
privately, so as not to emphasize the presents she must in loyalty
withhold from the other three.

Richard was in the yard, just coming out of the cake-house. There was
nobody about, and she ran towards him, but checked as she thought of all
the windows of Loats staring at her like unfriendly eyes. Suppose Mrs.
Cobsale, or Daisy or Harry were watching her from behind a curtain . . .
Richard evidently had no such thought, for he hugged her closely,
smelling good of linseed oil.

"Hullo, little creature."

"Hullo and a Merry Christmas."

He laughed.

"I was near forgetting all about that."

"Well, I wasn't--here's your Christmas present," and she put the parcel
in his hand.

He remembered something then.

"Did you see what I left for you?"

"Yes, the handkerchief. Thank you so much."

"You liked it, did you?"

"Of course I did. Do you like your brushes?"

He looked grave.

"You shouldn't ought to have spent such a lot of money on me."

"I wanted to give you something nice----" she flashed up a smile at him,
"----because I love you so."

"You dear little thing . . ."

Once more he braved the stare of the house and its hidden people, and
kissed her smile as it lingered on her mouth.

"Darling Dick."

For a moment she stood leaning against him, in the crook of his arm,
loving him because she was alone with him, happy because they were
together off the battlefield. If only they could always be like this.
. . . If only they could go away--or the others would go . . . or even
if they could all live peacefully and amiably together like the family
at Waxend. . . . A throb of homesickness disquieted her and made her
move restlessly. He looked down.

"Everything all right, pet? Feeling happy, ain't you?"

"Oh, Yes--quite." Then she added suddenly: "But I'd be happier if we
were all friends."

"Who were all friends?"

"All the family--you and me and your mother and Harry and the girls."

She felt him stiffen immediately.

"That can never be."

"Never?"

"No, not unless Harry and his mother change, and act different; and they
never will."

"I think it's horrible all living together and hating one another like
this."

"It isn't my fault. Harry can clear out any day he pleases."

"I don't see that he can--without any capital of his own. And, anyway,
why should he? He's the eldest son."

Richard looked hurt and astonished.

"You sound as if you were taking his part."

"Well, I'm not. But I can't see why you and he can't get together and
compromise a bit. This not speaking to one another is childish and I'm
sick of it. I hate it. It makes me miserable."

Anger and misery suddenly filled her eyes with tears. Richard looked
distressed. He said uneasily:

"I told you how it would be before you came."

"I know you did. But I didn't really understand, or know what it would
be like. I don't see how I could, with my own family getting on so well
together. It's dreadful to see brothers and sisters hating one
another--especially at Christmas time."

He said:

"I don't see what Christmas has got to do with it."

She said:

"I'm going indoors. It's cold."


There was no one in the kitchen. The fire burned brightly and the table
was laid, but neither the tea was made nor the bacon cooked, nor were
there any signs of activity in the scullery next door. She was
going out of the room again, for she did not want to be waiting there
while the family uncomfortably assembled; but just as she turned she
noticed a large parcel on the table beside her plate.

She looked again. Yes, it must be for her, because it stood on her plate
and her serviette in its yellow ring had been laid on the top of it, as
if to prevent any mistake. Who could be giving her such a large present?
She had already encountered Madge and received her powder compact. The
Waxend family were keeping their gifts till the evening.

Curious and a little excited, she examined the parcel more closely.
There was no writing on it at all. She fumbled it, but could discover
nothing except a box. What could it be? More important--whom could it be
from? Was it possible that. . . . Then suddenly she thought of Lucinda
Light. Perhaps she was the giver. She might have run down early--or more
probably she had given it to Madge last night.

Well, she had better open it and find out. She cut the string and found
as she expected a cardboard box. She opened it and gave a little gasp.
Inside was an enormous work-basket exquisitely lined with pale blue satin,
and fitted up completely with scissors, thimble, needle-case, pin-cushion,
skeins of coloured silk and at least a dozen reels and bobbins. She had
never seen such a fine one, and she fingered the contents with little
gasps of delight. If Lucinda had given it to her, she was in an awkward
position, as she herself had given her nothing, not even a Christmas
card. But she did not think for a moment that Lucinda could have
afforded such an expensive present--she never seemed to have much
pocket-money. There was no card or message. She searched, but could find
nothing.

"Merry Christmas, Joan."

She started violently and looked up. Harry Cobsale was leaning against
the door-post, and had, she felt, been leaning there for some time. She
blushed as red as holly, but did not speak.

"Like it?" he said easily.

Without thinking, she nodded.

"I'm glad."

"Oh . . . did you----" Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Yes, Missus, I did. I didn't see why you should go about with that
silly little bag any longer, and as I knew no one else would buy you a
nice one I bought it myself."

He evidently saw by her stiffening that he did not please her, for the
next moment he dropped his swagger and said in quite a different voice:

"Another thing I didn't see was why you and me shouldn't be friends just
for once on Christmas Day."

He had touched her on a sensitive spot, and before she knew what she was
saying she had said: "I wish we could."

"Well, we can, can't we? Who's to stop us?"

He came a few steps into the room and stood beside her, looking down at
the open basket on the table.

"Have you looked inside all those pockets?"

She was unable to resist such a changed atmosphere. Her fingers searched
the little blue satin pockets and discovered an emery board, a nail
file, a card of lace-pins and other small treasures. Harry chuckled as
she drew out each one.

"D'you remember the time you dropped your thimble and we knocked our
heads together?"

She nodded.

"You near cracked my skull."

She said nothing, for loyalty to Richard still bound her on the pale of
friendliness.

"Why don't you answer me?"

"Oh, you know why. I can't. I mustn't."

"Yes, you can, to-day. You said you wished you and me could be friends
for Christmas Day."

"I wish we all could."

He looked at her for a moment, and smiled in a way that made him
attractively like Richard.

"If I speak to the others, will you speak to me?"

She hesitated. Was there really a chance of ending this horrible and
ridiculous situation? If there was she ought to take it. She did not
believe that if the barriers could be broken down for one day
that they would ever be set up again.

"Very well--if you'll speak to the others I'll speak to you."

"Right--it's a bargain."

He held out his hand. She had a vision of Richard's hurt and angry face:
"You're taking his part". . . . She hesitated. But the next minute she
seemed to see an amiable family of Cobsales chattering round the
Christmas breakfast-table, in the centre of which her beautiful
work-basket glittered like the fairy doll on the Christmas tree. . . .
She put her hand in his.

He said:

"I always knew you and me could be friends. I wish we could have settled
it earlier, and then maybe I shouldn't have done some of the stupid
things I've done. D'you really like your work-basket?"

"Of course I do. I think it's lovely."

"You won't go dropping your thimble out of this."

She laughed, her spirits soaring. Then suddenly she cried:

"Look here, Harry--we'll have to be very careful with Richard or he
won't let me keep it."

"He can't take it away. It's yours."

"I know, but---- Oh, Harry, do promise me you'll be tactful and not
upset him. He'll want handling with care, you know--more than the
others."

Harry roared with laughter.

"But you promise me."

"I promise you, Missus."

Already there seemed an alliance between them.

She went back to the work-basket. Now that it had become the pledge of
reconciliation its blue satin seemed to shine with a new light. She and
Harry turned over the contents again together, his great fingers
fumbling beside hers. Every now and then he asked her: "What's this
for?" or "What do you think of this?" For five minutes enmity and
mistrust were dead, and the kitchen of Loats was warm with friendliness
and goodwill.

Then Madge came into the room.

"Hullo," she said, "breakfast not ready?"

"Merry Christmas, Madge," said Harry.

Madge ignored him.

"I was wondering," she said to Joan, "if I'd go to church this morning.
I think it would be nice on Christmas Day. Like to come with me?"

"Yes," said Joan, "I would."

"And so would I," said Harry.

Madge cast him a withering look, and Joan came with some trepidation to
his rescue.

"I think it would be nice if he came too. He and I have been making up
our minds . . . I mean, I think it's miserable for us all to be hating
one another on Christmas Day, so I thought that--that--just for the one
day we might--we could try--we might speak to each other."

Madge looked at her in horror and indignation.

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be terrible--after all the things he's said about
Richard. I don't see how you can."

"I think," drawled Harry, "that it would be ever so nice for us all to
go to church together."

Joan looked at him sharply. He was mocking again, and she began to
wonder just how serious he was in his Christmas undertaking. Her eye
travelled doubtfully towards the work-basket, which Madge; following her
gaze, caught sight of for the first time.

"Whatever's that?"

"Harry's Christmas present to me."

Madge gaped at her.

"Joan Cobsale, you must be mad."

As the preposterous situation urged itself upon her, Joan recovered some
of her lost confidence.

"Don't be silly, Madge. It's really too absurd for a lot of grown-up
people to go on like this. We're no better than kids. Harry's got shut
of that nonsense, so I'm going to play up to him and talk to him and to
all the rest of the family."

Madge suddenly became lofty.

"Well all I can say is that I fail to understand you. I should have
thought that as Richard's wife . . . that's partly it, I suppose; you
come from outside and don't belong to us, so you can't realize . . .
well, anyway, if you speak to Harry I shan't speak to you--that's all."

And she stalked out of the room.

This was a bad start, and Joan looked miserably at Harry. He was
grinning.

"Don't you worry about her, Missus. She'll come round."

"I don't believe she will."

"It'll make no difference. You can talk to Ma and Daisy instead. I'll
see that they treat you proper. And you've got Richard to talk to
anyway, so there'll be only one in the house who doesn't speak to you
instead of three."

Joan sighed doubtfully and Harry strode to the door.

"I want my breakfast," he said. "Where've Ma and Daisy got to? I'll
fetch 'em here. Ma!" he called down the passage. "Hi! Joan and I want
our breakfast before dinner-time."

A distant answer came from the chicken yard, and after an interval the
two women appeared.

"You needn't get wild," said Daisy. "Christmas Day's the same as Sunday
and breakfast's at nine. And anyway something's scared my
chicken--they've thrown themselves about so bad they've sent a whole
battery down. Ma and I've been picking them off the floor."

"Never mind," said Harry, "make you thinner. And aren't neither of you
going to wish me a Merry Christmas."

"Give us a Christmas present first," said Daisy. "What's that?"

She was looking hopefully at the work-basket on the table.

"That," said Harry, "is my Christmas present to Joan."

The mother and daughter stared at each other and then at his grinning
face. Joan thought that she had better take the explanation on herself.

"Harry and I," she said rather nervously, "both feel that it's wrong not
to speak to each other on Christmas Day; but I said I wouldn't speak
to him unless we spoke to all the other members of the family. I
want to be friends with--with all of you."

Mrs. Cobsale and Daisy were dumb.

"Come on, Ma," said Harry, "wish Joan a Merry Christmas."

Both women glared at him.

"You and your Merry Christmas!" cried Daisy, finding a wrathful tongue.
"What difference does it make? We didn't talk to each other last
Christmas, did we? and yet we enjoyed ourselves all right. But this
Christmas there's a girl in the house with what you think's a pretty
face, so you've got to make up to her, even though she is your brother's
wife."

"Oh! . . ." cried Joan.

"You dirty bitch," said Harry.

Daisy advanced on him with her neck thrust out like an angry goose.

"All I can say, Harry Cobsale, is that it's just like you to spend your
money on a stranger and leave your mother and sister without so much as
a Christmas card. Here am I, your sister, with nothing to keep my sewing
in but a trug, and you go and buy a beautiful satin basket as big as a
cradle for a girl Richard's brought in to spy on us."

"'At that's right!" chimed in Mrs. Cobsale. "I've fought your battles
for a twelvemonth, but it don't follow that I approve of your ways. You
should ought to treat your mother and sister better. The only thing at
Loats that pays is the chicken, but you don't even leave me and Daisy
with enough to buy us decent clothing. Look at me on Christmas Day, all
patched under the arms! You're as bad as Richard for taking our money of
us; but at least he spends it on the farm, while you spend it on
trollops and drink."

"Now," said Harry in an ugly voice, "you be careful with your trollops."

The plan for the pacification of Loats did not seem to be going very
well. All it had done so far was to split up the combatants into new,
more painful antagonisms. Joan felt that Madge would never speak to her
again, and here were Mrs. Cobsale and Daisy both hoarse with abusing
Harry.

"Oh, please don't think----" she began, but broke off as she saw Richard
come into the room, followed by Madge.

For a moment he stood staring silently--at them and at the guilty object
on the table. Then he said in a queer, throttled voice:

"Madge tells me Harry's been upsetting Joan."

"Madge is a liar," said Harry. "All I've done has been to give the poor
little kid a Christmas box."

A dark flush crept up Richard's face, from his throat to his forehead.
He nodded towards the work-basket.

"Is that it?"

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Cobsale, whom indignation seemed to have torn
loose from her normal allegiances, "that's it and cost every penny of a
pound."

Joan suddenly felt desperate. She must end this nightmare scene which
she--or was it Harry?--had provoked. She ran across to Richard and flung
her arms round his stiff, angry body.

"Dick," she cried, "listen to me. It's only because I didn't want us to
quarrel on Christmas Day. I've told you how unhappy it makes me. So I
promised Harry that if he'd speak to the rest of the family I would
too."

She tried to drag down his face to hers, but his neck would not bend.

"Is that why you asked me if we might all speak to one another on
Christmas Day? You knew that Harry had bought you this?"

"No, no, I didn't? I swear it wasn't that. I hadn't the smallest
notion."

He pushed her from him--violently, so that she spun round and bruised
her hip against the corner of the table.

Harry sprang forward.

"You brute!" he cried. "You dirty brute!"

"Keep off," cried Richard, "and mind your own business."

"I shan't. Not if by that you mean that I'm to stand by and watch you
beat up Joan. She has a miserable time here among us all, and then just
because I'm sorry for her and try to make things easier, you turn
nasty--to her as well as to me. I tell you----"

"Harry! Harry! Don't!" sobbed Joan.

"Hold your tongue" cried Richard, who was shaking with rage. "You're not
to speak to him. All this has got to stop. Go and put on your things and
I'll take you over to Waxend at once. And you--as for you----" he
clenched his fists and took a few steps towards Harry, "you'd better go
down to Chequers and see what the police are doing about that brat of
yours they've dug up."

Joan screamed as Harry smacked his face.

In a moment they had hold of each other and were struggling together.
They staggered about the room panting like oxen; soon they had crashed
into the breakfast-table, sending it over with all its cups and saucers
and plates and spoons, and also with a shower of skeins and bobbins,
scissors and pins, as the work-basket went too. Then Harry caught his
foot in the trailing table-cloth and fell down, with Richard on the top
of him.

Richard was on his feet at once, and immediately Joan and Madge seized
his arms, while Harry rose more slowly, both helped and held by Daisy
and Mrs. Cobsale. The two sides of the family faced each other again in
their old enmities. Richard's hair was over his forehead and his collar
had been torn off, but Harry's nose was bleeding and he looked the worse
of the two. He looked so dreadful, with the blood pouring down his face
and the hate burning in his eyes, that Joan bowed her head against
Richard's arm.

"Lemme go!" he cried. "Lemme get at him. I've begun on him and I mean to
finish him."

But his mother and sister hung on his arms, and as they were both great,
heavy women, he could not shake them off.

"Come along with us," said Mrs. Cobsale. "Come along into the scullery
and put your head over the sink."

He must have been a little dazed, for he let them lead him away. Richard
turned to Joan, who was still hiding her face against his arm. "Put on
your hat and coat," he said, "and we'll go and have our breakfast at
Waxend. Madge, if you like you can come too."

"I think I'd better stay and clear up this mess," said Madge, picking a
needle-case out of a pool of tea.



                                   V

                              JESS MARLOTT

On the hill above Loats, in the field where the mud clotted winter by
winter, Honeypools was living up to the origins of its name. There was
one place where Jess Marlott had splashed in above the top of her
gum-boot. Even in Suffolk they had never had such land, and of course
for chicken it was dreadful--the floors of the houses were rotting and
the lining was coming apart from the walls.

She had lived too long in the South to expect snow at Christmas, but
to-day she found herself longing for the snow. As a child she had spent
most of her Christmases in Northumberland, and her memory was full of
bleak, white spreads, blackened suddenly here and there by fir-woods and
slopes which the wind had stripped, with the dark knob of the Cheviot
rising above it all against the moving sky. She remembered how sometimes
the clouds would part, revealing a blue so pale as to be light rather
than colour, with a long, pale sunbeam hanging through the rift and
making the world suddenly seem larger--wider?--higher? . . . how could
she describe the change wrought by that sudden stab of sun?

It was strange, she thought, how often her mind travelled back to
childhood in these days. She had not thought that fifty years were
enough to make a ring. Perhaps it was death rather than old age which
held the gift of a golden ring . . . of a shining mirror. . . . She no
longer saw a ring, but a mirror--a pool of deep water into which she
gazed, discerning in it reflections among which she must one day, almost
happily, drown.

She was not afraid of death, though she did not wish for it and would
gladly have escaped it if she could. But she knew now that she was not
to escape. The doctor at Woodhorn had told her on her second
visit much that he had not told her on the first. She had left things
too long--it was not really her fault; she could not have known, and he
would not let her think that much could have been done even if she had
gone to him a year ago. Postponement of the inevitable, alleviation of
what must be endured . . . she did not know if she really regretted
either of those two doubtful benefits she might have won.

She was not afraid--except of dying or having to go away before she had
made all her preparations on behalf of Greg. The actual pains of
dissolution were not likely to be worse than the pains which now visited
her every day; and sometimes she was so acutely, brokenly tired that she
felt she could pay anything for rest. Of death itself she scarcely knew
enough to be afraid. It too was linked with childhood's memories--she
had lost her mother in her fourteenth year. When she died she supposed
she would be with her mother again, and her father too, though now he
was only a shadow moving across her mind. She did not really want to be
with either of them very much.

The only question that lived for her was: would she still be able to do
anything for Greg when she was gone? Help him in any way? Watch over
him? . . . People said . . . and she had read. . . . But she could not
feel sure or even very hopeful. That was why she was struggling so hard
to get everything in order before she went.

Her list of things that must be done seemed to grow longer. No sooner
had she ticked off one item than another arose. She thought she had
persuaded Greg to join a co-operative society for marketing his
eggs--now that he no longer visited Brenda it was, of course, no longer
urgent that he should go off on those long rounds by himself--and she
had arranged with the building society for a weekly payment of arrears
which she hoped would get things clear before the end. But she did not
entertain much hope of living to see a new brooder-house, or even the
old one adequately repaired; and as for Greg's clothes--every spare
moment was full of her patching and darning. If only they could afford a
new outfit for him . . . but as they could not, she was determined not
to leave him in rags.

Sometimes, however, she thought that she would gladly die with nothing
on her list crossed out if only one unwritten item could be properly
cancelled--the most urgent necessity of all. If she had written it down
it would have read: "Greg must know about Brenda." He must know that his
wife's death would not give him the freedom of his heart. He must know
that Brenda Light did not care for him, would never care, had never
cared . . . that her letter had been a lie, told in order to get rid of
him, that the best thing he could do would be to leave the district and
that all his wife's efforts to clear Honeypools of debt and disorder had
been made with this end in view.

He must know all this while she was still there to comfort him. She
could not bear to think of his living through that awful moment of
disillusion without her tenderness. Also if he knew about Brenda before
he knew about Jess the blow would not be quite so overwhelming. It was
the thought of him suddenly discovering his freedom, wiping away his
tears--for, even though he did not love her as he loved Brenda, her
death would grieve him excessively--and going off to the Old Parsonage
with that wild hope she knew so well soaring in his foolish heart, only
to have his heart broken and his hope destroyed . . .

She never could think so far as this without hating Brenda. She did not
want to hate her, because she was going to die and the clearest
religious precept in her mind was the wickedness of hate. "Let not the
sun go down upon your wrath"--and here was sunset indeed. But for this
consideration she would have hated Brenda more bitterly than in the
early days when she had seen her as her rival, trying to snatch her
husband from her, triumphing over her in her superior powers.

Of course she must not blame her entirely for the present situation. It
was she, Jess, who had at least prepared the way for it by that second
appeal she had made. If only she had let things alone and had stood by,
doing what she could to help Greg endure his loss. . . . Instead of
which she had rushed off to beg Mrs. Light to undo everything that she
had done, to accept him again and make him happy. She had been like a
mother with a spoilt child. It would have been better to let
him suffer then, so that now she would not have to think of him
suffering uncomforted when she was gone.

But she had never thought Brenda would be so treacherous. She had known
her to be kind, so she had believed her to be honourable. She had never
thought that anyone could write such words untruthfully--blaspheming the
high name of love. That letter . . . but she must not think of it or her
wrath would be red as sunset. . . . Oh, if only she had not interfered!
But it was too late for regrets, and they wasted time. It was urgent
that she should think of some way of enlightening Greg and undoing as
far as possible the harm that she and Brenda had done between them (let
us be honest and see things clearly before the sun goes down).

How was she to tell him the truth? There was only one form in which he
would believe it and that was in its fullness, which could never be
revealed. He must never know of the conspiracy between his wife and the
woman he loved. Whatever happened he must not hear of that. If he knew
that Jess and Brenda had discussed him together, talked him over, asked
and given advice about him . . . but it was too dreadful to think of. At
all costs it must not be. And yet without some such disclosure she could
do nothing useful. She did not think for a moment that he would take her
unsupported word for Brenda's indifference. What was she to do?

This was just the sort of difficulty in which, earlier she would have
turned to Brenda herself for advice. But she would not do so now--she no
longer trusted her. She would have to tease the problem out for
herself--rely on her own poor harried wits--or else hope for some lucky
turn of events . . . but she was not so hopeful by nature as Greg.

She had not yet told him about the doctors' verdict. He knew that she
was ill and had to take care, but she had not gone further in
revelation. There was no immediate hurry, and to tell him that much
might precipitate the need for telling him the rest. She could not bring
that emergency upon herself until she was better prepared for it.


On Christmas morning he rose as usual, creeping stealthily from the
bed so as not to wake her (who had been awake four hours), and going
next door into the kitchen to make her an early cup of tea. He had done
this ever since they were married, and as she heard him go she prayed
that he might be able to keep on doing it till the end, that her last
few cups of tea would not be handed her by aproned strangers. . . . It
seemed a small thing to pray for on Christmas morning, but she wanted it
very much.

As soon as she heard him getting busy with the kettle and the stove she
slipped out of bed, and fetched his Christmas present from the chest of
drawers. It was a silk handkerchief with a tie to match, and had cost
her half a guinea. She had wanted to give him something special for
their last Christmas, but it must not look too expensive or he might
embarrass her with his comments. Their Christmas presents to each other
had always been secret and personal--no arranged compromises with
household needs, but something chosen each for the other as a delight
and a surprise. She wondered ruefully what he had bought for her this
year.

The room was as cold as only five-inch walls and a floor laid stark on
the clay could make it. Jess shivered; her dressing-gown was thin.
Sometimes on these cold mornings she had worn her old fur coat in bed
while she drank her tea. But on Christmas Day she would not affront
Greg's eyes with such a sight or his mind with such a contrast. She
would put on her best velvet jacket, a beaded affair trimmed with
transfigured rabbit, and described as a "bridge coat" when bought some
eight or nine years ago. She kept it in reserve for chilly indoor
festivities, of which there had been none since her coming to Woodhorn,
so it had hung neglected in the wardrobe till this morning.

Greg's best suit hung beside it, and as she took her jacket of its peg
she noticed that something was bulging the pocket of his. She clicked
her tongue--he was always spoiling his clothes by stuffing things into
the pockets; it was not till she had taken out the offending object that
she realized she had unwittingly broken into the secret of what must be
his Christmas present to her. In her hand was one of the gaily decorated
boxes with which the Potcommon Co-operative Stores gave glamour to its
Christmas stock. She hastily put it back, feeling as if she had
exposed a child's secret. The next minute she was in bed again, sitting
up eager and grateful, to give and to receive.

"Merry Christmas, darling," she said as he came in.

"Merry Christmas."

He stooped and kissed her as he gave her the tea; then he fumbled in his
pocket and drew out a little parcel, which he put in her hands.

"Here's from me with love to you."

For a moment she was too surprised to open it. "But I thought. . ."
mercifully she did not say it aloud, for her mind, working quickly,
immediately supplied the explanation. Her heart felt as cold as her
hands as she unwrapped the little parcel and displayed a tiny bottle of
eau-de-Cologne.

"Thank you so much, my precious."

"I thought that would be good for your headaches."

She did not have headaches, but she gathered that was what he had made
of her recurrent attacks of exhaustion and pain. She was grateful to him
for even so much thought in his distraction, and thanked him
effusively--her mind, however, wandering so far that it was not till she
had done thanking him and had poured the first few drops from the bottle
on her handkerchief that she realized she had forgotten to give him her
own present. As she took it from under the pillow and handed it to him
she saw that he had forgotten too.

They lived through the morning lost to each other in their separate
distractions. Eating their breakfast together, working together with the
chicken, they were two planets moving remote on their different orbits
round the same sun. She could think of nothing but his Christmas present
to Brenda Light, and she knew that he was thinking of the same thing;
but, judging by his expression, his thoughts were very unlike hers.

He sometimes had a queer exalted look in his eyes, and she was confirmed
in the suspicion that had been in her mind almost from the start that he
meant to go to see Brenda some time to-day. He meant personally to give
her whatever it was. . . . He hadn't enough tact to send his gift
anonymously nor enough sense to use the post. He was going to
hurl himself straight into her jaws. . . . Very well--let him. This time
she would not interfere.

For she realized that his folly might bring about the very thing she had
prayed for. Brenda would in all probability show him in no uncertain way
the vainness of his belief in her love. Jess imagined that she would
reject his gift and send him packing. Almost certainly she would not
attempt to live up to her letter. She had been capable of writing a lie,
but surely it was a lie too monstrous to be lived. At the easiest Greg
would be let down with a disappointment--sent away with a few kind words
(she would not think of a few kind kisses) that would show even his
foolish heart that there had been an exaggeration, if not a mistake. He
would come back with his tail between his legs, if not actually beaten,
and then she would be free to ask questions, to make discoveries, and
having made discoveries to offer comfort, and having comforted to
hearten and prepare. Perhaps Brenda would be a better--because
unwitting--friend to her now than she had been on past occasions.

Having resigned--or rather, reconciled--herself to the immediate future,
Jess spent the morning in a certain tranquillity. She was indoors most
of the time, preparing their Christmas dinner, which consisted of roast
fowl and a very small plum pudding--bought ready-made at Farable's and
just enough for two people.

She took advantage of Greg's absence in the chicken field to yield to a
temptation which had been pressing her all the morning, and which she
had, after some argument with herself, decided need not be resisted. She
wanted desperately to know what sort of present he was giving to Brenda
Light.

The desire was partly, she acknowledged, due to sheer feminine
curiosity. What had Greg thought worthy of his beloved? To what
extravagance had he run for her sake? There was anxiety, too. He was not
a good present-giver; it often took a lot of love to make his offerings
acceptable. She was desperately afraid lest his gift should disparage
him. Now that her worshipping admiration of Mrs. Light had gone the way
of earlier cults--suddenly destroyed at that last meeting, when her
great kindness had served only to set off her great falseness--she was
ranged almost defiantly against her on the side of her man.

It was in the spirit of hope mixed with anxiety that she finally opened
the gaudy little box. Perhaps some kindly saleswoman had counselled his
inexperience and persuaded him to a gift that at least would not add to
his offences. She was reassured to find a quite presentable marcasite
clip, the price of which she calculated at from twelve and sixpence to
fifteen shillings. This, though certainly more than he could afford, was
very much less than in his madness he might have spent; nor had he
prepared incrimination for himself with any amorous message. So the
prevailing result of her examination was relief.

She had already decided when the presentation would be made. He would go
out while she was "resting" in the afternoon--lately she had started the
habit of lying down for an hour or so after dinner, a time when pain was
most liable to spring on her. Exactly what device he might use to dress
himself in his best without her knowledge was still a matter of
speculation.

Now that she had accepted this day as the day of his enlightenment, she
felt curiously detached from his setting forth. All her thoughts, plans
and energies were concentrated on his coming home. She was ready either
for despair or for deceit--she realized that she might have to tear the
last rags of concealment off him before she could give him all that she
had to give. But of one thing she was certain: sometime this evening she
would have him back again, broken, but hers. She was not glad. The
thought gave her no sense of triumph or release, as it might have done
if she were not going to leave him so soon. Any hope of cherishing and
comforting him again as she had cherished and comforted him on that
night of first disclosure three months ago was shadowed by the thought
that her comfort was transitory, her possession only a lease. . . .
Unless in death she could hold him still . . . with tears on her cheeks
she fumbled with a prayer.

But at least what she had prayed for most was happening. Brenda would
open his eyes before hers were shut for ever. The thought made her
cheerful, and she sat down with him to their Christmas dinner in spirits
that were almost high. She met a queer sort of response in
him--a response that would have perplexed her had she not guessed its
sources. His eyes were sparkling, he talked and laughed, and though his
thoughts were often astray she could see that they were astray in
pleasant places.

After dinner he said gaily:

"Darling, I'm going to light the sitting-room fire. You're going to have
a nice rest in there, as it's Christmas Day."



                                   VI

                              BRENDA LIGHT

Brenda Light spent the morning of Christmas Day restlessly. It was the
second of the era that dated her now. Last Christmas she and Lucinda had
been lost to each other in separate sorrowings for the same event. Their
eyes had never met, nor their hearts.

Had things changed much this year? She had a queer feeling that history
was repeating itself to-day. Lucinda ran about the house, sang in a
high, nervous voice, ran across to the Rectory and went to church with
the Malpas children, came back and ran about singing again. What was she
really doing? Her mother did not know. She felt as far from her as she
had felt a year ago. Their eyes often met, but in Lucinda's was a blank,
unrecognizing look.

As for herself, life did not seem so very different, in spite of
external changes. Last Christmas she had been in London, now she was in
Woodhorn; last Christmas Michael had just gone abroad, this year he was
less than half a mile away. But, town or country, far or near, her mind
ached with the thought of him just the same, and she realized now that
his nearness and his farness were both part of the same determination.
Because he was determined that Nicky should divide them no more in death
than he had in life, he at first had accepted her dismissal and gone
away, then flouted it and come back. Both his going and his coming were
an assault on what he called her sentimentality, her morbidity, her
irrationality. He saw these horrible things in her, and under the
battering of his will she was beginning to see them too--to see a
mawkish Victorian conscience living in herself, ugly and incongruous as
an aspidistra in a modern room.

Yet deep in her heart, something which was herself in spite of many
denials, told her that in resisting Michael she was fighting for more
than a piece of moral lumber. The house, the Old Parsonage, and
all that it stood for seemed ranged with her against his will. It had
failed her as a refuge--or had she failed it?--but it still seemed to
embody what was good and steady and true . . . sentimental? morbid?
irrational?

She could not tell. She could only turn these things over in her mind,
first inclining to one side, then to the other. It might well be that in
following this strange urge of her nature towards expiation she was
simply being sentimental and morbid, yielding to a childish sense of
guilt. She had felt no guilt while Nicky was alive, though she had
betrayed him more completely than she could ever betray him now. Her
conscience might be diseased, a perverse survival from an unhappy and
disordered childhood. . . . She must deal strictly with herself and end
the conflict which comes of harbouring the incongruous. Let's escape and
be all of a piece--let's be happy and tough and intelligent in all
things as we are in some. Or shall we yield to the other side and be
sentimental and morbid and irrational altogether?--good and steady and
true? . . .

So the conflict remained.

Barney was coming to lunch. She no longer tried to put a check on his
visits. Not only had her resolution weakened against him, but he now
seemed definitely in league with Mrs. Shafto, who encouraged him by the
negative process of refusing to object when he came to meals. Certainly
he must have tipped her well this Christmas, for she was in a fine good
humour and insisted on laying the luncheon table herself, refusing any
help from a mistress accustomed to serve.

"You take it easy, ma'am, this morning. You'll be tired before you're
home to-night, and I'll have all the evening to get myself straight in."

That night they were to dine and dance at the Grand Hotel in
Marlingate--she, Barney, Lucinda and Humfrey Malpas who had been invited
to make a fourth. It had all the air of an innocent occasion, but Brenda
dreaded it, as she dreaded (while she adored) every contact with Michael
now. They never happened without giving her some unpleasant glimpse of
her own weakness. When he was away from her she could find
comfort in the thought that very soon--in less than a month--he would
have sailed for New York. But when she was with him she could no longer
see that journey as her deliverance. It appeared rather as a challenge.
It marked a period--the time she still had left for decision. Before he
went she would have to make up her mind one way or the other.
Reluctantly she had to confess that she was still drifting.

After all, her attempt to remake her life had so far been a
failure--both practically and psychologically. Practically speaking, she
had not found the refuge she had expected at Woodhorn; nor had she had
any sensation of starting a new life there. Rather she had been bored by
a futile consciousness of marking time. She had been stifled and
flustered by domestic worries, exasperated by her solitary attempt at
diversion.

Nor on the psychological side of things had there been any better
achievements. Again she had a sense of futility--nothing made of
herself. Her sorrow for Nicky, her desire for reparation, had done
nothing creative in her. How had she failed? And was the failure her own
or a part of the idea that had urged her? Had she been too small for a
big thing or was the thing itself no better than an aspidistra in a pot?

She did not know; she knew only that some instinct still drove her to
refuse the gift of what she once had stolen. If she married Barney,
could they live as honestly and happily together as they had lived when
she was married to Nicholas? Or would she feel constantly the guilt that
she had never felt then? He would, she knew, dismiss such questions as
ridiculous--as mere scruples of her aspidistra conscience. He did not
understand her--and perhaps she was not worth understanding. Her heart
hardened, first against him, then against herself.


Just because, perhaps, her heart was hard, lunch passed off gaily. They
all three laughed and talked all the time, but she felt that only
Barney's gaiety was real. Lucinda's was as ghostly as her own. Well,
never mind; there, at least, was one bad occasion over, swept away with
the plates. And now Michael was asking Lucinda to go for a walk
with him, to help him shake down Mrs. Shafto's Christmas pudding.

"I won't ask you to come," he said to Brenda. "I know you hate walking."

And Lucinda said with a high-pitched laugh:

"Mummy never walks a yard."

Brenda had half expected her to decline the walk; but she did not. She
agreed in her polite, old-fashioned way--more like a courteous old
gentleman than a young modern girl--and they set out, leaving Brenda to
deal with Mrs. Shafto's pudding more indolently. She lay back on the
sofa and swung up her feet; it was wonderful and lucky that she remained
slim without taking any exercise. She would read a novel and go to
sleep--she had eaten enough to dull the restless activity of her mind,
and she looked forward to half an hour's oblivion.

Sleep fell on her as easily as rain and its tranquillity washed away the
lines on her face and filled in the contours. Her face lost its ravaged
look and became the face of a sleeping girl, almost of a sleeping child.
To Greg Marlott at the window it was the face of a beautiful, sleeping
Princess, the Sleeping Beauty herself. He longed to find himself inside
that room, standing beside her couch like the Prince of the Sleeping
Wood, listening to her breath, stooping to wake her with a kiss.


To sleep--perchance to dream . . . Hamlet's rub was also Brenda's. If
Greg Marlott had stayed at the window, he would have seen her face
change, as dark wings touched it--strange birds sinking on her mind
through the tranquil rain of sleep. Or perhaps if he had stayed at the
window she would not have dreamed at all. Perhaps his opening of the
door disturbed her, or his footsteps in the hall.

In the half-minute of his entry she had lived a whole life--not her own,
but not unlike it. She had seen herself arriving at the Parsonage,
gazing at the apple-blossom which had bloomed so long in the glass case
of her memory. In her dream it had changed, from flowers to fire; it
rose against the ceiling in a delicate smoke, lit by pink flames. "Oh,"
she said, "the house is burning." Mrs. Derry's voice answered:
"Nonsense, dear; you go to sleep." She had snuggled down, but she
knew the house was burning. Would it be all right if she waited
till morning and then walked out in the ordinary way? Or should she
escape now, showing herself to them all? Her mother came into the room
and began doing her hair at the glass, lifting her elbows to the
familiar angle Brenda had watched from her bed so many mornings. Then
Nicky came in and stooped to kiss her. She said: "You shouldn't kiss
me--you should kiss mother." She was shocked because he had wanted to
kiss her; she felt guilty, as if she had committed a sin. She said: "I'm
waiting for someone--you must go out before he comes," and he said, as
he had said so often: "Certainly, my dear."

The dream seemed to shake like a broken film at the flicks. She was
going through long halls, searching for someone she did not know. When
she found him he was with Lucinda and said: "I'd rather have her than
you. She's so polite." She had answered indignantly: "What's the good of
my coming here for a refuge if the house is burning? When those people
sold me the house they must have known it was on fire." The unknown
person answered: "Not at all, my sweet; that's just your Victorian
conscience." Then she pointed to great flames coming through the floor.
"Doesn't that convince you? If it doesn't, nothing will. But you're so
obstinate--so damn sure of yourself." . . . She was full of anger and
hatred; her breast seemed to burn with the house. And then suddenly she
sat up--wide awake, staring at Greg Marlott.

For a moment she scarcely knew what she felt about him. He stood by the
couch, looking down at her, stooping towards her a little. Then he
smiled rather foolishly and drew back.

"Please forgive me," he said, "but you looked so beautiful while you
were asleep."

Her mind was still full of anger from the dream, but as she looked at
him it passed into a waking consternation. Here was Greg Marlott and how
was she to get rid of him? The thought of his departure came before any
question as to his arrival. Her first confused idea was that Mrs. Shafto
must have let him in.

"You looked so beautiful," he babbled on, "that I couldn't help thinking
of the Princess in the fairy tale, and felt that perhaps
you--you wouldn't be very angry if I woke you with a kiss."

"Of all the infernal cheek!"

She was fully awake now, though her wits still lagged behind her
indignation. Had he actually kissed her? She could not tell and she
would not ask him.

He said:

"If you knew the number of times I've stood outside this house and
watched you through the window--when it was dark and you couldn't see
me. . . . Then as to-day was Christmas Day I felt that I could just this
once break our pact and come close to you again. Oh, my beautiful
Brenda----"

She interrupted him.

"Please don't talk like that. You know I don't want to see you or speak
to you. I've told you so as clearly as I could, and you've no right to
force yourself upon me."

She was speaking plainly from her heart. She knew as she spoke that
there were no longer any possibilities in him, even as a flirtation. She
had not realized it before, but now she saw that Michael had wiped him
out of her mind, and that even if she had not promised his wife to have
nothing more to do with him she would have had to send him away.

He looked hang-dog for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I hadn't meant to come in like this. It was
only the sight of you sleeping . . ."

"You'd no business to stare at me through the window--or to come in--or
to come at all----"

She broke off. Her indignation struck her as rather silly. She could
surely find some more subtle way of getting rid of him. . . . But the
next minute he showed her that a bludgeon was likely to be her best
weapon after all.

He said wistfully:

"It's Christmas Day."

"Hell! don't I know it? But I never heard that Christmas gave you free
entry into people's houses--people you've solemnly engaged never
to see or speak to again," she added, bringing up moral
reinforcements.

"But I've got a Christmas present for you."

She saw that he had put down a little coloured box on the table beside
her.

"I can't help that. You should have known better."

He looked dashed.

"Please go," she urged him. "I don't want to seem brutal, but you drive
me to it. You had no right to force your way in here."

She really was angry with him, for his coming like that had put her at a
disadvantage. He had found her muddled and startled, so that she had
begun the interview in the wrong way. If only she had had her wits about
her and fenced him properly it would not have mattered if Michael had
come back and found him there. But now if Michael came he would find her
coping tensely and inadequately with what was obviously a passionate
situation; he would drop right into a part of her life that she was more
than ever determined to keep from him. If he saw her like this, striving
to smother the blazing cinders of an old flirtation, he would be
convinced once for all that she was a fraud and her resistance bogus.
And it was all the fault of this blundering donkey, this clumsy fool,
this deluded sentimentalist with his Christmas presents and fairy
Princesses . . . her thoughts must have gathered like clouds on her face
for he cried out painfully:

"Brenda, don't look at me like that. I can't bear it. Oh, Brenda, say
that you still love me!"

"How could I possibly say such a thing? I haven't even pretended to love
you."

He looked aghast.

"But your letter . . . you said in your letter----"

"Which letter?" she temporized, knowing what he would say before he
cried:

"The letter you wrote me six weeks ago, when you asked me not to come
here any more--for your sake. I've got it here . . ." and he took out
his wallet and fumbled in it.

She forced herself to speak calmly.

"Yes, I know. I wrote that second letter, because you refused to take
any notice of my first. So I tried a new technique. That's all."

"You mean," he stammered, "that you didn't really . . . that you weren't
serious? . . ."

She must go on since she'd begun and finish the job properly; but she
did not like it, and felt angrier with him than ever for making her do
it.

She said:

"You may take it as that."

His face looked drained of every drop of blood. In its greyness it
seemed more than ever like a dog's--a beaten dog's. . . .

"But, Brenda," he cried, "I can't believe it. You wouldn't do it. You
wouldn't do a thing like that."

A sudden sense of shame plunged her into fresh confusion. Then she felt
angry with him again for making her ashamed. What right had he to take a
moral line over such a matter? A man has no business to fall in love if
he can't allow for tactics.

"Why shouldn't I do it?" she cried. "Any woman would. Has it never
occurred to you that a woman wants peace? I did it in self-defence.
There were you, plaguing me every day, and your wife begging me to do
something about you or you'd put yourself out. I'd tried plain language
and it hadn't succeeded, so I decided to write the thing up a bit.
You've no one but yourself to blame for that."

It was not till she had finished speaking that she realized what she had
said. She had revealed his wife's complicity, though she had promised
never to do so. She was angry with herself, for she disliked the idea of
having broken her word and she was sorry for poor Jess Marlott and did
not wish to embarrass her. She could hear her saying in her tense voice:
"If my husband knew that we'd discussed him together I believe he'd kill
me." That, of course, was only her iron-clad way of saying that he would
be angry and upset, an instance of that mental lumbering which made
everything a matter of life or death--except, Brenda remembered, death
itself. The Marlotts were both heavy as tanks and it seemed strange that
they should not get on together, being so much alike. Even this
indiscretion of hers was due to his clumsiness. If he had not bundled
her half awake into a discussion, she would have kept her balance and
not betrayed poor Jess.

As she gazed at him she wondered if she had betrayed her after all. His
face looked blank. Perhaps he hadn't taken in what she'd said. . . . But
the next minute he repeated in a dazed voice:

"My wife . . . what did you say about my wife?"

"Only that she must be at her wits' end, with you carrying on like
this."

"You--you said she'd been begging you to do something about me."

"Well?" she cried impatiently.

She thought in a hurry: should she deny the whole thing? Declare that
she'd never said what he thought, that he'd made a mistake? But that
would be silly. He wouldn't believe her and she would only make the
matter sound worse. Besides, she knew from experience that it was fatal
to involve oneself in a chain of lying--one always tripped up somewhere,
as she had tripped over that damned letter. . . . And the whole business
wasn't worth a lie. In fact it might do him good to realize the
desperate courses into which other people had been driven by his
behaviour.

He was saying:

"Do you know my wife?"

"Yes, I've met her once or twice. She came to see me about two months
ago, when she'd first heard about us."

"She came to see you?"

Something in his voice made Brenda feel uneasy. Her own voice became
more conciliatory.

"It was natural that she should, and I'm very glad she did. She thought
I was a wicked adventuress who'd got you in my clutches, and she came
determined to get you out. When she found out that I was harmless we
became quite friendly. I liked her."

He passed his hand over his face. When he took it away there was a wild
look in his eyes.

"Brenda, are you telling me that you--that you've given me up--for her
sake?"

Hell! Had she brought all that on herself again?

"No, of course not. I promised her I'd stop seeing you, but all I was
giving up was a pleasant friendship. Surely you always knew that. You
must always have known I wasn't in love with you."

"But your letter . . ."

How she wished that she had never written it! She had been much too
clever--a smart Alec, a slick Dick, a Miss Sharp; and she remembered
Jess's words: "Clever things don't work with us" . . . They certainly
didn't.

"That wasn't till afterwards. That wasn't till she came to see me again
and told me she was more worried about you than ever. She wanted me to
try something else." She had forgotten what Jess had actually wanted her
to try. "You wouldn't take a plain statement, so I thought of a better
way. I'm sorry now I tried it--you weren't the right man to try it on."

"Did--did she know you didn't mean anything in that letter?"

"I suppose so. I don't think she altogether approved of my writing it."

"Have you seen her since?"

He was firing questions at her like an examiner, but his face was more
like the face of a terrified candidate, with sweat on the forehead.

"Yes," she answered. "I met her about a fortnight ago in Potcommon. She
was feeling ill, so I took her into the Grenadier Inn and we had tea
together."

"And did you talk about me?"

"I expect we did. Why shouldn't we?"

She was tired of his questions. "Look here," she went on quickly, edging
in her words before another, "your wife's a delightful woman--and she's
very ill at present; very ill. You should look after her and forget all
about me."

He stared at her without speaking.

"When I saw her then," she continued, "she'd just been to consult a
doctor. And he'd given her a very bad report--I wonder if she's
told you about it."

He did not answer, and she suddenly found his silence more disturbing
than his questions. She spoke again, to fill in the pause.

"I think your wife's the sort of woman who'd suffer a great deal in
silence, so perhaps she hasn't told you what the doctor said. She might
want to keep it from you; but----"

He broke in suddenly:

"Hold your tongue--stop chattering--or I'll kill you."

Brenda turned pale, but it was with anger rather than fear. He had
startled her, but her deepest feeling was disgust at this fresh example
of the Marlott tank in motion.

"Please don't speak to me in that silly way," she said quietly.

"I want to know----" he began again in a harsh, new voice, "you've got
to tell me how many times you and my wife have sat here and talked about
me."

"Twice--that's all. And I don't see that it matters if it was a hundred
times."

He stared at her strangely from under brows that seemed suddenly to have
turned shaggy. If he still looked like a dog it was a mad dog, and in
spite of herself she felt a qualm.

"My dear friend," she said, trying to soothe him now, "aren't you making
rather heavy weather about all this?"

"Heavy weather . . ." he repeated dully.

"Yes; isn't it rather exaggerating the situation to make such a fuss
about two women getting together and talking about a man? It's a very
usual thing, you know."

"But you and she together . . . I can't bear the thought--it's driving
me mad . . . you and she conspiring to betray me--to tell me lies--to
write me that lie. . . ."

"Don't make a mistake," she said quickly. "Your wife didn't want me to
write that letter. It was my own idea entirely. She disapproved of it."

"But she knew you were going to write it."

"I can't even be sure of that. And anyway it doesn't matter." Her
anger was mounting again as through the window she saw the dusk
gathering round the tops of the trees, and knew that at any moment
Michael would be home, to find her wallowing in melodrama . . . "You've
stayed here long enough," she cried harshly. "For God's sake go now and
leave me in peace."

"I'll go," he said in a muffled voice, "but first I'll----"

He made one stride towards her and seized her wrist. She was taken
unaware and shrank from him, but the next moment recovered herself and
met his eyes. In them she saw a look that nearly made her shrink again,
but they suddenly changed and he stepped back from her, flinging away
her wrist with a violence that was almost a blow.

"No," he said between his clenched teeth. "No--you aren't worth it."


When, what seemed ages later, she again heard footsteps in the hall, she
started up from the sofa, thinking that they might be his, coming back.
But the footsteps doubled themselves and the next minute Michael and
Lucinda came into the room in a cold glow.

"Hullo, Mummy," said her daughter. "We've been as far as Bibleham. Did
you have a good rest?"

"No, not particularly."

Barney's eyes were keen.

"Everything right, my dear? You look rather done."

She said:

"It was a mistake to go to sleep so soon after eating Christmas pudding.
I had a nightmare."



                                Part IV

                           LIGHT IN DARKNESS



                                   I

                             HARRY COBSALE

During Christmas night the weather changed. Towards one o'clock the wind
veered to the east, and blew down the marsh against the river. The cold
changed from a pearl to a diamond. By daylight all the mists were gone,
and distances were close in the snapping air. Rushmonden broke out of
the fields in a splatter of coloured roofs, and the fields were darkly
shaped by their hedges, as if drawn by a child with a labouring pencil.
Everything was clear except the sky. A tower of clouds piled up against
the springing light, and then suddenly the snow fell.

It seemed to come as a surprise to that southern country. Immediately
the wind dropped and there was a great hush. The flakes grew larger and
eddied slowly down. To Harry Cobsale, watching them from his bed, they
seemed darker than the sky behind them. He watched them with a sort of
boyish interest; it must be two years at least since he had seen snow.

Apart from its novelty he did not welcome it. It was bound to turn to
slush before long, and it would make the ground heavier even than it
normally was in winter and out-door work more difficult. It also made
getting up more difficult--the temperature of his eastward room could
have been only a few degrees higher than out of doors--and this morning
he did not want any further temptation to sloth. Normally he was spry
enough, but to-day he would have been unwilling to leave his bed even
without the snow.

He felt heavy in all his limbs, especially in his head. Certainly he had
drunk too much last night--and who should blame him? He did not blame
himself, but he wished he hadn't, all the same. It was all very well to
forget your troubles for a bit and feel on the top of the world, but
unless you were the sort of chap who never feels the consequences--
and Harry was not lucky in that way--you had to pay more than the thing
was worth next morning.

Not that he had been drunk in the usual sense of the word--at least not
drunk and disorderly or drunk and incapable. He had done nothing to dim
the respectability of Mr. Tilden's pub, like that wretched chap from the
chicken farm. Drunk was the only word for him--drunk and incapable. He'd
fallen his length on the floor . . . they'd had to lift him like a sack
into Mr. Sharman's car. . . . He hadn't taken such a terrible lot,
either; just wasn't used to it, Harry supposed. He didn't know the
fellow at all well, and didn't want to now. He must have a fine headache
this morning--his own could be nothing to it. In fact he was not sure
now that he had a headache at all.

The ache seemed rather in his heart. His heart, which since six o'clock
yesterday evening had been peacefully at rest under the successive
anaesthesias of whisky and sleep, was now returning to pain--the pain
which had driven him nearly mad all Christmas Day till he had found a
means of allaying it. He could feel it quicken as he lay and watched the
snow falling dingily against the light. It was a composite agony, mixed
of hate, rage, pity, longing, grief and shame. Shame was the smallest
ingredient, and as he dwelt on it it became smaller still through
chemical changes into hate--which was less an ingredient than the
crucible in which all seethed together.

He was ashamed of having made an exhibition of himself before Joan, but
such a shame only fed his hatred of Richard who had provoked that
exhibition and triumphed through it. His pity for Joan passed too into
hatred of the man whose selfish tyranny was at the bottom of her
troubles, his longing for her into hatred of the man who possessed her,
his grief, born of that longing, into envy borne of that hatred. His
heart was sick and inflamed with hate and he saw no relief for it till
he could drug it again with yesterday's doubtful remedy.

Meanwhile he had better get up and see what work would do for him. Lying
in bed and watching the snow would only land him more helplessly at the
mercy of his furies. There was not likely to be much to do on the farm
till the snow had stopped and melted away, but at least he
could walk round and see to things. It would be easy to avoid Richard.

He and his brother had so perfected the practice of their enmity that
normally they could work the morning through without meeting. Though
everything had been left to them in a common lump, their estrangement
had made a surface division of the farm's activities. Harry attended to
the stock in certain fields and Richard to those in others; even the hop
acreage was divided between them, since neither would entirely remove
his hand from a single aspect of their joint inheritance. Chodd or
another of the men acted as go-between if any necessity arose, and the
brothers' only forced association was at meals. Even that could be
avoided for the first half of to-day, at least; for Harry's stomach
turned on him at the mere thought of breakfast. He would make himself a
cup of tea before he went out--the kettle was always left on the hob for
that purpose--and then do comfortably without more till dinner-time.

It was part of the general contrariness of things that for his first
hour out of doors he was all the time only just escaping Richard. He
seemed to be everywhere--in the cow lodge, though he hated and despised
Harry's milking machine; in the hen-house, where he had no business at
all, and in the cake-house, though Harry had gone in only to avoid him
in the yard. After a time he came to the conclusion that Richard was
deliberately dogging him round--either he wanted to provoke him, or he
was spying on him, for fear that he spoke to Joan. The temperature of
his hatred rose in the bitter cold.

Then suddenly Richard challenged him. Harry had gone into the cart
lodge, which Chodd said was leaking, and just as he turned back towards
the yard Richard stepped out from behind the big blue wagon which mocked
their quarrel with its "H. and R. Cobsale" under "Loats Farm" on the
beam. He stood between his brother and his escape into the falling snow.

"Stop," he said. "I want to speak to you."

Harry's first impulse was to push past him--push him over, if need
be--and get away. But the next moment he suddenly realized the
advantages of free speech.

"Right you are; speak and I'll speak too. It's as good as Christmas
Day."

Richard said:

"Will you take three thousand pounds to clear out?"

Harry stared at him.

"Would I hell?"

"I'm asking you: will you take three thousand pounds to clear out?"

"And I'll ask you: where are you going to get three thousand pounds?"

"From the sale of the hop quota," said Richard promptly. "We could get
all that for it, and I'd let you have the lot if you'd go."

Harry saw how desperately Richard must want to get rid of him; but the
thought gave him only a little satisfaction, for he guessed how the
matter had come about. Richard had spent yesterday at Waxend, and
Chaffield had put him up to this. He might even have told him that if he
got rid of Harry he'd stock up Loats for him with sheep and beasts and
they'd run it together as a grazier's business.

"I'm not going," he said. "I tell you straight out: I'm not going, even
if you offer me ten thousand."

"If you had three thousand pounds you could buy a place of your own,"
said Richard.

"While you grub up all the hops and run Loats entirely as a bloody
grazing farm. That's what you'd like to do--I bet it is. But you shan't
do it."

"You don't seem to realize," said Richard, still speaking patiently,
"that even if I did, you'd still be getting the best of the bargain."

"I shouldn't. This is my place; I'm the eldest son, so I've first right
to it."

"It was left to us both, and if we sell the hops and you take all the
money no one can say I'm doing you out of your share."

Harry saw this, and had he been in a condition to think calmly it would
have weighed with him. Much as he wanted to be at Loats, proud as he was
of it and anxious to save it from his brother's cow-keeping, he could
not be blind to the advantages of leaving it for a place where
he would be his own master both in the house and in the field. But for
its motive, Richard's offer might be considered magnificent. Three
thousand pounds was the price of a good little farm and on any normal
occasion Harry would have considered himself a fool to reject it. But in
his present state, the only thought that influenced him was what would
annoy his brother most; and undoubtedly Richard wanted him to go. The
magnitude of his bribe showed that. He wanted to run the farm in his own
degraded way; and perhaps, after yesterday, he had become nervous about
his brother and his missus . . .

"You must be scared of me," said Harry, laughing unpleasantly. "You must
be scared of my making too much of a hit with Joan."

Richard turned crimson.

"You can leave Joan out of it."

"Not after yesterday. Not after the hell you made just because I tried
to be decent to the poor kid--to make up a bit to her on Christmas Day
for the way you've treated her."

Richard clenched his fist.

"Look here," he said in a strangely quiet voice, "don't you try starting
all that over again. You got the worst of it, remember."

"I shan't this time," said Harry.

"I think you will," said Richard, and knocked him down.

For a moment Harry was senseless. He did not know that he was lying on
his back staring at the beams of the cart-lodge. Then he noticed the
cobwebs hanging like veils among them, but he still did not know where
he was or think it strange that he should be gazing up at them like
that. It was a full half-minute before complete awareness came and by
then Richard had disappeared.

Harry scrambled to his feet, his head singing. He could see his brother
walking away across the yard towards the house. He charged after him
like an angry bull, seized him by the shoulders and swung him round. For
a moment they struggled together, their feet slithering in the melting
snow, which muffled the noise of their fighting, so that this time no
womenkind came rushing to interfere. It was Richard's strength alone
which brought Harry suddenly to his knees, and then flung him
over sideways so violently that he lay his full length in the trodden
slush. Once again he was knocked out--for no more than twenty seconds,
but long enough to give Richard time to escape into the house.

At first Harry thought of following him. His face swelled, his heart
pumped with fury . . . he would go after Richard and knock his teeth
down his throat . . . Richard should pay for this--for taking advantage
of a better man--for trading on his brother's hangover to attack him
unprovoked. If Harry had been in his normal state of fitness Richard
could never have knocked him down--knocked him down twice--twice in two
minutes . . . memory jibed, and for a moment rage nearly triumphed over
experience. But his first step towards the house showed him that if he
had not been fit the first thing in the morning he was still more unfit
now, after having twice, as it were, taken the count. His head sang and
the walls of the house had a wavering look.

Better let his anger wait--it would not cool. Later on, when he was
himself again he would have his revenge and enjoy it richly. He was
taller than Richard--and stronger. Give him a fair encounter and he
could punish him as much as he liked. He would maul him, maim him . . .
at that moment he wanted not only Richard's blood but his bones--his
broken bones. He would like to set about him with a beadle--or what
about emptying a barrel of small shot into his backside?

He pondered the thought affectionately, loving it so much that he nearly
went straightaway to fetch his gun. But, he reflected, if Richard was in
the house--he had run there for safety--it might be difficult to get at
him now; and, anyway, a thick night was probably as bad for one's aim as
for one's punch. Better wait till the effects had worn off and then let
Richard see. . . . Meanwhile he would get off the place. The snow was
clearing and a sharp, white light had climbed up the sky. A walk in the
wintry air would do him good--set him up again--bring him closer to his
revenge; and at eleven o'clock he would be able to get another drink.


The snow had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and in the clear
stillness the fields lay wearing that rather strange, unreal
look which snow brings to the south. To Harry's unaccustomed eyes there
was something almost sinister in the changed country-side--no red roofs,
no golden stacks, no brown woods or green meadows, no distinction
between the rich pasture of the home fields and the barren sogginess of
the river snapes. The snow was like death levelling all things,
shrouding rich and poor alike. He was glad when, as he walked down the
hill, a sudden sword of sunshine pierced the clouds and gleamed on the
marsh ahead of him. If the sky cleared, the ground would soon clear too,
and all things return to life and their due order.

He had decided to walk across the marsh to Rushmonden. It was a
five-mile walk--which ought to stir him up a bit and after last night he
was anxious to avoid the pub at Woodhorn. Not that, as he repeatedly
told himself, he had been visibly drunk, but his memories were for the
most part inglorious. Besides, he did not care for the fellows at the
Plough; they talked too much about him. If he dropped in for a couple of
whiskies this morning they would be sure to say that Harry Cobsale was
drinking himself to death. He would rather go where he was less known
and more respected (his mind produced no comment on this situation). He
did not mean to drink immoderately again, but he wouldn't be right till
he'd had those whiskies. When he'd had them and walked the five miles
home, he'd be fit to tackle Richard and wop him with one hand tied
behind his back.

Just above the elbow of the lane the bare trees allowed him an early
sight of Chequers Cottage. It startled him with its whiteness, as it
stood there, empty and broken at the road-side. The snow had drifted
over it from the back, smoothing the lump of its attic window, softening
the jagged line of destruction which the demolition men had left. He had
not really seen the place since they started work, and now he realized
with a sort of shock that only half of it was there--it was broken off
just beyond the porch. To-day, being a holiday, nobody was at work, and
the stillness combined with the snow to give the broken house a sinister
look. . . . But to-morrow the men would be back, and soon it would all
have disappeared--and a good job, too. He would be glad when nothing
remained of Chequers Cottage but, maybe, a few vegetables and
border flowers springing up unnaturally among the grass of Four Legged
Crouch.

That was another reason why he did not want to go back to the Plough:
everyone there was talking about Nan Scallow. The police had got her at
last--they had found her and her mother hiding with some of their gipsy
relatives in a caravan as far away as Clun in Salop; and they were
bringing them both back to stand their trial at Lewes. There had been a
number of odd looks at Harry in the bar. He did not know why, everybody
should be so determined the child was his, considering it might have
been fathered by half a dozen of the Plough's customers. But he supposed
that being a bigger man he had made a bigger scandal. Through the
whisperings of the bar he could hear Richard's voice: "You'd better go
down to Chequers and see what the police are doing about that brat of
yours they've dug up" . . . and his hatred of Richard suddenly ceased to
be the simple force that was driving him across the marsh for a drink at
Rushmonden, but became once more a seething complexity of emotions any
one of which was liable at any moment to blow him up.

He had reached the foot of the hill, and stood staring at the padlocked
door of Chequers Cottage. They had put a padlock too on the door at the
head of the stairs. . . . Why hadn't the demolition men pulled down that
end first? Then perhaps he wouldn't see himself going up those stairs,
knocking at the door, going in to Nan Scallow, to hide himself in her
darkness, because he could not bear Joan's light. He had gone to her to
escape from Joan, from the sight of so much sweetness and loveliness
belonging to Richard. He had been a fool. He should have got even with
Richard by finding a sweet lovely one of his own. There was no good
telling himself he couldn't have done so--he hadn't even tried. There
were plenty of sweet and lovely girls about, and he was not unattractive
as a man--the girls had always fallen for him pretty easily, and he
might just as well have had a decent one for a change. Of course no
decent girl would have looked at him unless he had made himself fit to
look at a decent girl; but he could have done that--he wasn't so far
gone that he couldn't have done that--instead of running away and
getting himself into a still worse mess. . . . Of course he had
done it partly to pay out Richard--but what harm had it done Richard? It
had done no harm to anybody but himself. . . . Looking back on those
days, he seemed to have been possessed by an evil spirit--a spirit which
possessed him still.

He'd feel better when he'd had a drink . . . but before he passed
Chequers Cottage he went up and put his face against one of the empty
windows. What should he see inside? Only snow, which had drifted down
through the broken roof and lay in a heap on the floor. That was the
Norrups' place. It did not really interest him, but he felt a queer urge
to see the rest, to go up the outside stair and try the door at the top,
on the chance that he might get in. Why should he want to get in? into
Nan's dreadful room? . . . the attraction frightened him, yet it was
there. He felt a queer, pleasureless desire to go up those stairs--to
that door. . . . In some such way might a ghost be pulled to a scene of
past disgrace. He must be in a bad way. . . . He'd feel better when he'd
had a drink.

With an effort he swung round from the window, and was startled to find
that he was no longer alone in the small white landscape of Four Legged
Crouch. A girl was coming rapidly towards him--Lucinda Light--her
footsteps noiseless in the snow. He had the extraordinary and senseless
feeling that he had been caught doing something he ought not.

"Hullo," he said in a loud voice, "what brings you here?"

As he said it he asked himself why he had to speak to her like that? Was
he really incapable of speaking to a decent girl? Here was one before
him, in many ways better than Richard's Joan--better born, better bred,
better looking (though he still thought she was too tall) and he had
been unable to say good morning to her politely. Something was turning
him into a bounder. He really must take hold of himself . . .

She said quietly:

"I'm looking for the Malpases. You haven't seen them by any chance?"

"No, I haven't. I haven't seen a soul since I came out."

"I expect they've gone on to Moll Kemp's Grave. We were all going there
this morning, but I wasn't ready when they called for me."

He felt a little comforted by her manner, which was friendly in spite of
the odiousness of his.

"Look here," he said, "I'm sorry I spoke so rudely a minute ago. But you
gave me a start."

"You weren't rude. I could see you were startled when you looked round."

"It's the snow--you don't hear people coming."

"I know. But isn't it lovely? Do you think it will lie?"

He shook his head.

"It never lies around here. The temperature must have risen five or six
degrees since it stopped. Listen!"

Through the stillness came the dripping of Chequers' eaves.

They both looked up, and then their eyes lingered on the broken wall.

"There's not much left of it now," said Harry.

"And you're still not sorry they're taking it down?"

"No; it was a bad old house."

She said:

"I've often felt that." Then suddenly she asked him: "Have you heard
anything more about Nan Scallow?"

She could not know about him, then, or a decent girl like her would
never have asked.

"Yes," he said, "the police have got her."

"Oh. . . ." She turned pale, or paler, rather, for her skin was never
darker than  cream. "Then they'll hang her. . . ."

"No, they won't hang her. There's a law against hanging the mother of a
new-born child! Seemingly, they're not considered responsible for their
actions."

As if any action of Nan Scallow's was less than cold, calculating
villainy.

She seemed a little reassured, though still distressed.

"Then it won't be so bad for her as it was for Moll Kemp--it isn't
happening quite the same way as it did before."

He remembered that he had always thought her a very queer girl.

"I don't know anything about Moll Kemp," he said, "only that there's a
place on the marsh called Moll Kemp's Grave. I'm going that way now, so
if it's your way too, may I go with you?"

"Thanks very much," she answered politely, and they walked on together
through the snow, which was already turning brown under their footsteps.

For some minutes they walked in silence. He could not think of anything
to say and she seemed depressed. He wondered if she was still upset
about Nan Scallow. He thought it preposterous that she should waste her
pity on such an object, and after a time he began:

"You're not still worrying about that girl, are you?"

"I can't help worrying about her."

He said severely:

"She's a bad lot and doesn't deserve any kind thoughts from you."

"I don't see that--besides, it isn't only for her sake."

"Whose is it, then?"

He felt suddenly anxious, in case it was his.

"It would be rather difficult to explain. It's mixed up with something
else I'm worried about."

He remembered that Nan had been going daily for two months to the Old
Parsonage.

"I should never have let you take her on."

"You mustn't blame yourself for that. You really were quite
discouraging. It was only that we were desperate to find someone. . . .
Mummy knew there was a risk; so you mustn't blame yourself. How's Joan?"

Joan! What had Joan got to do with it? Then he guessed that she was
trying to turn the conversation. So she _must_ know about him and Nan
Scallow. . . . His heart sank, and it was not till she repeated her
question that he realized he hadn't answered it.

"Oh, Joan . . . she's all right. At least, that's as far as I know. I
haven't seen her since yesterday morning."

"Since yesterday morning?"

"No. She spent the day at Waxend."

"Oh, I see. . . . Did--did you give her that present you bought for
her?"

Yes, of course; he remembered how she had got in a terrification about
that work-basket--begged him not to give it to Joan, not to quarrel with
Richard. She _was_ a queer girl.

"Yes, I gave it to her."

"And was she pleased?"

"You bet she was."

"And did your brother mind?"

"You bet he did."

He felt his manner changing as he spoke. He was being offensive again
. . . swaggering and sneering. He saw her eyes darken in a curious way,
and tried desperately to recover his lost grace.

"Don't let's talk about him. How did you spend Christmas?"

She responded at once.

"We didn't do anything special during the day, but in the evening Mr.
Barney took my mother and me and Humfrey Malpas to a dance at a hotel in
Marlingate."

Mr. Barney . . . that was her mother's fancy man. They knew all about
him at the Plough.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Very much, thank you--though I only danced a little. Mr. Barney dances
very well, but he danced mostly with my mother."

"And did you have to sit all by yourself looking on?"

He felt suddenly full of compassion and indignation. He seemed to see
her sitting there like a forsaken fairy, in a shining white and silver
dress, with a silver crown on her golden hair--a princess without a
prince.

"Oh, no," she said, "I'd Humfrey with me. He's not a very good dancer,
but he talked a lot."

"Humfrey Malpas? Why, he's not turned fourteen, has he?"

"He's fourteen and a half, but we couldn't think of anyone else to bring
to make a fourth. It makes me feel ashamed not to have been up when he
called this morning, for he must have gone to bed just as late as I
did."

Harry thought to himself: I might have been there. If I'd been a
different sort of chap maybe they'd have asked me to be a fourth. I'm a
yeoman farmer and my sister-in-law's her great friend. I've got a tail
suit and I can dance. If I'd had a good name instead of a bad one,
they'd have asked me to come with them instead of that kid. Then I could
have danced with her.

He saw himself in the tail suit which he had not worn since the Marsh
Harriers' ball two years ago, dancing with a lovely girl in a shining
white and silver dress, with a silver crown on her golden hair--the
prince of a princess.

The picture did not make him feel altogether happy, and they fell once
more into silence. He glanced at her and thought that she looked
harassed and uneasy. Surely she could not still be worrying about Nan
Scallow.

"Look here," he said, "you mustn't let that girl upset you. People like
her are best in prison--out of the way."

"I know--but it isn't really her I'm worrying about. It's you.

"Me!" Once more he was swaggering on the defensive. "Why should you
worry about me?"

"Because I'm afraid--I'm sure that if you don't take care, something
dreadful is going to happen--quite soon."

So that was what was biting her, was it? That crazy idea she had been on
about in the 'bus. She knew nothing about him and Nan. A profound relief
swept over him, and he asked more gently:

"What sort of thing?"

"I told you when we were in the 'bus; and I begged you not to give that
present to Joan. Now you've given it--and I'm afraid--I'm afraid . . ."

She suddenly stood still, biting her finger in its woollen glove. She
was trembling.

"Look here," he said, "you really mustn't take on like that. What does
it matter if I have given Joan a present? She was pleased enough to get
it, poor kid, and I can't see anything wrong in being friends with my
own sister-in-law."

"But if it upsets your brother and leads to more quarrelling. . . . You
told me he wasn't pleased."

"He wasn't."

How she would create if she knew what really had happened.

"There it is. You've made matters worse instead of better."

"I daresay I have--with him. But you don't understand. It's not him I
care about--it's Joan. I'm sorry for her, because I know it upsets her,
us all being so unfriendly. She wants us to be friends--she told me so
yesterday morning."

"Did she? And did the present make you all more friendly? . . ."

Harry could not say that it did.

"It made her and me more friendly," he pushed stoutly, as they walked
on.

"But that doesn't help. It only makes matters worse. Richard will
think----"

"I don't care what Richard thinks. It's her I care about, and I'm
surprised that you don't care about her too, being her friend."

Her eyes met his, and he was startled by their darkness under her golden
fringe.

"I do care about her," she said. "That's why I'm trying to save her. You
don't understand. She loves him."

Something in her voice embarrassed and vexed him strangely.

"I don't believe she does," he blustered, "not now--not really. She
wouldn't be such a fool as to love a man who treats her the way he does.
I saw him myself yesterday morning push her against the table."

"He may have lost his temper for a minute. But that only shows
how--how--dangerous things are getting. For he loves her really and
truly. I know he does. And she loves him--I'm her friend and I know it;
she loves him more than--more than---- Oh, anything I could say."

"Then he's a double-dyed brute to make her so unhappy."

"But she isn't unhappy--not unhappy at all. She's happy because she's
with him and she doesn't really mind about the rest. Oh," again she
stood still, wringing her hands this time, "don't you know what love
is?"

He looked at her in astonishment. Her great eyes seemed to hold the
depths of innocence in their darkness. He asked:

"Do you?"

"Yes, of course I know. I can't help it. Anyone who's ever loved anyone
must know. I don't mean love between sweethearts or husbands and wives,
but loving another person more than yourself--as Joan does--as I've
done. . . . You're happy if you're doing things to please them, even if
it hurts you to do them. You'd rather do something you don't like than
go against their wishes. If you make Joan do anything that displeases
Richard, you'll only make her miserable--no matter how much she would
like to be friendly if he didn't mind. You're making her unhappy now.
It's you that are doing it--not Richard. There's nothing that makes you
more unhappy than if anyone is mean or unkind to the person you love;
and if that person should--should--die . . ."

"No fear of that, worse luck."

"Oh, yes there is--you've just said it."

"Said what?"

"That you want him to die. You hate him and you want him to die--and
that can always lead to murder."

"My God! D'you think I'd risk being swung for Richard?"

"You mightn't mean to kill him. But, oh . . . oh, please take care . . .
please believe me . . . this is a dangerous day."

She was crazier than ever. But he could not help feeling flattered by
her interest in him. He said:

"I don't see how it can make any difference to you."

"There is a reason, but I can't tell you now."

They had come within a few yards of Puddledock Bridge, and in the
doorway of the Ironlatch House figures were waiting. He said:

"Perhaps you'll tell me some day."

"I don't suppose I ever could. But, please--oh, please----" She broke
off.

"Please what?"

She shook her head.

"I've said it before and it sounds so silly to say it again."

"Say it all the same."

"I was going to say: 'Please take care.'"

A gentler mood was on him, and he felt sorry to lose her company.

"All right, I'll take care. I'll think over what you've said. There!
Does that make you feel better?"

She smiled without speaking as they shook hands.



                                   II

                             LUCINDA LIGHT

"Let's hurry up and start the film," said Humfrey. "We begin with the
casting. Lucinda, you shall be Moll Kemp."

"Oh . . ."

"I want to be Moll Kemp," said Petronilla.

"Well, you can't. Lucinda's the eldest."

"But she doesn't look the part."

"How do you know? She probably looks exactly like her. And anyway, you
don't. Moll Kemp, whoever she was, wasn't a fat ugly child of twelve
with pig-tails."

"And Dickory wasn't a thin little squit of fourteen with spectacles."

"I can't help my spectacles. Dickory was a man, and I'm the only man
here, so I must play him."

"Man! Ha! Ha! That's good. Just because Mrs. Light couldn't find a real
man to go to the ball with Lucinda last night, so had to take you, you
think that you're a man, instead of a skinny little schoolboy. Yah!"

"Well, I was considered enough of a man to drink champagne and stop up
till three in the morning. Yah!"

Leonora created a diversion.

"I want to be Moll Kemp."

"You can't. I want you for all sorts of parts--the landlord of the
Chequers and Farmer Hodge and the Duke of Beaulieu and a Bow Street
Runner . . ."

"They're men. I thought you said women couldn't play men's parts. If
they can, I want to be Dickory."

"You can't be Dickory--it's the chief part and it would look ridiculous
if it was played by a girl."

"Then the others would look ridiculous too, and I certainly shan't play
them. Let Nigel be the landlord and all that lot."

"I want to be Moll Kemp," piped Nigel.

"You're to be Moll Kemp's baby."

"I don't want to be a baby--I'm not a baby and I won't act a baby."

"But the baby's murdered," coaxed Humfrey. "It's a lovely part."

"I don't want to be murdered. I want to be Moll Kemp."

The Malpases seemed to be quarrelling and Lucinda listened anxiously.
She was never quite sure whether they were really angry with one another
or whether their arguments and abuse were all part of a game she did not
quite understand.

"I really would much rather not be Moll Kemp," she said at the first
opportunity, "it's not a part I feel I could play very well."

"Oh, yes, you could. It's just the part for you. You're the only one
who's the right age for it."

"And I, I suppose, am the right age for the landlord of the Chequers,"
said Leonora witheringly.

"But I really feel it would be a too heavy part for me," persevered
Lucinda. "I know it's awful of me, but I still feel very tired and
sleepy after last night."

"All the more reason for you to play Moll Kemp. She has practically
nothing to do--in fact, she's in hiding most of the time. Do be a sport,
Lucinda, and take the part, or it'll be time to go home before we've
settled anything."

Lucinda realized that if she did not play Moll Kemp, Humfrey would never
be able to decide between the rival claims of his sisters. She did not
like the idea, but if she really was to be in hiding most of the time
she would not have to think about it much. So she agreed, with
apologetic smiles to Leonora and Petronilla who, however, realizing that
the part was now definitely a minor one, withdrew their opposition with
an amiability that surprised her.

The landlord of the Chequers became the landlady and was undertaken by
Petronilla on condition that the Duke of Beaulieu equally became the
Duchess who, she decided privately, should run away with the
film. On the same basis, Nigel accepted the part of Moll Kemp's baby
with the promise that once he was murdered he should become Lionel
Lovelock, assistant highwayman to Dickory. Leonora was more difficult to
placate until they had the brilliant notion of making her the camera
man. She thought she could easily combine this activity with the part of
the Bow Street Runner, who could not be left out.

So, about half an hour after the company had assembled, the film
started--on a snow-white set lit by a Christmas sun. The action was
rather confused at first, owing to conflicts of opinion between the
actors; they spent a great deal of time standing about and arguing and
feeling cold. Lucinda was not enjoying herself. When she had promised to
attend a meeting of the Antiquarian Society at Moll Kemp's Grave she had
had no idea of anything but the usual sort of affair. It was the
communal gift of a toy cin-camera, taking a picture fifty inches long,
which had brought about the change. The story of Moll Kemp and Dickory
was to be the first production of the Antiquarian Artists into which the
society had transformed itself while waiting for Lucinda to arrive this
morning.

A shot was first taken of Humfrey, changed into Dickory by the exiguous
magic of a mackintosh cape. He did a great deal of swaggering, with
oaths of the oddsfish kind, in spite of the fact that the picture was
necessarily silent. The technique was to use a few inches of film and
then let the action continue unrecorded in the interests of economy.
Unless some financier--and Lucinda understood that Michael Barney was
not despaired of--came forward to supply funds for the requisite amount
of film, the actors must be content with the memory of their
performances, supplemented by a few seconds on the screen.

Owing to Nigel's insistence on becoming Lionel Lovelock at the first
possible moment, the second shot had to be of the murder of Moll Kemp's
baby, releasing Lucinda even earlier than she had hoped. She was to go
into hiding in the Ironlatch House, having firmly resisted Humfrey's
preference for the reeds of the Withy Channel. Even Lucinda's
disposition to oblige everybody had failed at the prospect of so bleak a
refuge. The Ironlatch House was not exactly warm, but at least
it was dry. The remains of an old farm-cart still stood in it, and on
the most dependable shaft of this she settled herself, hugging round her
shoulders the plaid shawl that had turned her into Moll Kemp.

Humfrey gave her his final instructions.

"Wait here till you hear Dickory arriving and then come out, and we'll
have a shot of us both in the entrance--it's too dark inside."

"Did Moll Kemp have anything to do with Dickory?"

She wanted to know how his version of the story went.

"Of course she did. It was she who betrayed him to the Bow Street
Runners."

"How do you know? There's nothing about it in the Guide Book. It only
says that she was hanged for child murder."

"So she was. But she betrayed Dickory first."

Lucinda did not trouble to ask him for the sources of his knowledge.
There was a story of Moll Kemp and Dickory in Humfrey's head, just as
there was a story of Moll Kemp and Dickory in hers, and of neither story
was there any real proof or confirmation in the world of facts. She sat
down on the shaft and watched him disappear into the shining continent
of the marsh. Now that he was gone she did not have to be Moll Kemp any
longer.

It seemed almost an irreverent travesty of a solemn subject that she
should be playing the part of Moll Kemp after the news she had just
heard from Harry Cobsale about Nan Scallow. That news had shaken and
distressed her deeply, for it held a threat that went beyond the limits
of the present situation. Even though, according to Harry Cobsale, Nan
Scallow was not likely to be hanged, the threat was not thereby removed,
for the difference was due only to the enlightenment of the times, and
not to any essential lightening of the dark act which was being
repeated. The times had changed, become gentler, more humane; so there
would be no gallows for Nan, nor would there be a lonely grave on the
marsh. These things were impossible nowadays. But the things that had
led up to them two hundred years ago were not impossible. Nan Scallow's
crime was as dark as Moll Kemp's, even though her punishment was
lighter.

That was the trouble in Lucinda's head: things were happening in the
same way even though they might not be leading to quite the same
consequences. The horror that haunted Chequers Cottage had repeated
itself--and so, it seemed likely, would the horror that haunted Loats
Farm. She could already see it, as it were, assembling . . . hatred,
envy, and that strange pity which had led to the shooting of Mus'
Rowfold and the outlawing of Dickory--they were all there, waiting for
Richard Cobsale and his brother. The lightest pressure, the smallest tip
of the scales, and Richard would be dead and Harry in flight from a law
which would not be so lenient to him as to Nan Scallow.

There was now a definite association in her mind between Dickory and
Harry Cobsale. They seemed to belong to the same pattern, and unless she
could do something to change it. . . . She had tried--she had tried
to-day as they walked across the marsh together; but she did not know if
she had succeeded. Uncertainty was made all the more painful by the
thought that she had never liked Harry Cobsale so much as she had this
morning. He had always attracted her, but in a way that had mixed
attraction with repulsion. This morning a queer, defensive, but not
unlovable self had come before her and had seemed to ask for her liking.
Yes, she liked him, and her liking had become part of the urgency with
which she watched the shadows of the past move over him.

Shadows . . . Shadows . . . Shadows have shadows of their own: she had
seen them in the woods, just as she had seen in the sky the reflection
of a rainbow, itself a reflection. Perhaps these strange things that
were happening--then and now--were all reflections of something quite
outside this world--all shadows of some invisible darkness; the same
unhappy word repeating itself again and again through the years . . .

She drew back from her thoughts. She could not think them alone--they
were too disturbing and confusing. So as she had no one with whom she
could clear them out, she had better not think them at all. Soon the
others would be back, demanding her co-operation. In spite of her
reluctance to play Moll Kemp, she would be glad when they came,
and she felt her heart lift as a shadow suddenly blocked the door.

"Hullo--you've been quick . . ."

Her voice died as she looked up, for in the doorway stood none other
than Dickory.

"Oh . . ."

She was not afraid; but she was startled. She had never expected to see
him here. He stood huddled against the door-post, a sort of tattered
sack wrapped round his shoulders. Behind him the snow and sunshine
melted and darkened suddenly.

His greeting was strange.

"Eh, my posey. . . ." Then his manner altered and the terrified look she
knew so well came back into his eyes. "T'urn't her," he muttered, "'tis
dat other." Then: "Oi'm scared."

He must actually have taken her for Moll Kemp. She felt almost ashamed
of having deceived him.

"Don't be scared," she said gently, "I'm a friend."

"But whur's Moll Kemp?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

"Oi mun find her, but Oi'm weary of sarchun. Whur's Moll Kemp?"

He wrung his hands and looked forlornly at the mysterious moon that had
appeared over his shoulder--the moon of a world that was gone.

"I wish I could tell you; but I don't know. Perhaps she isn't far from
here. That mound over there on the marsh is called Moll Kemp's Grave."

As she spoke she saw that there was no mound, only the flat moonlit
country.

He did not seem to take in her words.

"Oi mun find her," he repeated, "for ever and for ever Oi'm sarching fur
her, but Oi dan't sim never to came up wud her. Oh, dere's a stack of
muddle and trouble in my head."

She felt moved to ask him:

"Why do you want so much to find her?"

"Oi'm scared wudout her, and we mun stick together seeing as de hornies
is arter us both."

The hornies: that was the police. She had come across the word in an old
book.

"Who put the hornies on your track?"

The terror in his eyes darkened to anguish.

"De liddle Missus."

"Oh . . ."

"Aye, she went agunst me. Oi stud by her, but she went agunst me. And
Oi wan't blame her, neither. Oi killed her man. Oi never thought she
loved 'un, but she did and Oi killed 'un, and now she's gone agunst
me."

He groaned deeply and her heart felt tight and swollen with compassion.
But what could she do? All this was past--for her; and while she
listened she knew that it was not the past that concerned her now, but
the future.

"De liddle Missus," he rambled on--and it seemed as if she had never
seen him so distressed, "Oi've hurt my liddle Missus and now she's
hurten me. But how wur Oi to know, seeing as he never treated her
praper? Oi made certain-sure as she wanted 'un out o' de way. So Oi
killed 'un dead. And now Oi'm turble scared of Loats. Oi dursn't go
dere."

"You don't have to go there."

He looked at her with his darkening eyes.

"Oi mun go soon. 'Tis pulling me--dat bad ald place. Dat's whoy Oi'm
sarching fur Moll Kemp. Loats is pulling me and Oi'm scared to go alan.
Reckon Mus' Rowfold's dere and he's waitun fur me. Oi'm scared."

"But' surely you don't have to go. . . . And Mus' Rowfold can't hurt you
now." It seemed ludicrous that a ghost should be frightened of a ghost.

"Oi reckon he can hurt me a lot if he gits me. And Oi tell 'ee Loats is
pulling me now. De Chequers used to pull wunst, but now it dan't pull
so strong as Loats. 'Tis Loats is pulling me and Oi'm scared to go."

A new, indescribable fear possessed Lucinda.

"You mustn't go to Loats. Whatever happens you mustn't go there."

"Reckon I mun go. Reckon dat ald place pulls powerful strong. And
t'un't only Mus' Rowfold wot's asking it fur me. Dere's odder folkses
wot's asking it fur me--asking fur me and fur wot Oi've done. Dere's
wickedness working still at Loats--my wickedness working wud odder
folkses wickedness--and 'tis asking de place fur me."

A shudder went through Lucinda--she felt as if she were in the grip of a
nightmare, and her voice would hardly come.

"Don't go, Dickory--don't go. Pray--you remember that prayer? --Lighten
our darkness--say it for Mus' Rowfold, say it for yourself, say it for
me, say it for--for----" She searched desperately for the name,
screaming it out when she found it as one screams the word that wakes
one out of a dream:

"Harry Cobsale!"

She was awake--sitting up on the ground, between the shafts of the old
wagon, and blinking in terror at the figure in the doorway.

"What on earth's the matter? Why on earth are you sitting there,
shouting for Harry Cobsale?"

Dickory had changed into his grotesque impersonator. Had Humfrey Malpas
been there the whole time?

"I do believe," he continued, "that you were asleep. Ha! Ha! That's
good. Think of that, you kids. She didn't get up till two hours later
than I did, but she's so sleepy after her late night that she's been
asleep all the time we've been away. Well, are you awake enough to come
outside and do Moll Kemp saying a false farewell to Dickory, and then a
shot of her handing him over to the Bow Street Runner?"



                                  III

                              JESS MARLOTT

The sun had just begun to shine when Jess Marlott floundered out of the
chicken field. If only it had shone earlier, she would have escaped that
nightmare struggle in the snow. She had had to do all the chicken work
alone this morning--Greg was, of course, quite unable to help her--and
even Jess was inclined to feel injured by this gratuitous addition to a
burden which was of itself sufficiently overwhelming.

The snow, which the day before she had almost longed for, had seemed a
final mockery on the part of nature as she forced herself out of bed,
weary with sleeplessness and pounding memory. At first she had thought
that it must soon clear or turn to rain, but it had fallen for two
determined hours, indeed for the whole course of her labours. And now
its melting would find out every leak in every roof at Honeypools,
involving more expenses, more bills. . . . Really she must not die
without having the roofs repaired--their own roof and the roofs of the
brooder-house, the store-house and the hen-houses--though how this was
to be managed she did not know. As soon as she was in the kitchen she
took her note-book out of the table-drawer and wrote:

"See that all roofs are water-tight--tar might do for some."

Then she went into the bedroom and had another look at Greg. He was
still asleep, still snoring heavily in that gross, abandoned way which
was so unlike him. Poor Greg! He would feel terrible when he woke up; he
would have a ghastly headache. She had better see that the kettle was on
the boil, so that he could have a cup of tea immediately on waking. She
could do with a cup of tea herself; she too had a headache, a splitting
headache--due no doubt to a sleepless night. She had been unable to
sleep on account of his snoring, and also on account of the
still worse noise her thoughts had made, clamouring first of yesterday,
then of to-morrow. Ironically enough, her pain had not visited her at
all; she had seldom had a night so free of it.

She lit the oil stove and sat down beside it, watching the blue ring of
flame. Once more her mind began to move backwards and forwards over
yesterday's events. It had been tranquil while her body moved, while she
was struggling with the chicken in the snow; but now that her body was
tired and forced to rest, up jumped her mind and began to tramp up and
down, an armed sentry at the forbidden gate of rest. . . . Oh, when, she
wondered, would she ever sleep again?

Luckily she had had a good sleep yesterday afternoon--a better sleep
than usual. She had felt so sure of the next hour or two that she had
been able to relax. Even without his stealthy movements in the bedroom
she would have known that Greg was dressing to go to see Brenda, and she
did not expect him back for at least an hour after he had started. She
had better not think of him during that hour. All that she had to
concern herself with was his return, when he would be in need of all her
love and strength. He would no doubt come back to her a broken man, his
hope killed and his love dying; but she would be there to comfort him
and help him. The dread of his solitary despair was lifted from her
heart. So when she heard him go out of the house her eyelids fell. She
slept, secure and sheltered in the small nest of an hour.

Later on, when she had been awake some time and he was not back, she
began to imagine all sorts of things. She wondered if Brenda, in
cowardice or in kindness, had carried her deception a shade further and
allowed him to sit with her and make love to her again. It seemed
incredible--but no more incredible than that letter she had written.
. . . If it was so, Jess had everything still to do--everything and
more. . . . Her heart sank, then rose on the idea that his disillusion
might have made him ashamed to come home--sinking again on the question:
where had he gone instead? She suddenly thought of suicide, and her skin
crept; then of murder--women had been throttled for less--and her
stomach heaved.

When the clock struck seven she decided that she could endure her
anxiety no longer, and putting on her gum-boots and her fur
coat, she walked up the lane to the Old Parsonage--remembering herself
walking there on a rainy night nearly three months ago. The drive was in
darkness; this time no light came from the house, and when she put her
face against the window, through which that other night she had seen
Greg drinking whisky and staring fatuously at Brenda, she saw nothing
but an empty room. They must have gone out. . . . Then where was Greg?
She told herself she was a fool, but she felt she must do something to
close all those dark lanes of conjecture up which her mind kept dashing
towards some final tragedy.

She rang the bell, but nobody answered. She rang again, and again the
silence closed round the small, ghostly sound. Then as she was turning
away she saw a light in one of the attics; there must be somebody in the
house--a servant probably, who wouldn't trouble to answer the bell (she
had heard that Mrs. Light kept a very disagreeable old cook). So that
was what had happened--they had gone out to dinner. But Greg could not
have gone with them. . . . It was impossible. Where was he, then? Her
mind bolted up one dark lane and then another as she walked miserably
towards the gate.

Out in the road she nearly ran into Mrs. Malpas, who, to her
embarrassment, greeted her effusively.

"Hullo, Mrs. Marlott. How nice to meet you! It seems ages since I've
seen anything of you. How are you, these days?"

"Oh, quite well, thank you," said Jess.

"And your husband?"

"Quite well, thank you. I--I've just come out to meet him now." She did
not want Mrs. Malpas to know that she had lost Greg, but she dared not
miss the chance of finding out if she had seen him at all that evening.
"Church is just over, isn't it?"

The thought that Greg, overcome with misery, might have crept into the
church, had entered her mind at that very moment.

"Yes," said Mrs. Malpas. "I've left Hugo counting the money. But I don't
think your husband was there. In fact I know he wasn't, because I
counted the congregation and there were only twelve people, so I
couldn't have missed him."

"Oh, I daresay he didn't go, then. He only said he might."

She blushed, and wondered if Mrs. Malpas had seen her coming out of the
Parsonage gate.

"It seems such a pity," said the Rector's wife, "that the village people
don't come to the carol service. We're always changing the time to make
it more convenient for them. I thought perhaps half-past six would be an
improvement, but we had fewer this year than ever. I can't think why, as
nearly everyone in Woodhorn has their Christmas dinner in the middle of
the day."

"Of course," Jess murmured vaguely, wondering what she should do next.
She decided to go home. Perhaps Greg was already there.

"I'd better be getting back," she said. "As my husband wasn't in church
he probably went for a walk and may not come home this way at all. Good
night."

"Good night. And a Merry Christmas--though there isn't much left of it."

"Oh, thank you--same to you."

She hurried away, wondering if Mrs. Malpas had guessed anything. On the
whole, she thought that she hadn't . . . but an hour later she knew that
she had. A note came down from the Rectory, brought by May Beeney, the
little maid.


"DEAR MRS. MARLOTT,

This is just to tell you that your husband is at the Plough Inn. My
maid's fianc, who brought her home, saw him there at half-past five and
again through the door when he was walking past with May. I thought you
might be anxious about him, so send you this just to let you know he is
all right.

With best wishes for the New Year,

                                   Yours sincerely,
                                            EILEEN MALPAS."


Jess scarcely knew if she felt more relieved or humiliated. Of course it
was relief, infinite, swelling relief, to know that Greg had come to no
harm, that he had done none of the things her imagination had
been frightening her with for the last four hours. On the other hand it
was dreadful to have Mrs. Malpas writing to her like this. She had meant
it kindly, of course, but the letter showed what she must have been
thinking--and how she must have been talking . . . to her maid, to her
maid's young man, and through him to all the village.

Not that that really mattered. The village was bound to know from other
sources that Greg Marlott had been drinking at the Plough--drinking for
hours, apparently. . . . For the first time her relief was punctured by
anxiety on Greg's behalf. He was not used to drink; only very
occasionally of late had he indulged in half a pint of bottled beer with
his dinner, and she did not think that he had ever before called at the
Plough. Of course it was the shock of his interview with Brenda that had
driven him there--and not to church, as she had once thought possible.
He was going through the orthodox process of drowning his sorrows. Poor
old Greg. . . .

She wondered if she should go and fetch him home. . . . No, perhaps not.
It might only make matters worse. If he was all right--merely sitting
there and drinking no more than was good for him--her arrival would be a
useless embarrassment and humiliation (and Jess had just learned what it
was to be humiliated with the best intentions); if, on the contrary, he
was all wrong, he would probably refuse to come with her--he might make
a scene in the bar and add to his disgrace. Besides, it was already nine
o'clock. If she went now she would not arrive much before closing-time.
Better leave him to come home by himself.

He came, or rather he was brought. She guessed what it was directly the
car stopped. Somebody had given him a lift home--out of friendliness or
of necessity? She would not go to see--she would not appear to be
anxiously awaiting him. She must preserve some rags of self-respect to
cover them both. So, pale and sweating, she waited for the bell to ring
before she opened the door.

Outside she found what looked like the corpse of Greg supported by two
men. They were inclined to be jocular, or rather, perhaps, to carry off
an awkward situation with jocularity.

"Here he is, missus. We've brought him home, and he isn't as bad as he
looks."

She recognized one of the men as Sharman of Limbo Farm; the other was a
stranger.

"Oh, thank you---- Oh. . . ." She could not speak or pretend any more.

"Shall we take him through for you?" asked Sharman. "He might be a bit
of a job for you alone."

"Yes, please--through there," pointing to the bedroom door.

As they dragged Greg across the kitchen he was violently sick.

"There," said the other man, "he'll be better after that."

They took him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed.

"He'll be all right to-morrow morning," said Sharman heartily. "Don't
you worry about him, missus."

"No, I won't--and I'm very much obliged to you for bringing him home."
Then feeling she must say something to excuse poor Greg: "He's not
accustomed to drinking."

"No, mum--that's plain enough."

"This is the first time, I think, that he's ever been to the Plough."

"Certainly I un't never seen him there before."

"He--he's had some bad news."

She wondered if she should have said that, but it seemed necessary to
account in some way for Greg's delinquence. Both the men nodded
sympathetically.

"Oh, we un't criticizing him, mum. It's a thing that could happen to
any of us."

Sharman added:

"Would you like us to undress him for you? We've taken off his boots."

"Oh, no, thanks very much--I can manage quite well now." She was
grateful to them for their tolerance and their kindness, but she
desperately wanted them to go.

"Very well, then. Good night, mum."

"Good night, and thank you again--ever so much."

They were gone, and she was alone--for Greg did not count as anybody
now. She went into the bedroom and looked at him, as he lay
there on his back--asleep--snoring. . . . The men had taken off his
boots, but they had not taken off his coat and trousers. She wondered if
he would wake if she undressed him. It would be a difficult job, and
perhaps she had been unwise to refuse Sharman's offer, but she had
wanted so desperately to get rid of him. . . . She had better see what
she could do; he would be much more comfortable if only she could get
him into his pyjamas.

So she had taken off his coat, and as he did not wake, she had gone on
with the job and finished it. He had slept through it all. Only once she
had thought he was waking, for his eyes suddenly opened and he murmured
something she could not catch. But the next minute he was off
again--sleeping and snoring. He was nobody again, and she had undressed
and climbed into bed and lain awake all night beside nobody.


A sound of stirring in the next room broke up her thoughts. She listened
intently to the rustle of the bedclothes. Then a deep groan announced
that Greg once more was somebody.

She hurried in and saw him sitting up in bed, his hand to his forehead,
his face grey.

"My poor darling . . ."

He looked at her without a word.

"My poor sweetheart . . ."

She went to him and put her arms round him; but he pushed her away.

"Don't," he said quite angrily. "Don't touch me."

She was not offended, because she knew what he must be suffering.

"I'll go and make you some tea. The kettle's just on the boil."

"Don't," he said again; then: "I don't want you to do anything for me
except leave me alone."

He lay down again, pulling the bedclothes over his head, and she went
back into the kitchen to make the tea. He would think differently when
he saw the cup in her hand. Poor Greg! She must make him understand that
she was not judging him or blaming him. No doubt on the top of
all his physical ills he was utterly ashamed of himself; and then, under
everything and worse than everything, must be his memory of that
dreadful scene with Brenda--the scene that had driven him to find an
anaesthetic at the Plough. She must manage somehow to persuade him to
tell her about it, so that she could speak freely again and give freely
. . . she longed for his head on her breast.

But she must proceed with caution, both on account of his present mood
and of her past complicity with Brenda. As soon as the tea was made she
took it into the bedroom, saying cheerfully:

"Do try and drink this, darling. It'll make you feel ever so much
better."

He had been lying under the bedclothes, but at her words he started up
and glared at her.

"Take it away."

She was startled by the rage in his voice and eyes. Then a jumbled
memory came, suggesting that she had mocked him with a makeshift remedy.

"Would you rather have a glass of ale? I can easily run up to the
village and fetch some if----"

"Oh, go to hell!"

A kind of stiffness came to her. He was behaving a little too badly.

"Please don't speak to me like that."

"I don't want to speak to you at all. I don't want to speak to you or
see you ever again."

Her heart thumped painfully as she turned away. She had not been
prepared for this strange anger and hatred . . . they were unlike him.
Well, perhaps they were not such a surprising reaction from all he had
been through. If only she knew what he had been through. . . . But in
his present mood he would not tell her and she would not try any more to
make him.

Perhaps it was selfish of her to want so much to comfort him, to think
so much of his head on her breast. She must let him struggle out of
things his own way--for the present, anyhow. Later on, when his wound
was less inflamed, she might be able to salve it. But it was selfish
to badger him now. She went back into the kitchen and drank the
tea herself.

It was after twelve--in no time she would have to go out and see to the
chicken again. She had better start preparing the dinner first.
Yesterday's roast fowl was to make a stew, and she put it into a
saucepan ready for warming up with some vegetable left-overs. Then there
were the potatoes to peel--she ought to start that at once, so that they
could be cooking while she was out. As she fetched them from the larder
she felt a small crepitation of pain--she had better sit down quietly to
work and perhaps it would come to nothing. It sometimes did if she took
things easily.

She sat down at the kitchen table, determined to fill her mind with
simple practical thoughts. If she did not let it help the pain with its
fears and suggestions, then all might yet be well. She must think of
what she could give Greg for dinner. Of course he might eat the chicken,
but she did not think he would, and there was nothing in the way of
pudding except a little piece left of the Christmas pudding they had had
yesterday. What about a baked custard? She had enough milk for a small
one. He did not care as a rule for baked custard, but with his stomach
in its present state he might feel differently disposed.

With thoughts of pudding and potato she tried to protect both her mind
and her body against the dragons that would have eaten them. The effort
was so great and absorbed so much of her attention that at first she did
not notice the sounds in the next room. It was not till they culminated
in the pushing open of the door that she started and looked up.

Greg stood in the doorway, wearing his shabby old dressing-gown. In it
he seemed to look more grey than ever. The hair on his head stood up in
grey tufts, and the hand that clutched the dressing-gown about his
middle was grey, with knotted, swelling veins--an old man's hand. . . .

"Hullo, dear," she said. "Come for your tea?"

"No--put that down," as she raised the stewing tea-pot. "I don't want
any tea. I want to talk to you."

He sat down opposite to her, and she thought his face looked
queer--excited and strained, with the eyes full of a snapping, roving
light.

"I suppose," he said, "that you think I'm mud after the way I came home
last night."

So it was shame that had changed him towards her.

"Of course I don't, dear," she cried eagerly. "How could I? I know that
you're one of the most abstemious men in the world, so I guessed at once
that something must have happened to make you do a thing like that.
That's what worried me most--wondering what had happened."

He looked at her for a moment without speaking. Then he said:

"You knew all right."

"I knew? How could I know?"

"Because she told you."

Jess stared at him. What did he mean?

"Oh, don't try to pretend any more," he cried, "that game's up. I know
quite well she came round and told you I'd found out all about you and
her--how you meet together behind my back and talk about me and laugh at
me. I bet she came round last night, and you had another gossip and
another laugh."

He himself laughed, in a way that made Jess fear he was going mad. Her
mind was in confusion, but one thing stood out of it and that was that
he had somehow found out about her visits to Brenda. Desperately and
clumsily, she lied.

"It isn't true. I've never spoken to her in my life. I won't pretend not
to understand you--you think I know Mrs. Light and have been discussing
you with her. But it isn't true. I've never spoken to her, and she's
never, never, been round here--last night or any other night. Whoever's
told you that has been trying to make mischief."

"No one told me but herself. She told me--she, with her own mouth; so
you needn't waste any more breath telling lies. I saw her yesterday
afternoon, and she told me that you came to see her months ago, to beg
her to give me up; and since then you've been again and again. You've
had tea together--discussing me and my feelings. . . ." He
threw back his head and gasped: "You put your heads together and thought
of the best way for her to turn me down . . ."

"Greg, it isn't true."

She repeated her lie without much conviction, for her mind was sick with
the wound of Brenda's treachery. She had long admitted her to be
dishonest, but she had never expected this--this rank betrayal. . . . In
all her cares for the future she had never imagined such a breach of
confidence. And now she did not know what to do. All her hopes from his
disillusion were frustrated, because she knew that in his eyes her guilt
was as deep as Brenda's. She could not help him or comfort him, for he
hated her too much. She had done a thing he would never forgive.
Moreover, she was lying to him--emptily and uselessly, for of course he
could not possibly believe her after what Brenda had told him. She was
only piling up her guilt.

"Listen to me, Greg," she pleaded, "and I'll tell you exactly how it
happened."

"Then you admit it did happen."

"I'll admit that I've been to see her twice."

"Only twice? She told me three times."

"The third time was by accident. She met me in Potcommon, and because I
looked so ill she asked me to have some tea with her. That was all."

"It wasn't all. For one thing I don't believe you've only met three
times----"

"Greg, I swear it."

"I don't care what you swear. You lied to me at the start, so I've no
reason whatever to believe you aren't lying now. I don't believe you've
only met three times; and anyway that isn't the point. The point is that
you and she have been plotting against me. You went to her first to
persuade her to give me up, and since then you've been meeting to
discuss me--you've been telling her about me, showing her my weak
points, so that she could attack them and get rid of me that way.
You--you've encouraged her to despise me and deceive me."

"I haven't! I haven't! How can you imagine such things?" She saw
him lying in bed, building up her infamy out of his sick stomach and
aching head, working himself into a frenzy against her. "I've been
perfectly loyal. All I did was because I loved you."

He laughed again--that terrible, cackling laugh.

"Oh, yes, you loved me. In other words, you wanted to keep me. So you
went and begged the woman I loved to get rid of me. You took away the
only thing that made my life worth living. Oh, there's no doubt of it
you must love me a lot."

He stood up suddenly, towering over her like a clumsy wraith with his
grey face and grey dressing-gown.

"Greg, I loved you and she didn't."

"But she allowed me to love her. She was perfectly willing that I should
come and sit with her and talk to her every day; until you
went--you--you--and stopped it all. I know I hadn't got everything I
wanted, but at least I had something, and you robbed me of the little I
had."

"Greg, listen to me. I----"

"No, you listen to me. You went to her and made her stop seeing me, but
you couldn't make me stop loving her. So you went again and you plotted
and schemed and double-crossed me until now at last you've made me do
even that. I don't love her any more, but you mustn't think because of
that I shall ever love you again. No, no. I hate you. You've messed and
spoiled the loveliest thing in my life--the only lovely thing in my
life--and I hate you."

Despair froze her into a sudden dignity.

"Please don't exaggerate. You've got an entirely wrong idea of the
situation. If you've found out that she's not worth loving, you mustn't
blame me for it. It wasn't my fault if she double-crossed you, as you
call it. I tried to persuade her not to write that letter----"

Something suddenly flashed into his eyes that frightened her.

"Hold your tongue!"

She saw that his hands were clenched in the too-long sleeves of his
dressing-gown. He stood gazing down at her with that extraordinary look
in his eyes. Her spirit failed.

"Greg, don't look at me like that."

She made a movement to rise, but he seized her shoulders and forced her
back into her seat.

"Stay where you are. I haven't done with you yet."

"Let me go at once. I can't talk to you while you're like this."

Looking into his face was like looking into the face of a stranger. She
would have been pleased to see him turn back into the nobody he had been
last night.

"Greg, you're not well. Please go back to bed and rest. We--we can talk
about these things afterwards, when you're feeling better."

She made another attempt to rise, but he was pressing down on her
shoulders with his full weight. A sort of panic seized her.

"Let me go--let me go."

As she struggled, his grip tightened. His fingers kneaded and dug into
her flesh. Then she lost her head and began to scream.

"Stop that!" he shouted.

But she could not stop. Hours, days, weeks of anxiety, sleeplessness,
grief, pain and fear had found a voice at last.

"Stop it, I say!"

He shook her, but still she screamed. He put his hand over her mouth,
but she screamed on. She did not struggle any more--just sat there
screaming into his face. She wanted to stop, but she was unable. She
knew that her screams were driving away the last of his failing sanity
and self-command, but she could still hear herself screaming. It was as
if a stranger had taken possession of her and was screaming out of her
mouth--screaming into the face of that other stranger who was holding
her and shaking her and hitting her to make her stop.

If I don't stop screaming Greg will kill me. . . .

But she could not stop.



                                   IV

                             LUCINDA LIGHT

It was nearly one o'clock when the Antiquarian Artists packed up their
properties in an old perambulator and started for home. The enterprise
was held to have succeeded, and Humfrey was already deep in argument
with his sisters over the World Premire, which was to take place at the
Rectory as soon as the film had been developed at Farable's Stores.

"What we must do," he said, "is to have a narrator, who will stand at
the side of the screen and fill in the gaps between the shots."

"Yes--and you be the narrator, of course. It might be more public
spirited to follow each shot with a piece of ordinary acting, so that
everyone could have a chance."

"That's a much better idea," said Leonora. "It would explain the action
just as well and be a most unusual combination of two different
techniques."

"But we could never manage the lighting. The film would have to be in
darkness and the ordinary stage in light, which means that we should
always have to be lighting and putting out the lamps. It isn't as if we
had electricity, you see."

"We could use daylight: show the film in the afternoon and simply draw
back the curtains for the acting."

"Or we could show the film in the dining-room and have the acting in the
study, and the audience move from one room to the other. It would be a
nice change for them."

"A very nice change, you silly little girl. You really do think of the
most imbecile things."

"Well, people do get tired of sitting in one place and they'll be
sitting there all night if you're narrator. Once you're on the stage, I
know, you'll never come off."

Were the Malpases quarrelling? Lucinda asked herself the usual question,
but was too deep in her own thoughts to take more than an academic
interest in it. She was wondering if she should call in at Loats on her
way home. She would like to see Joan Cobsale and satisfy her anxiety
about the place. She might understand things better if she had a talk
with Joan. On the other hand, she would be late for lunch at home, and
Mrs. Shafto might make trouble about it.

What should she do? They had come to the fringes of Harbolets Shaw, and
the spindle-shadow of the trees was drawing a skeleton wood on the
melting snow. She looked towards the gate and then suddenly checked her
walk. There was a cloud among the bones of the trees, a form among their
forms, merging with them and yet almost overwhelmingly apart. Dickory
stood among the chestnut stoles by the gate. She could not see him very
distinctly--he had a transparency through which the bare boughs showed
their design--but she could see his anguished, beseeching gaze, and
immediately made up her mind. She would go--she must go--to Loats.

She was just going to announce her decision when a loud screech from
Petronilla startled them all.

"Look! Who's that man?"

"What man? There's nobody there," said Humfrey.

"There's nobody there, you silly fool," said Leonora.

"Yes, there is," said Nigel. "Just there. . . . No, he's gone."

"I don't see anybody," said Lucinda--quite truthfully, for Dickory had
vanished.

"There isn't anybody," said Humfrey. "It's just the sun among the
trees."

"What rot!" cried Petronilla. "As if the sun among the trees could look
like a man! I saw him and Nigel saw him; either there's a man there or a
ghost."

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Humfrey. "I expect it's Dickory."

"Well, why not? You've told us hundreds of times that he haunts this
lane."

"Did he look like a highwayman?"

"Not in the least--he looked more like a tramp."

"Then he can't be Dickory. Perhaps he _is_ a tramp."

"I thought he was the sun among the trees. Anyway, I'm sure he isn't a
tramp--no human being could vanish as suddenly as that. He's a ghost, I
tell you. I always thought I was psychic. Where are you going, Lucinda?"

"To see Joan at the farm."

"But it's just on dinner-time."

"They have their dinner at half-past twelve. She'll have finished now."

"Well, look out for the tramp," said Humfrey.

"Look out for the ghost," said Petronilla.

"Look out for the sun among the trees," mocked Leonora.

Their voices were already dying away, she walked so fast.


There was an urgency upon her now. She felt that she must get to Loats
as quickly as possible--before something happened . . . Dickory had
warned her. She was convinced that she had just seen him definitely as a
ghost--as a spirit come from the dead to warn the living. Hitherto their
meetings had been in his world rather than hers; she did not think that
he ever had spoken to her across death. He had been no more dead than
she--merely a fugitive, hiding for his life in a country that was gone,
but which by some strange freak or fissure in her nature she had been
able to visit. Now he was a ghost, haunting Ember Lane and seen by her
(and by Petronilla and Nigel) as he had been seen by the Rectory
gardener's father.

She could not believe that he had appeared like that for no reason.
Surely he had meant to urge her to go to Loats, where the evil that he
had done lay waiting for the evil that others might do--the murder of
Mus' Rowfold for the murder of Richard Cobsale. . . . She ran. She ran
out of the wood, into the great green and white field, all messed and
streaky with the melting snow. Below her on the side of the
hill was the pippin-glow of Loats, a rosy city, with blocks of stacks
and streets of barns. As she ran towards it she noticed how much thatch
there was among the glowing brick. And where was the black Victorian
oast that rose above it all like a steeple? She could see only the two
little red kilns.

She still ran, but her breath was caught with a new terror. Something
had happened. She was in the Old Country again, dropped into it suddenly
as into a prison, just when she wanted most desperately to work her will
in the present day. What could she do? How could she escape? She was
powerless to help Harry Cobsale with the bars of two hundred years
between them. Yet she did not feel that she had in herself any power to
break those bars. Always hitherto the times had changed without any act
or wish on her part; the Old Country had voluntarily assumed her and
voluntarily released her, and she knew no way of compelling it.

She came into the yard and looked about her in some confusion. It was
full of men and buildings. There were two cottages at least, besides
what was in modern times the cake-house, and a number of lodges that she
could not identify. Half a dozen men and women were clattering about
with forks and pails. The women wore pattens and looped up gowns, the
men wore round frocks; and they talked and joked with one another in a
rough speech she could not understand. None of them seemed to be aware
of her, which was a relief in many ways, though no help in her present
difficulties. If she could have spoken to them she could at least have
asked for Dickory, who might have been able to act as interpreter
between this world and the one she sought. But she knew from her
memories of the Chequers Inn that it would be useless to speak to
anyone, and as she felt vaguely afraid of these inhabitants of another
time she avoided them as widely as she could.

Uncertain what to do next, she walked towards the house, which looked
very red and new, with a peach neatly trained round the door. The
gable-end, to which her eyes unwillingly travelled, looked older than
the rest, but also very trim, with gay curtains in the window which she
had always seen as a blind eye. As she gazed up at it, somebody
parted the curtains and looked out. It was an elderly man, with grizzled
hair and beard and she felt such a dread of him that she wondered if she
was indeed looking at what Dickory had so dreaded--Mus' Rowfold's ghost.
But the next moment he called to somebody in the yard (she realized that
this time she was hearing as well as seeing) that he was coming down.

She turned away, feeling for some reason that she could not bear to see
him come out of the door, and as she did so caught sight of a man
disappearing round the corner of the cottage that should normally have
been the cake-house. The glimpse, short as it was, had been enough to
show her Dickory--Dickory carrying a gun. At once her fear solidified.
She knew now what it was that she dreaded so inexpressibly. She had
arrived just in time to see the whole tragedy start--to see Dickory
shoot Mus' Rowfold, and all the dreary tale of his crime, suffering and
betrayal begin its course down the repeating ages.

To see him . . . or could she prevent him? Can one change the past as
one can change the future by an act of the will? Interfere in it from
outside? . . . She did not linger over the question, for it seemed
remote from the necessity of the present minute. That necessity was to
act at once. She could hear the house door opening behind her and Mus'
Rowfold coming out into the yard. In a minute he would be walking past
the corner where Dickory lurked with his gun.

"Dickory! Stop!" she cried as she flung herself round it, knocking her
head violently against some obstruction she couldn't see.

A sharp pain seemed to swing her head back, and for a moment everything
swam in a gathering mist. Through it she could see Dickory crouching
against the wall with his gun at the cock. But between her and him was
some invisible obstruction, something hard and wooden which she could
feel but could not see. Oh, what was happening? . . . and all the time
she could hear Mus' Rowfold's footsteps drawing nearer. Soon he would
have reached the fatal spot.

What could she do? She would have somehow to get round whatever it was
that stood invisibly in her way. Dickory! . . . but he had already seen
her. He could see her just as she could see him, in spite of the thing
between them. She watched his mouth open in a desperate almost
grotesque expression of fear. Then suddenly with a loud scream he
dropped his gun and ran--just as the door of one of the lodges shut
safely behind Mus' Rowfold.

She staggered a few more steps, hit the obstacle again, and fell down.



                                   V

                             HARRY COBSALE

When Harry came out of the Ring of Bells at Rushmonden, the snow was
half melted. The sun had been shining for more than an hour, and already
the landscape was streaky; soon there would be no whiteness left, save
where the shadows lay. The roads were soiled with wheel tracks, and the
woods shone with a purple light as their wet thickets caught the sun.

He walked briskly. He felt revived, partly by his drinks, and partly by
something more indeterminate. In his heart were dregs of satisfaction he
could not quite account for . . . they surely could not have been left
by his conversation with Lucinda Light. That had made him feel bad in
many ways . . . and yet his memory seemed to hold something
comforting--perhaps he had better not examine it too closely.

As he passed the Ironlatch House he looked round to see if Lucinda and
her friends were in view; but there was no sight of them, nor could he
hear any voices. She was a queer girl, but he had liked her this time in
spite of her queerness; and he saw that she had in her many of the
qualities that he admired in Joan--that he desired in Joan . . . beauty,
sweetness, fineness, goodness, all the things that he had run away from
to Nan Scallow, because he had wanted them so much. . . .

If he liked, no doubt he could know her better. She was always friendly,
and she often came to Loats to see Joan. Her mother did not seem to have
any stuck-up ideas about her friends (nor, indeed, was she entitled to
any, considering all that was said about her). If he managed properly
they might be dancing together at a hotel some day--at Easter, perhaps.
His mind once more showed him a picture of Mr. Harry Cobsale, newly
shaved and wearing his tail suit, looking very much of a fellow as he
danced with Miss Lucinda Light in a blue and silver dress.
. . . It was blue this time--he thought she would look nice in blue.

As he entered Harbolets Shaw, the wind--returned to the south--brought
him one o'clock on Woodhorn chimes. The shaw was full of its own
music--the tinkle and plop of melting snow as it spattered in drops on
the undergrowth or slid in masses from the forks of the trees. The whole
place seemed to be in motion--the sunshine glittered With flying drops
and behind the tossing heads of the trees the sky hurried and changed. A
warmer, clearer, brighter day was being blown in after the snow. Already
Harry seemed to smell the sap in his hedges, the new grass in his
fields.

He was actually beginning to feel hungry, and thought favourably of the
cold goose he'd been too miserable to enjoy yesterday. Of course Richard
would be there . . . his heart checked his appetite with an angry thump.
What was he going to do about Richard? He no longer meant to use his
gun. He'd stop short of that, just as he'd stopped short at two drinks
this morning. But did his honour still demand that he should knock him
down?

Exactly how much had he promised Lucinda Light? Very little--only to
take care. But how pleased she would be and how fine he would feel if
to-morrow he could go up to her and say: "My brother owes you a whole
skin. He's a dirty tick, but after what you said I decided to let him
alone." He saw himself going up to her, feeling all that much nearer to
dancing with her at a hotel.

What a terrification she'd been in. You'd think she knew something other
people didn't know. She thought she did, anyway--she had said as much.
She was queer, of course--queer, but attractive in her own way, which
was so different from the way of other girls. He laughed at himself.
You'd think he was falling for her. But he wasn't doing that--she was
too tall. . . .

He had come into the yard and saw that the snow had melted off the great
midden that stood before the gate. It had already cut out a number of
channels through the foothills of manure and rotted straw that lay
between the gutters and its central peak. The gutters sang with the
streams that had reached them. Inside the yard gate Harry stood
still, staring at the midden heap as it smoked in the winter sun.

On the slope of it, tossed derelict, like a flower thrown down to die,
lay a work-basket lined with pale blue satin. Damp and dung had riddled
its dainty integrity, one side was burst by the violence with which it
had been flung, and a little snow still lay under the shadow of the
half-open lid.

As he stared at it Harry felt triumph and satisfaction chain away. He
forgot all about Lucinda Light, and the plans he had half made. His rage
at this his brother's latest effort to crush and humiliate him met his
pity for Joan, his fellow victim, as fire meets water, making a steam
which felt as if it must burst his heart.

Poor little Missus! He saw her with his present in her arms, he saw
Richard tearing it away and throwing it on the dung-hill. It must have
happened last night, when they came back from Waxend. He knew that the
work-basket had not been on the midden earlier yesterday. She had
probably managed to get hold of it after the row and hide it in her
bedroom--it had certainly disappeared from the kitchen. Then Richard had
found it and taken it from her . . . he did not care how much she
suffered as long as he could humble and hurt his brother. For a moment
Harry scarcely knew which hurt him most, her pain or his.


Then suddenly he saw her standing on the other side of the dunghill. His
heart jumped. He could have sworn she was not there when he came into
the yard. He wondered if she had seen him. She stood there wrapped to
the eyes in her fur-collared coat, above which the cold had made her
fluffy hair stand out like the pathetic feathers on the head of a
fledgling bird. Poor kid! No doubt she had come to gaze at her spoilt
treasure, perhaps to see if there was a hope of retrieving it.

"Joan," he called gently. "Joan . . ."

She looked straight at him across the smoking dung-hill.

"Please don't speak to me."

He had not expected her voice to be so grim. But the next minute he
thought: the poor little thing's afraid of Richard.

He said:

"You must let me say I'm sorry."

"I'm glad to hear it. And now I hope you'll go right away."

He stared at her.

"Richard's made you a generous offer," she said, "and if you've any
regard for me, you'll take it."

He suddenly realized what she was talking about.

"You mean you want me to clear out of Loats?"

"Yes, I do. After the way you behaved yesterday and to-day, we've all
had about as much as we can stand. Even your mother and Daisy are fed up
with you."

Harry flushed as her little arrows pierced him one by one.

"Joan you haven't turned against me?"

"Against you? I never was for you. I'm Richard's wife."

"But yesterday you wanted us to be friends."

"I wanted us all to be friendly--not specially you and me. And I thought
you were going to help me pull it off. Instead of which you went and
mucked things up even worse than ever. I see now that you were only
being nice to me to spite Richard--to hurt him through me. And I tell
you straight that you're not going to get away with that."

"But it's not true. I like you, Joan, for yourself. I've always liked
you--more than I should, perhaps."

"That's not the way to talk."

He began to feel impatient with her.

"You get me wrong every way. I only mean that it might have been better
for me if I hadn't liked you so much. And for you too. I'm afraid you
had a terrible time yesterday, but it wasn't all my fault, neither."

"Whose was it, then?"

"Well, Richard seems to have done what he could to make you miserable."

"Richard only did what he thought proper. And he was right. No good
could come of my being friendly with you. I didn't see it at the time,
as I didn't know you as well as he does, so he was right to take
the line he did, until you yourself showed me plainly what you're
like."

Harry wished he had not spoken to her. He wished he had gone and plugged
Richard's rump with shot. He'd go now--he wouldn't waste any more time
on her or any more pity. But she would not let him go. Like a little
fury she barred his way.

"Listen to me, Harry Cobsale. You've made me speak to you, though I
vowed I never would again. I've begun, so I may as well go on. I shan't
say anything that Richard wouldn't approve of. He's my husband--and I
love him. Get that. I love him and I'm not going to join sides with
anybody who hates him. You're making a very big mistake if you think you
can turn me against him or get at him through me. I love him, I tell
you. There may be things about the life here that I don't like, but I'd
rather put up with them than try to change them against his will. So
please don't talk to me again. And oh how I wish you'd take the money
he's offered you and clear out. You'll be a fool if you don't. It's a
good offer--a chance for you to set up your own place and live your own
life without making other people miserable. I believe that if you went
Mother and Daisy would come round and be decent to Richard. It's you
who's keeping the family apart and I wish you'd go."

He said bitterly:

"You've changed since yesterday morning."

"A great deal has happened since then."

"Yes," said Harry, looking at the midden. "Yesterday morning you liked
my present--you were pleased with it. Now you don't seem to care that
Richard's chucked it on the dung-hill."

"Richard didn't chuck it there," said Joan. "I did."

"Oh . . ." said Harry.

"Yes, I hate the very sight of the beastly thing. It reminds me of you
and everything I want to forget."

"You did it to please Richard."

"And to please myself. He didn't ask me."

Harry looked at her, trying to find something flippant to say. But it
would not come. She still barred his way to the house, so he turned
round and went out through the gate he had come in at ten
minutes ago. He did not care where he went as long as he got away from
her, the little spitfire. His head sang--as if she had boxed his ears.

He went up and stood in the meadow above the farm, looking over to
Rushmonden and the Kentish hill-side peeling in colours out of the snow.
One thing had happened to him as the result of the last ten minutes: he
wanted to get away. The best thing he could do now, the best answer he
could give both Joan and Richard, was to lift his chin in the air and
walk out on them, with fifteen hundred pounds of their money in his
pocket. He did not want to live in the same house as Joan after this,
nor did he hate Richard enough to stay for the sole pleasure of spiting
him. Joan's virulence seemed in some queer way to have reduced his
hatred of Richard--perhaps it was because he no longer envied him his
possession of her. He still hated him, but no more than he'd hated him
before she came. And the thing he wanted most was not to plug him with
shot or even to knock him down--at the risk of being knocked down again
himself--but to clear out. He did not care very much about his mother
and Daisy after the way they'd behaved yesterday morning. . . . He felt
suddenly and desperately lonely . . . he'd feel less lonely if he was
alone.

For the price of Loats' hop-quota--which was not likely to fetch a penny
less than three thousand pounds, or even three thousand five hundred--he
could buy a farm of, say, a hundred and fifty acres, with a good
house--not too near Woodhorn, nor yet too far away. He did not want to
leave the country of the Kent and Sussex borders; he wanted only to get
far enough to make things different. A different farm, a different
village, a different pub, a different market town, and the result no
doubt would be a different Harry Cobsale.

A different Harry could take up with a different sort of girl--a better
girl than Joan because better-tempered and better-bred. Lucinda Light
was just as pretty as Joan and a good deal sweeter. She was incapable of
saying any of the things that Joan had said to-day. Not that he thought
of marrying her in spite of the wipe it would give to Richard's eye. She
wasn't really his type--too queer and too towny and too tall.
But if he went away he could meet a decent sort of girl more easily than
he could here--have his pick of the yeoman-farmers' daughters, or even
the daughters of professional men. . . . He could make himself a catch,
if things turned out well.

In order that they should do so it was, however, necessary that he
should stop rowing with Richard right away. If he knocked him down or
went for him with a gun, even if he did no more than pepper him, there
would be a public scandal--even, perhaps, a case in the courts--and his
name would be mud everywhere.

He turned reflectively towards the farm. It must be half-past one.
Richard would have finished his dinner, and he could eat his share of
the cold goose without meeting him. With these new ideas of his for the
future, he had better keep out of Richard's way, for the present at
least. He dared not provoke himself with the sight of Richard, for fear
that he might be tempted to use his gun. . . . His heart felt suddenly
cold. Suppose he had shot at him and fallen unawares into the pit of
murder. . . . He knew now that in his heart he had already murdered his
brother, and he drew back appalled.

Never till that moment had he fully realized the depth and darkness of
the gulf into which he might have fallen. Only a few hours ago he had
laughed at Lucinda Light for her fears. But now he realized that she had
seen further than he. She had seen where he was going and tried to stop
him. Tried? . . . he was not sure that she had not succeeded. He doubted
whether Joan's fury alone would have dissuaded him from his revenge. He
might have wanted to see how much she'd love her husband after she'd
spent an hour picking shot out of his backside. . . . No, if anyone had
stopped him and not just his own common sense, it was not Joan; it was
Lucinda. But for her he might now be running for his life--soon to be
hiding for his life, on trial for his life, like those poor devils in
the newspapers. . . .

Pfew. He shook his head with relief, as a dog shakes himself on coming
out of the water. He'd tell her what had happened when he got a chance.
She'd be pleased. . . .

Then suddenly he saw her standing in the yard, close to the cake-house.
He had come round the midden and was still some way off when he
caught sight of her. He was surprised. He had not expected her to come
to the farm to-day.

"Hullo," he called. But she did not hear him. She stood uncertainly,
looking round her, with a queer, bewildered air. Then suddenly she
shouted something that he did not catch, and ran straight into the
lean-to door which was shut fast. She must have knocked herself badly,
but in spite of that, and though he saw her stagger backwards, she
turned round and ran at it again--straight into it, as before. She fell,
before he could reach her.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

He spoke banteringly in spite of his concern, for he did not think she
had done more than knock herself silly. But the next minute, as she
neither spoke nor rose, he realized that she was stunned. She lay
stretched out on the stones, her face the face of a dead girl.

He was terrified--lost his head--tried to raise her; then when he felt
all the weight of her unconsciousness, let her sink back.

"Hi!" he called to the shut house. "Hi! Mother! Daisy! Help!"

The house was as blank and silent as her face. Was nobody coming? . . .
Then her eyes opened, and met his without seeing them before they shut
again.

He was intensely relieved, because for a moment in his panic he had
feared her dead.

"Lucinda!" he cried, and again her eyes opened--seeing him this time.

"Oh," she murmured weakly, "my head aches."

He was taking off his coat, to slip it under her, when Daisy waddled out
of the house.

"Hullo," she said. "Did you call?" Then: "Lord a' mercy! What's happened
_now_?"

"She's hurt herself. Help me to get her indoors."

Mrs. Cobsale had appeared behind Daisy.

"Goodness me! She's fainted. She must have been to Honeypools."

"What are you talking about, you silly old woman?" said Harry.

He and Daisy were trying to help Lucinda to her feet. She tottered
between them, her eyes closed. They had almost to carry her to
the sitting-room sofa.

Harry said:

"Somebody had better go for Doctor Sainsbury."

"I expect he's at Honeypools now," said Daisy. "I'll send one of the men
for him, if they're not all there already."

"Why should they be at Honeypools? What's going on at Honeypools?"

"Going on?" cackled Mrs. Cobsale. "If you hadn't been so late for dinner
you'd have heard that both Mr. and Mrs. Marlott are lying dead at
Honeypools."

"Dead!"

He looked anxiously down at Lucinda's face, in case the words had
reached her; but she did not seem to hear.

"Yes, dead. Bob Woodsell found them half an hour ago. He'd strangled her
and shot himself. Richard's up there now."

"My God!" said Harry.

"I made sure she'd heard the news and fainted," said Mrs. Cobsale.

"She hasn't fainted. She's hit her head against the cake-house door.
I'll run up to Honeypools and see if the doctor's there. I don't care
how dead the Marlotts are. She's more important--he must come at once.
Look after her, Daisy. I'll be back in a minute."

He was just going to leave the room when he heard Lucinda's voice.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing--you've hit your head; that's all." He went back to the couch
and stooped over her. "I'm going for the doctor now. You must be still."

"I'm all right. Are you? . . . is Richard? . . . Oh, please . . ."

"I'm all right," he said firmly. "And Richard's all right. Don't you
worry about us any more. None of that's going to happen."

"Oh . . . thank you."

Harry nearly laughed.

"Don't thank me--thank yourself."

His mother and Daisy were staring at him, wondering what on earth
he was talking about. He hurried out of the room, well pleased
with himself, in spite of the stress of the last five minutes. Lucinda
Light would soon be well, and then he could tell her all that had
happened and all that had not happened. When he thought of her he had a
feeling of release, as if he had escaped from slavery. He had had his
chance of hurting Richard, but he had not taken it; Nan Scallow had
called him again out of the darkness, but he had not gone to her. He
felt as if he had lived a part of his life over again and made a better
job of it.



                                   VI

               BRENDA LIGHT--LUCINDA LIGHT--HARRY COBSALB

"Child," said Michael tenderly, leaning over her, "don't you think
you've grieved enough?"

She answered in the hoarse unaccustomed voice of her tears:

"I shall never have grieved enough."

Nor should she. How could she?--with her struggle turned into a fresh
offence, her refuge come to be merely the site of a new bonfire. She
grieved for herself more than for the Marlotts. They had at least
escaped out of a shameful world, and Jess by a swifter easier way than
might otherwise have been hers--that much had come out at the inquest.
But her mind and body sagged as she realized the end of all her
high-flung thoughts, falling about her now like dead rocket sticks. She
had burnt up the Marlotts.

"No, my dear," said Michael in a firmer voice, "you've grieved enough
and you've punished yourself enough. It's time you turned and saw some
of the blame on the other side. If you've made mistakes, other people
have been fools."

She knew that he thought Greg Marlott was a fool, just as he had thought
Nicky was a fool--two fools even before she had made fools of them.

"It doesn't help me to think that."

"Are you quite sure? It would help me a lot in your place."

Yes, no doubt it would. But her heart was different, and she could not
turn away its reproaches even by reasoning with herself. However, he
knew better than to leave her entirely to reason. As she felt his arm
come in heavy, tender protection round her body, and his cheek lie warm
and rough and loving against hers, reproach suddenly dissolved into
surrender.

"Darling, I'll do my best."

"That's right, my lovely one; and soon you'll be feeling happier--when
you're out of it all, when you've put the Atlantic Ocean between you and
this damned place."

Yes, he was right; she would feel happier. She knew she would; and she
would accept her happiness in the chastened spirit of a woman who knows
herself to be incapable of a higher achievement. This time she had put
up no opposition, erected no barriers between herself and the way of
escape. That had been her mistake before--thinking she was brave enough
and strong enough to wipe out all the harm she had done. Now she saw
that she had barely made the attempt. Some instinct had urged her to
atonement, just as it had urged her to take refuge in Woodhorn
Parsonage, but it had urged her blindly, as instinct urges the Norway
lemmings to swim blindly out to sea in search of an island which has
been gone ten thousand years.

She would not make that mistake again. She knew now that she was
inadequate. That was the operative word--inadequate. If she had been
deliberately ruthless she could have done neither Nicky nor the Marlotts
any more harm than she had done them merely through the failure to rise
to her own occasions. She had loved Nicky and she had wanted to help
Jess Marlott, yet for neither had she achieved anything less than
disaster. Plainly she must in future be protected against herself; and
where could she find a better, more congenial, more essentially
adequate, protector than Michael? who would not tolerate for a moment
what Nicky had tolerated or what she had tolerated herself.

He asked her:

"What are you thinking of? Why are you looking so sad?"

She smiled, because she knew that he hated to see her sad. He knew, of
course, that she must be sad, but she did not think he knew how sad she
must be. If anything, he was glad to see the machinations of her
Victorian conscience brought to nought. He was too kind-hearted to
triumph over her, but no doubt he held that this second tragedy had
proved him right--as of course it had. If ever she thought otherwise it
was because there was still so much in her mind that was hurt
and confused, that continued obstinately, as it were, to haunt Woodhorn
Parsonage, ignoring the road to the west.

When he saw her smile he smiled too and offered her a cigarette.

"My poor baby--how glad I'll be when I've got you all to myself on the
_Aquitamia_. Yes, I can almost find it in my heart to forgive Lucinda
for turning me down as a stepfather when I realize how much more we
shall enjoy our honeymoon without her."

"Lucinda hasn't turned you down. It's quite sensible of her, really, to
want to finish her education. After all, she's only eighteen and hasn't
been to school since the autumn before last. A year at Madame
Schevingen's will do her a lot of good."

"And are there no educational establishments in America? I seem to have
heard of a few."

"Oh yes, but for an English girl of Lucinda's type I think a finishing
school in Paris gives a better polish than an American College. She'll
come out to us in a year's time and do you much more credit than she
would now."

She had from the first supported Lucinda's entreaty to be left behind
when they went to New York. Apart from her own reluctance to drag an
unwilling daughter at her heels she felt a secret pleasure in the fact
that Michael should have at least one resounding defeat. His triumph
over her was lessened by his failure to win Lucinda. He had been so
confident . . . and yet he had failed so utterly. . . . She had never
seen Lucinda more vehement, more determined than in this matter. In
spite of all that Michael had done to win her heart she would have none
of him, and Brenda hoped and believed that the failure was realized. It
might make him less cocksure.

Her own feelings were mixed. In one sense her daughter had taken a load
off her mind, in another she had wounded her to the quick. For a year
she had lived uneasily with Lucinda as her judge, and now at last that
judge had pronounced sentence. By that sentence--Brenda knew it, though
it had travelled no further than the court-room of Lucinda's heart--they
were parted for ever. Lucinda would go her own way. They would meet
again, of course, but no longer as mother and daughter. Brenda would
cease to be Lucinda's mother the day she became Michael's wife.
And part of her secret humiliation was the knowledge that she would not
mind very much. She loved Lucinda, but Lucinda was Nicky too. . . . It
would be a relief not to have to look at him so often. . . .

"Yes," grumbled Michael, "it would be nice to have her a little less
unsophisticated. But that was one reason why I wanted her out there."

"Don't you worry. The girls at Madame's are pretty tough."

"But she's spending her holidays with the Malpases."

"Only a few weeks next summer. By that time she'll probably think them
as ghastly as we do."

They talked more lightly till it was time for him to go. Then, when his
arms came round her in farewell, she suddenly felt her burden again.

"Michael, Michael . . . I don't deserve it."

"Deserve what?"

"To be marrying you next week. I still feel I oughtn't to be so happy."

"Ought," said he, "is an aspidistra."

"I know--but----"

"And you needn't feel so sure that you're going to be happy. You may
find me a tiresome husband."

Yes, she thought to herself when he was gone, I daresay that I shall
sometimes find you a very tiresome husband. You won't be trustful and
tolerant like Nicky. You know what I'm like, which he never did, and
you'll keep me in order, which he never tried. No more flirting, no more
adventures, except with you. . . .

She sat in her white room, looking into the fire. The tears that had
been in her eyes when Michael left had dried unshed. Soon it would all
be gone from her--the whiteness and the fire. Someone else, probably
better fitted for country life than herself, would live here and fill
these large, quiet rooms with all sorts of activities, people and
voices. Only the ghost of apple-blossom might sometimes speak to other
ghosts of the woman who had lost here something she had never had.

The picture flickered on the screen. Blurred outlines appeared, blurred
movements took place.

"It doesn't seem quite right somehow," said Mr. Malpas, his spectacles
alight in the glow that came up from the Cin Projector.

"Oh, yes, it is," Leonora whispered hoarsely. "It's only that I didn't
quite know how to hold the camera."

"Silence, please," said Humfrey, standing beside the screen. "This,
ladies and gentlemen, is the notorious baby-killer, Moll Kemp. We see
her here with her helpless infant, whom she is about to strangle." The
dark objects in the picture leaped convulsively and the screen became
suddenly black. "She buries him in the garden of the Chequers Inn--a
notorious hostelry, frequented by the gentlemen of the High Toby, in
other words highwaymen. The most notorious, gallant and handsome of
these is one Dickory." He tapped his stick on the floor, and his own
image wavered on to the screen, bowing ingratiatingly right and left.

"Oh, Humfrey dear," said Mrs. Malpas, "you should have taken off your
spectacles."

"I did for the other shots. One can't think of everything. Do shut up,
Mother."

The entertainment proceeded. Lucinda watched it from the back of the
room. Really it was very bad--very bad indeed--worse even than she had
thought likely. The camera, of course, was only a toy; but it was an
efficient toy within its limits. Leonora needn't have made such a bungle
of it. She must have moved continually while she was taking the
pictures.

"The wicked Moll Kemp," droned Humfrey, "not content with murdering her
innocent child, betrays her lover Dickory to the Bow Street Runner."

On the screen he stood beside Petronilla, looking very cold in her
shorts. She clapped him on the shoulder and seized his arm just as he
was about to draw the Rectory bread-knife from the folds of his
mackintosh cape.

Really, thought Lucinda, the pictures are better when they're not so
clear. She was growing impatient for the show to end, but it dragged
on through the labyrinths of Humfrey's commentary, till at last
both Moll Kemp and Dickory, the one ignobly, the other nobly, met their
ends.

The Malpas family clapped its own performance with vigour.

"Very good indeed," said Mrs. Malpas. "I could recognize you all."

"I am interested to know, Humfrey," said Mr. Malpas, as he turned up the
room into lamplight, "what are your authorities for this story. I know
that Dickory is sometimes talked about round here, but I have found no
records of him."

"It's a legend, of course," said Humfrey. "I've based my story on a
legend."

"But does the legend make him out a highwayman? I can't see how a
highwayman--that is a robber on horseback--could have found it worth his
while to frequent a road like Ember Lane. Even in the old days there
could have been only a limited traffic across the marsh, and mostly a
traffic of farm-carts and farm hands, who would scarcely have been worth
robbing. Perhaps the tale is just an embroidery on the deeds of some
foot-pad, who scared the country people for a while and then met his
deserts."

"Oh, no, Father," said Humfrey. "He was definitely a highwayman. He wore
a purple cloak and rode a black mare."

"Besides," shrilled Petronilla, "I saw him, you remember, and he was
certainly dressed as a highwayman."

"I saw him too," said Nigel, "by the gate of Harbolets Shaw. But he
looked like a man."

"Well, a highwayman is a man, stupid."

"Not the sort of man I saw."

"Now, children," said Mrs. Malpas firmly, "you know you mustn't say
things like that. It's all very well for you to play at seeing ghosts,
but when it comes to thinking you've really seen them it's quite another
thing. I can't bear to hear any of you say anything that isn't quite
truthful."

"But it is truthful, Mother," cried Petronilla. "I saw Dickory by the
gate of Harbolets Shaw, and so did Nigel."

"And I saw them see him," said Humfrey.

"And I saw him see them see him," screeched Leonora, "and then Lucinda
went into the Shaw and we all told her to beware of him. You remember,
don't you, Lucinda?"

Lucinda shook her head.

"There," said Mrs. Malpas, "and Lucinda's older and wiser than any of
you. You really must be careful, children, what you say."

"But it was just before Lucinda had her accident," said Humfrey, "and
you never remember anything that happened just before an accident."

"Mother," cried Petronilla, "do you think Mr. Marlott will haunt Ember
Lane?"

Mrs. Malpas turned crimson.

"Of course not, you naughty little girl. How dare you say such a thing?"

"Well, he has as much right to be a ghost as Dickory."

"And Mrs. Marlott," put in Leonora.

"If any of you children mentions Mr. or Mrs. Marlott again you will be
severely punished. I refuse to have you make fun of a terrible tragedy."

"We're not making fun," mumbled Petronilla, but she said no more about
the Marlotts. At the moment, that is to say. Later on Lucinda overheard
her discussing with Humfrey the possibility of making them into a film.

"We could do it at Honeypools itself. You can get in through the kitchen
window, for there's a pane broken just beside the catch."

"I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Marlott would make a film," said Leonora,
"there's not a decent woman's part in it."

"There's Mrs. Light," said Petronilla. "I wouldn't mind playing her. It
would make quite a good snaky siren, Lupe Velez part."

"And leave me to play Mrs. Marlott, I suppose," said Leonora. "Well, I
tell you straight I'm not going to do it. And if you think that, short
of carving bits off yourself, you could ever look like a snaky siren . . ."

Then they both simultaneously caught sight of Lucinda and said: "Shut
up!"


Lucinda walked down Ember Lane. Moving spears of sunlight and shadow
went ahead of her, as a high wind chased the clouds, a wind that seemed
to shake sunshine and shade together in the same cold. She wore a thick
brown tweed coat buttoned up to her chin and great crimson woolly gloves
with gauntlets half-way up her arms. But her head was bare, and her hair
seemed part of the moving sunshine, a golden ball floating down Ember
Lane.

She was on her way to Loats Farm, to say good-bye to Joan Cobsale, for
to-morrow she was leaving Woodhorn. She and Mummy were going to stay in
London till the wedding, and then immediately afterwards she would leave
for Paris with another girl who was going to Madame Schevingen's. Mummy
and Michael (she must get used to thinking of him as Michael, for she
could see that it hurt Mummy's feelings when she forgot and called him
Mr. Barney) had suggested that she should travel with them on the
_Aquitania_ as far as Cherbourg; but she did not think they really
wanted her and she certainly did not want to be with them.

She did not really want to go to the wedding, but she saw that she must.
Queer as the thought might seem, she would be breaking her promise to
her father if she did not go. She must go and do all the outside things,
or her mother would be hurt and humiliated; but that was all she need
do. She did not believe that her promise bound her to go with Mrs.
Barney to New York. She would have Mr. Barney to attend her there. Her
daughter was discharged.

She had done her best, and she hoped that Daddy, if he knew, would not
think it all a failure--even though she had not been able either to make
her mother happy or to keep her out of trouble. Michael Barney would do
that much better than she had--than her father had. Another queer
thought was that her father would not disapprove of the marriage. He
would know that Mummy must always be looked after and spoilt by
someone--some man; and here was a man who would do both well, even
though he had been--was still, in fact--an enemy. Mummy would
be happy with him--incredible as it might seem, and little as Lucinda
liked to think of it--and she would be safe. Any Mr. and Mrs. Marlotts
there might be in the United States would also be safe. The thought
consoled her.

About herself Lucinda felt less certain. She did not dislike the idea of
going to school in Paris--though it had no great attraction for her,
either--and she was already looking forward to her summer with the
Malpases, to being back in Woodhorn and seeing her friends again, both
people and places. But she was well aware that the scheme only postponed
her journey to New York. She could not stay indefinitely either in Paris
or at the Rectory.

Still, she was not going to worry about that now. Much can happen in a
year. She knew that, because much had happened in a year--if it really
had happened. . . . She faltered and put up her hand to her forehead.
Her head still ached sometimes when she thought deeply of things.

She was nearly at Loats' gate. She could already see it standing pale
against the underwood of Harbolets Shaw. She was right at the spot where
she could judge for herself if she chose. She had only to climb the bank
and look through the twigs of the hedge in the field above the shaw.
More than once before this she had thought of putting things to the
test, but had shrunk back, fearing she did not quite know what--what she
should see? Or what she should not see?

This morning she felt bolder, and scrambling up the bank she hurried to
the familiar place, and stooped down to look, without letting herself
think. There lay the empty fields, sloping towards the distant cap of an
oast-house, and beyond them spread the marsh in a sort of brittle
clearness, the January floods holding the sun in their basin and
Rushmonden on the farther hill standing out in the clear, clean colours
of a toy village. For several minutes she stooped there, looking and
waiting. Oh, would it change? She knew now that she wanted it to change.
But the only change that came was the shadow of a cloud, stroking across
the marsh and wiping the sunshine out of the windows of Limbo Farm, then
suddenly passing and restoring the world to light.

No, it was not going to change. Why? What had she lost? She stood up,
struggling with a feeling of almost bitter disappointment. Woodhorn
would not be the same without her glimpses of the Old Country. She
wondered painfully if they had gone for ever. It might be possible that
the concussion that had laid her up for nearly a week, and of which she
still felt the effects in occasional headaches, had done something to
her personality, shut up the part that had sometimes looked out through
a secret window. She had certainly not "seen" anything since her
accident--not even the apple blossom that occasionally appeared in the
drawing-room at the Old Parsonage and gave her such deep feelings of
peace and contentment. She wondered: had the Lucy Light part of her gone
for ever? the part that was different. . . . And what about Dickory?
Would she never see him again? . . .

She turned away from the hedge, and as she did so a flash passed through
her mind, sped by the thought of Dickory. That might be why, perhaps,
she had seen nothing--Dickory was no longer there. He had haunted Ember
Lane because he had been unable to escape from the crime he had
committed at Loats Farm. He had shot his master, on the false assumption
that he made his mistress unhappy, and had lived for weeks or months or
years (she could not tell how long) as a frightened, unhappy outlaw,
stealing purses from travellers on the marsh, with no one to befriend
him but a girl who herself was to be hanged. In the end he had been
betrayed by the same "liddle Missus" for whose sake he had committed his
crime.

But she had prevented him committing that crime. By some power of which
she was ignorant and by some process she could not determine, she had
found herself with him right at the start and had been able to stop the
sequence beginning. Dickory had not shot Mus' Rowfold--for she did not
believe that once prevented by such an episode (and who knew but that
her later pleadings both to him and to Harry Cobsale might not have been
in it too) he would ever have reformed his intention. He would have been
too scared--for that day she had certainly frightened him more than he
had ever frightened her. He would possibly have run away from Loats or
found another job with a better master. Most likely he had married
and begotten children, brought up a family and died peacefully
in his bed. His sad story had unwound like a skein of wool when cut
loose from the bobbin to which it had been attached. So why should he
haunt Ember Lane? Or call her to him in the Old Country?

And yet these things had happened. Others besides herself had seen the
ghost. Once again she put her hand to her forehead. Gosh! all this made
her feel giddy. It couldn't have happened like this. She must have
dreamed it all. And yet Harry Cobsale had not shot his brother. The evil
that she feared had passed from Loats. Harry Cobsale--she had heard from
Joan--was going away to start a new life in a new place. . . . So was
there the connection she had always thought? Or was it all coincidence?
. . .

She could not tell. And she really could not think any more about it
now. She must wait until her head was stronger.


For three weeks Harry Cobsale had been wanting to meet Lucinda Light.
But he had not done so, partly because she had been ill, and partly
because on the two occasions she had visited Joan he had been out--and
Joan, of course, had never said a word. Joan was now the model of all
that Richard wanted her to be; and Harry did not care a damn.

He had vaguely made up his mind to go to see Lucinda before she went off
to town for her mother's wedding, but had shrunk from the idea of
calling at the house. So as he walked down from the village that January
morning, he was particularly glad to see her turn into Harbolets Shaw
just ahead of him. He hailed her at once.

"Good morning!"

She turned and smiled.

"Good morning."

"How are you now?"

"Quite well, thank you. Quite recovered."

"I'm glad. You'd given yourself a terrible knock." He waited a moment,
then said: "I can't think how you didn't see that door."

To his surprise, she coloured.

"I wasn't looking where I was going."

"That's plain--you ran into it twice."

She blushed still deeper. It made him think of something he had never
seen--sunset on a field of snow.

"Oh, never mind about that now," she said. "I'm sometimes very
absent-minded. How are you getting on? I hear you're leaving Loats."

"Did Joan tell you that?"

"Yes. She said you're selling your hop-quota and going to buy a new
place for yourself."

"Did she seem pleased about it?"

Lucinda hesitated. He saw that she did not want to hurt his feelings.

"Of course she's pleased," he said heartily. "It was she who told me to
clear out."

"Well, I suppose she'd rather have her husband to herself . . . and if
you weren't there probably your mother and Daisy wouldn't feel so set
against him."

"That's it. That's what she said to me. But I don't think I'd be going
if it hadn't been for what you said. You said it better."

"I didn't say much. I can't remember now what it was."

He grinned.

"Nor can I--exactly. But I remember the way you said it. And I remember
the way Joan said her piece. She turned on me like a regular little
madam--threw my Christmas present out on the dunghill."

"I thought perhaps she mightn't like to--to accept it from you."

"Oh, she accepted it all right. It was only when that--but never mind.
You were right there. She loves him."

"Yes, I know she does."

"I still don't see that there was any need to be so ungrateful. . . .
However, I'm shut of her now. She told me she wanted me to go, and I'm
going."

"Have you decided where to go?"

He had been wanting her to ask him this.

"Pretty nearly. I've heard of a farm over by Warningore--a hundred and
sixty acres, about a third of it arable, the rest woodland and
grass; there's a good house too. It's called Inchreed and it's about
eight miles beyond Potcommon, so I'll still be in the same country. I
thought I'd go over next week and see it." He looked at her and
stammered a little as he asked the question that had that very instant
shot into his mind: "Like to come with me?"

She did not look angry, but she shook her head.

"I'm afraid I couldn't. Next week I shall be in France."

He stared at her, his heart sinking.

"But I thought . . . aren't you coming back here after your mother's
wedding? I'd heard you were going to live with the Malpases."

"Oh, no. I shall go to them next summer for the holidays, but directly
after the wedding I'm going to school in France."

They had come to the further gate of the Shaw, and she evidently thought
that he was going to open it for her to pass through; but instead he
turned round and leaned his back against it, looking at her as she stood
before him. How odd it was, he thought, that with her fair hair her eyes
were not blue, but a curious, shaded brown, with specks in them.

"You aren't in a hurry, are you?" he asked.

"No. I was only going to say good-bye to Joan."

"She can wait, I reckon. I want you to tell me more about this--this
school. Surely you don't want to go to school at your age?"

She smiled again.

"I'm only just eighteen. It's a finishing school, and girls often stay
at those till they're nineteen or over."

"Do they, indeed?"

He felt surprised and a little discouraged. Her going to school like
this made her somehow more remote from him not only in age, though it
seemed to make her younger, but in class. The girls he knew--his sisters
and others like them left school at sixteen or even earlier. He had
never heard of a girl going to school after she was grown up. Perhaps
girls in Lucinda's class grew up more slowly than the girls in his; and
that was why no doubt he had thought her queer--different--childish.
. . . He did not like being made to think in this way of the differences
between them.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you're going away."

"I shall comeback in the summer. Mrs. Malpas is very kindly having me
for the summer holidays."

"That's a long time to wait. I'd thought that perhaps we might--I hope
you don't think me bold or presuming, but I'd had an idea that one day
you and me might be dancing together at a hotel."

"A hotel! Where?"

She looked surprised, almost bewildered.

"It was what you told me about the dance you went to on Christmas
night," he said hastily. "It put the idea into my head. You said you'd
taken that kid Humfrey Malpas to make a fourth, and I thought you might
just as well have taken me. I mean--don't get me wrong--you probably
would have taken me instead of him if I'd been a different sort of chap
from what I was."

"Oh, please don't think . . ." she began. Then: "I didn't know you cared
about dances."

"No--how should you know? And I don't know that I do, unless they're
something very special. I went to the Marsh Harriers' Ball the year
before last, but I haven't been anywhere since, because I don't know the
right sort of girl. I've been making rather a stink round here, I'm
afraid. Otherwise I might get more invitations. After all, you're my
sister-in-law's best friend, so if you'd really known me--I mean if I'd
been fit for you to know--you'd most likely have asked me instead of
that kid."

"Yes, most likely we should . . . I mean we should if we'd known you
better."

She still looked bewildered. She probably had no idea what was going on
in his mind. How should she? She was inexperienced--not like most girls
of eighteen, who would have tumbled on to something more than his
meaning long ago.

"Well, perhaps we'll be able to dance together in the summer. Most of
the hotels in Marlingate have dances in August."

Why was he so set on dancing with her? It was not the fairy vision that
drew him now so much as the thought that such a dance would set the seal
on his escape from hell.

"I should like to very much," she said, "if--if it can be managed."

"I expect it can. Mrs. Malpas could come too, if you liked. Or Humfrey
could bring one of his sisters."

No doubt, he thought, Mrs. Malpas would disapprove of the whole thing.
She knew him only as he was rumoured in Woodhorn. For the first time he
felt glad that he now had six months in which to make another
reputation.

"I'll be in my own place by then," he said. "I could drive over and
fetch you in my car. Mark you--what I want you to understand is this: I
shan't be the same then as I am now."

She smiled suddenly.

"I hope you won't be very different."

He was surprised to hear her say that and to see her smile as she said
it. She was brighter than he had thought.

"I'll be a lot different," he said firmly, "but you'll have to like me,
because it's you that'll have made the difference."

"I? How could I?"

He grinned.

"Mostly by showing me that Joan isn't the only high-class girl in
Woodhorn. You don't mind my saying that, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"Some people might think I was getting fresh; but I don't mean it that
way at all. It's only that weeks ago--on Boxing Day, when we were
walking together across the marsh--I promised myself that one day I
would dance with you. Do you remember that walk?"

She looked suddenly grave.

"Of course I do. I shall never forget it. I was so horribly scared."

"Yes--so scared that you scared me. Thank goodness that you did or I
might have done something silly. Do you know that if it hadn't been for
you I might now be hiding somewhere--dodging the police for my
life--instead of hoping to dance with you some day? I see now that I
wasn't so very far from murdering Richard."

"That--that was what made me so afraid."

"But how did you know? I didn't know it myself--not then."

She shook her head.

"I can't tell you. Don't let's talk of these things. I'd rather talk
about next summer. If we can make up a party and go to a dance I shall
love it above all things. It will be something to look forward to when
I'm in Paris."

"It's a date, then. Or rather, it isn't a date. We won't fix anything
yet. If you should come back and not find the man I'm talking about
. . . well, he ain't there, that's all, and you can forget him."

He suddenly turned away from her, and opened the gate for her to pass
through. As they crossed the open field, their shadows, crisp in the
sunshine of the winter's noon, seemed to dance together as they moved
ahead.



Transcriber's note:

The edition used as base for this book contained the
following errors, which have been corrected.

Page 33:

Lucinda stood with the crumb-scoop in her hand. her forehead
clouded with thought.

=>

Lucinda stood with the crumb-scoop in her hand, her forehead
clouded with thought.

Page 51:

Harry Cobsdale walked down the hill towards it.
=> Harry Cobsale walked down the hill towards it.

Page 275:

she went back into the kitchen to makes the tea.
=> she went back into the kitchen to make the tea.

Page 289:

It was blue this time--he thought she would
[four or five blank spaces, followed by a new line]
nice in blue.

=>

It was blue this time--he thought she would look
nice in blue.




[End of _Ember Lane_ by Sheila Kaye-Smith]
