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Title: Faithful Stranger And Other Stories
Author: Kaye-Smith, Sheila (1887-1956)
Date of first publication: 1938
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1938
   (first U.S. Edition)
Date first posted: 1 October 2009
Date last updated: 1 October 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #396

This ebook was produced by:
Andrew Templeton




_Faithful Stranger_

AND OTHER STORIES


                             OTHER BOOKS BY

                           Sheila Kaye-Smith

                            THREE WAYS HOME
                             ROSE DEEPROSE
                          SUPERSTITION CORNER
                              GIPSY WAGGON
                        THE MIRROR OF THE MONTHS
                             SUMMER HOLIDAY
                              SUSAN SPRAY
                         SHEPHERDS IN SACKCLOTH
                     THE END OF THE HOUSE OF ALARD
                             JOANNA GODDEN
                             ISLE OF THORNS
                              SUSSEX GORSE
                        THREE AGAINST THE WORLD
                         THE TRAMPING METHODIST
                        THE CHALLENGE TO SIRIUS
                               STARBRACE
                             TAMARISK TOWN
                               SPELL LAND
                             LITTLE ENGLAND
                          GREEN APPLE HARVEST
                        THE GEORGE AND THE CROWN
                         JOANNA GODDEN MARRIED
                           THE VILLAGE DOCTOR

                                   *

                           FAITHFUL STRANGER
                          _And Other Stories_

                                   by

                           Sheila Kaye-Smith


                      Harper & Brothers Publishers
                         New York _and_ London
                                  1938

                           FAITHFUL STRANGER
                          _And Other Stories_

_Copyright, 1937, 1938, by Sheila Kaye-Smith Fry Printed in the United
States of America_

_All rights in this book are reserved. It may not be used for dramatic,
motion- or talking-picture purposes without written authorization from
the holder of these rights. Nor may the book or part thereof be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing. For
information address. Harper & Brothers, 49 East 33rd Street, New York,
N. Y._


                                  5/8

                             FIRST EDITION

                                  C-N



Contents

   I. Faithful Stranger
  II. The Praises of Obscurity
 III. The Pharisee Boy
  IV. Strong Medicine
   V. The Field of the Irises
  VI. A Wedding Morn
 VII. Mrs. Dengate in the News
VIII. The Man Whom the Rocks Hated
  IX. Variations on a Theme:
       (1) Barline
       (2) Palehouse
       (3) Nineveh
   X. The Old Farmhouse--New Style
  XI. Joanna Godden's Joy Ride







_Faithful Stranger_

AND OTHER STORIES







                                   I

                          _Faithful Stranger_

                                   I

The matter started with a young man walking up to Constable Bate as he
stood outside the Feathers and saying in rather a hesitating voice:

"Excuse me, but something's wrong--I-I've no idea who I am."

"You're in Mockford, sir"--the Constable's mind had automatically
substituted a pronoun more in accordance with probability.

"Yes, but--that isn't what--it's _who_ I am that I want to know. I
haven't the slightest idea."

"Oh, lost your memory?"

Contact was established, and the Constable became more alert. He looked
at the young man critically and suspiciously. Any chance of a leg pull?
Such a thing was not unknown in his five years' experience of a
policeman's life in Mockford. Or perhaps it was a crook. His thick,
indefinite eyebrows drew down over a glance meant to search the very
marrows of duplicity. But the young man continued to stare at him with a
gaze of limpid if perplexed innocence. Not that that meant anything.
Still, it was hard to see what game he could be up to. And he looked a
gentleman--not shabby and not flash; a quiet, well-dressed sort of chap,
with a voice that suggested the BBC to the Constable's somewhat limited
experience--Eton and Harrow and all that.

"Can't you remember nothing at all?" he questioned.

"Not a thing. I feel as if I'd just woken up and found myself here."

"Do you think you've had an accident?"

"I don't know. I feel perfectly all right."

"You'd better come along with me to the station and we'll go into
things. Maybe there's your name somewhere on your clothes."

The young man opened a pocket-book which seemed full of money.

"There's nothing here--no card or anything. I've looked."

"But we'll probably find your shirt marked or something--or there'll be
a tailor's tag in your coat."

Though this was the first time that such a case had come within Bate's
own experience he was not entirely without knowledge of the subject. His
daily newspaper had provided him with more than one instance of lost
identity, and other policemen had told him strange tales. He did not
think that this young man would long remain a mystery. It was not as if
he were some poor down-and-out belonging nowhere and to no one. His
friends would probably soon trace him if an inspection of his belongings
did not, as was most probable, provide an immediate clue.

This latter field of inquiry proved, however, more barren than he had
hoped. The young man's clothes turned out to be reach-me-downs, and bore
no identification mark beyond the name of a large city firm of
clothiers. They had evidently been worn some time, and it might be
impossible to trace a sale. His shirt bore no laundry mark--which was
encouraging in so far as it pointed to female care and supervision, but
otherwise another check--and the only evidence provided was the letter D
on a tape inside the collar.

Mr. Bate was disconcerted. He had somehow taken for granted that such an
apparently well-dressed and well-founded young fellow would be labelled
from head to foot when it came to an inspection of his underwear. Single
man living in lodgings, he should think--possibly his washing done at
home by the landlady. Evidently not so very well off, in spite of the
money in his pockets, which came, when counted, to ten pounds, seven
shillings and eightpence. Only a cheap wrist watch. Probably worked in a
bank or an office. In which case, why had he come to Mockford? And how?
He could not remember anything, but his boots were covered with dust as
if he had walked a long way. And then all of a sudden, while the
constable was thinking out all this and writing it down carefully in a
note-book, the young man fell fainting on the floor.

"Hi!" cried Mr. Bate. "Hi! Look out, there! Amy!" His wife came running
in from the next room, and the next minute his little boy Clarence was
running out for the doctor, who arrived just as the young man was
beginning to recover consciousness.

A very slight examination was enough to show that the patient was
suffering from hunger and exhaustion as well as loss of memory.

"Probably," said Dr. Faulkener, "he'll know more about himself when he's
had a rest and a good sleep. He's done in--that's what's the matter.
I'll run him round to the cottage hospital and have him put to bed in
the private ward. But he'd best have a bite of something first, if Mrs.
Bate has anything ready."

Mrs. Bate had an excellent rabbit stew just ready to be dished up for
her husband's dinner, and the young man looked very much better when he
had eaten a large amount of it and drunk some brandy. Then the doctor
drove him to Mockford Cottage Hospital, just outside the village, where
the only private ward was fortunately empty. By the time he was in bed
it was only a little after one o'clock, but he slept till half-past nine
the next morning.


                                   II

The Matron's name at the Mockford Cottage Hospital was Miss Henderson.
She was about forty years old, but looked older with her thick grey hair
and rather squat figure. She took a great interest in this new sort of
case, which provided a welcome change from the enlargements,
deficiencies or mutilations of the human figure which mainly filled the
beds of her two public wards. She, in common with Dr. Faulkener, and her
two nurses Kent and Rogers, expected the young man to wake from his long
sleep with at least some memory of the events immediately preceding his
appearance in Mockford, and she was surprised and disappointed to find
that after he had been awake some hours and had eaten a hearty breakfast
his mind was just as blank as it had been the day before.

"Do you think he's shamming?" she asked the doctor.

"No, I do not. For one thing, loss of memory is much more difficult to
sham--at least over a long period--than most people imagine. For another
he shows definite physical signs of shock."

"You think it's due to shock, then?"

"People don't lose their memories for no reason at all. There's
generally a predisposing cause, and then some sudden shock or illness
brings matters to a head."

"A mental shock?"

"Mental or physical. It may be something quite trivial--a narrow squeak
on the road or even seeing someone else knocked down. He must have had a
predisposition. . . . I should say he was a dreamy, sensitive type of
fellow, and his general health doesn't seem too good--a bit run down, I
should think."

"He was exhausted when he came here."

"He was. He must have walked miles, judging by his boots--and on an
empty stomach, too. Nobody apparently saw him come into the village.
Bate is making inquiries in Moorchester--at the station and the 'bus
terminus; or it's possible he may be a Moorchester man."

"In which case his friends will soon trace him."

"Probably very soon."

"And what am I to do with him meanwhile?"

"Keep him in bed, and see that he isn't disturbed or fussed in any way,
and that he has plenty of nourishing food. There's not much else we can
do. His memory will probably return as he gets stronger, but it may be a
slow business."

"The relations may turn up first."

"Very likely."

But if the young man's memory was slow--and it was very slow indeed, for
a week went by without its returning--his relations were even slower.
Not a soul arrived to inquire for him, not a letter came, nor a single
telephone call. He might have been utterly alone in the world--without
relatives or friends or employers. His photograph appeared in the daily
press with the usual lost-memory story; but the only result was an
inquiry from a woman in Macclesfield who thought he might be her husband
who had disappeared twenty years ago.

He was a very good patient--quiet and grateful, inclined to appreciate
all their care for him. Once he said:

"I really feel rather bad about all this. I must be costing you a lot.
Suppose I can't ever pay you? That money in my pocket-book may be all
I've got in the world."

They soothed him away from such gloomy ideas, but actually they were
beginning to think that something of the kind might be possible.
Certainly he could not have much of a position in life if he was to be
allowed to fall out of it like this. He was obviously well educated and
well bred, but that did not necessarily stand for much in 1937. His very
condition, physical and mental, might be due to privation--to financial
anxiety. The time would come when they would have to think seriously of
what he was costing the hospital--they might have to plan his future
while he was still without a past.


Then suddenly there was a change.

It was Kent who announced it, running into the Matron's office in a most
unprofessional manner.

"Matron! Matron! Will you come, please? He's begun to remember."

"What's all this? Pull yourself together, Kent! Whom are you talking
about?"

"The lost-memory case. He's seen a photograph of someone he knows in the
_Tatler_."

"Just now? Does he know who it is?"

"It's a woman. He seems very upset about her. Perhaps he was in love. . . ."

"That will do, Kent. I'll go and see him at once."

She rustled into the private ward, where she found the young man sitting
up in bed with a heap of illustrated papers. He was holding one of them
in both hands and Miss Henderson noticed that his body was shaking,
while there was an excited flush on the face he turned towards her.

"I hear you've--"

"Matron, will you please look."

He thrust the page towards her, and she saw the photograph of a woman's
head: a fashionable, elegant, well-set head. Underneath was printed:
"Mrs. Simon Dexter, one of the hostesses at the United Orphanages Ball,
who is shortly leaving for a visit to her mother's home near Charleston
in the United States."

"You know her?"

The young man leaned forward and said slowly:

"I am Simon Dexter."

For a moment the Matron did not speak. She was surprised. She was also
slightly incredulous. It was surely impossible that this young man
should belong to the fashionable world that is photographed for the
illustrated weeklies. Neither his clothes nor his circumstances made
such an idea conceivable. And if he was this woman's husband, how was it
that she had so calmly let him drop out of her life? It seemed
incredible--unless, indeed, they were separated--or divorced. . . . Then
she remembered that Mrs. Dexter was proclaimed to be just starting for
America--had probably spent the last week at sea. That might explain her
own apparent indifference, though it did not account for anyone else's.
She looked at the date of the paper--it was three months old.

"How long will your wife be in America?"

"For six weeks or two months. She goes to visit her mother every year.
She never stays longer than that."

"Then she's probably back again now. This paper is three months old."

"Yes, I daresay she's back." He clasped and unclasped his hands, while
his breath came unevenly. "Perhaps you could ring up and find out."

"Can you remember where she lives?--where you live?"

"Yes, yes, it's all coming back to me." The Matron saw tears in his
eyes. "Lindridge Court, near Bethersden in Kent. Yes, that's it--a black
and white house, with a paved court. And a pool--I can see it here," he
darkened his face with trembling hands. "Oh, it's beautiful."

"You must keep perfectly calm. Everything's going to be all right."

She hoped that it was, but there was a great deal still unexplained.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"About half-past three."

"Then you'll probably find her in if you ring up at once. She generally
stops about in the garden most of the afternoon, and then goes out later
in the car. You can easily get through to her--it's on the toll
exchange. Bethersden 972. Please do it now--for I can't bear the
suspense of waiting."

"I'll go at once, but don't on any account excite yourself, and please
remember that there's a chance she may not be back from America."

"Oh yes, she'll be back. She never stays longer than two months, and she
wouldn't have got my letter till she came home. . . . Yes, wait--I
remember . . . I was expecting her home when I left it for her. Oh, God
forgive me!"

He fell back on his pillows, covering his face. Evidently his state
which had at first been almost pure excitement had now become one of
sorrow and regret. The crisis which had laid him for a week unknown in
Mockford Cottage Hospital must somehow be connected with this woman. His
recovered hold on life was not going to bring relief and happiness all
round. The Matron looked at him uneasily.

"Listen to me," she said. "You must keep absolutely calm, or you'll make
yourself ill again. I'm going immediately to ring up Lindridge Court,
but you must promise me----"

"Can't I go to the 'phone myself?"

"No, the doctor wouldn't hear of it. You wouldn't be equal to a 'phone
conversation as you are now. But I promise to get through to Mrs.
Dexter."

"You must make her come. Tell her I'm ill, and tell her--tell her I--I'm
sorry. But don't let her not come."

"She'll come, I'm sure."

"I'm not sure. You see I--I'd left her."

Miss Henderson's professional conscience had to fight hard with a
natural instinct to ask questions; but natural instinct was accustomed
to defeat, and she said in her usual voice of calm authority:

"Later on you can tell me anything you wish, but at present I want you
to keep perfectly quiet while I go to the 'phone. I shan't be long, and
I'll put the matter very strongly. You may be quite sure Mrs. Dexter
will come."

She went off at once to the telephone in her office, looking in at the
men's ward to send Kent to sit with him while she was away. On her
return in about twenty minutes' time she was a good deal annoyed to find
him pouring out his story into the nurse's pricked-up ears.

"You see it's all coming back to me bit by bit as if it was something I
was reading--oh, Matron, will she come?"

"Yes, she'll come. You can go back to the ward now, Kent."


                                  III

It was not till she actually heard Mrs. Dexter's voice on the 'phone
that Miss Henderson's mind really assented to the idea that the young
man had been talking rationally. She had half expected to find that no
such number as Bethersden 972 existed and when she had at last found
herself put through to it she had been fully prepared for her
communication to be met with surprise and denial. Surprise she certainly
detected in the voice at the other end of the line. Mrs. Dexter had been
surprised to hear that her husband was in Mockford Cottage Hospital; she
had thought him, she said, on his way to South Africa--he had left a
fortnight ago. But she seemed perfectly to understand his plea for
forgiveness, and promised to come to him immediately.

Actually she did not arrive till the next morning. She could not have
reached the hospital before midnight, and the doctor absolutely refused
to have his patient awake and excited at that hour, to say nothing of
the rules of the establishment, every one of which would apparently be
broken by such a visit. So Simon Dexter was given a sleeping
tablet--till then unnecessary, for he had slept as he had eaten,
remarkably well--and probably would not wake up till an hour or two
before his wife's arrival.

The little nurse Kent could have done with a sleeping tablet too, for
she was far too excited to sleep till nearly three in the morning.
Rogers was on night duty, so it was just as well that excitement should
keep her awake. Miss Henderson slept the sleep of the just and the
self-disciplined.

Until he was given his sedative and settled for the night Dexter had
continued to remember, and as he remembered, to pour out his memories to
anyone who would listen. It was his excitement and volubility that made
the doctor anxious about him. Though memory had returned he was very far
from normal--in fact there seemed something as psychopathic about his
remembering as about his forgetting.

Memory seemed, too, distressingly bound up with regret. He had loved his
wife, he obviously still loved her, but he had left her, choosing the
occasion of her yearly visit to America for going away with a girl
called, he said, Mona Etheridge. She was quite young, much younger than
his wife, and had very fair hair like flax . . . he kept on repeating
that it was like flax, and describing her face--her little pointed chin
above her fur collar. The curious thing was that he seemed to remember
nothing about her but her face. He had not the slightest idea what had
become of her. She seemed to have completely vanished from his life and
from his memory. Moreover, his only sentiment towards her appeared to be
one of loathing. Presumably he had loved her or he would not have left
his wife and his home for her, and yet every time he mentioned her it
was with disgust and indignation. On the other hand, his feeling for his
wife seemed to be entirely made up of love and sorrow, both faintly
touched with the same indignation that coloured his attitude to the
girl.

In fact his case still presented a number of unsolved problems. Dr.
Faulkener was as puzzled by him as ever. How was it that the owner of a
big place like Lindridge Court could have slipped away even in his
wife's absence without the slightest effort being made to trace him?
What had happened to Mona Etheridge, and why had his memory failed him
almost completely in respect of her? Why had she apparently lost all
interest in him? The doctor hoped that Mrs. Dexter would be able to
answer some of these questions when she came. Meanwhile he was another
of those who could have done with some barbituric medicine.

Dexter, to everybody's relief, seemed a little calmer when he awoke; but
for the first time since his coming he could eat no breakfast. Both the
doctor and the Matron hoped that Mrs. Dexter would not delay her
arrival.

She did not, and it had been arranged that she should be shown first of
all into the Matron's office. Miss Henderson already knew her as a
voice--an English voice, in spite of her mother's American home. In
person she was small, elegant, and self-possessed, looking a good deal
older than her photograph. She was certainly several years older than
her husband, which might explain his infatuation for the flaxen-haired
Mona Etheridge. She seemed tired and distressed, but her expression was
that of a woman whom much unhappiness has built up rather than beaten
down; her smile was remarkably sweet, and Miss Henderson did not think
it necessary to warn her to deal tenderly with the patient, though she
prepared her in some degree for what she would find.

"He's very much better now--in fact, very well indeed as far as his
bodily health goes--but mentally he's still not quite himself. We shall
have to guard against all excitement and keep him very quiet for some
time to come."

"I'm exceedingly grateful to you for all you've done for him. I suppose
you've no idea whatever how he came to be in these parts."

"None whatever. He simply walked up one morning to our village policeman
and said that he'd lost his memory, and until yesterday he couldn't
remember a thing--didn't know who he was, where he lived, what relations
he had or anything. Then yesterday he caught sight of your photograph in
an old number of the _Tatler_. . . ."

"I've been in the United States till a fortnight ago, and he had to
leave for South Africa just before I got back, so I'd no reason to
suppose everything wasn't all right. I hadn't even begun to expect to
hear from him."

So she wanted things covered up. She did not know that her husband had
been babbling to everybody. Matron hoped that she would never know.

"But," Mrs. Dexter continued suddenly, "how is it that you couldn't find
out who he was? Hadn't he any papers or letters on him? And his clothes
. . . they were all marked."

"He had nothing at all that we could identify him by. All we found was a
letter D on his shirt-collar. His suit was ready made too, so we
couldn't trace him through the tailor. Please believe that we made every
effort."

"Of course I believe it. But I really am extremely surprised. It looks
as if there must have been some foul play somewhere. I simply can't
imagine my husband wearing ready-made clothes, and everything he had was
marked."

"No doubt in time he'll be able to tell us what happened. But at present
he can't remember anything that happened _after_ his leaving home. It's
quite usual in a case like this for later events to be forgotten while
earlier ones are remembered. As he recovers he'll remember more and
more, but I don't think we ought to press him in any way."

"No, I'll be very careful what I say to him."

"I expect you'd like to go in and see him now."

"Will it be all right for me to go now?"

"Perfectly. He's expecting you."

As she led the way to the private ward she could not help wondering just
how much real happiness lay ahead of these two. Did his wife really want
him back? There was a curious air of reluctance about her now, just as
she had seemed to hear reluctance in her voice when she spoke on the
telephone. Perhaps she had been relieved to come home and find him gone.
Perhaps she had come to him now only out of pity. And perhaps when he
remembered everything--why he had left her as well as the mere fact of
his having done so--he might no longer wish to return. She had a growing
feeling of anxiety for them both as she opened the door.

"Mr. Dexter--Mrs. Dexter is here."

"Oh, please may she come in?"

She stood aside for the wife to go into the room. She herself would not
go in, though she had a glimpse of him sitting up in bed and stretching
out his arms to the woman as she entered. She heard him cry out
"Evelyn!" in a new voice, then she shut the door and walked resolutely
away.

Dr. Faulkener came out of the men's ward. It had been arranged that he
should be at hand while Mrs. Dexter was with her husband.

"All right?" he queried.

"For the present."

"Best leave them together for a quarter of an hour. Then I'll go in and
see how he's taking it and introduce myself."

He walked with her to the office and lit a cigarette.

"Queer game altogether. I wonder why he went off like that. It looks as
if it's his conscience that's done all this to him."

"Yes. But there's a lot more that we don't know. She says that when he
left her, all his clothes were marked."

"Um--that's queer."

"And that he's not the sort of man who would wear ready-made clothes,
anyhow."

"I wonder what sort he is."

"It's very hard to tell with only half of him there, so to speak."

"He'll probably remember the rest in time, though whether he'll tell us
or not is another matter."

"Doctor, he'd tell anything. By the way, she doesn't know we know--about
his leaving her, I mean."

"Naturally I shan't refer to it."

"I wonder where that girl is--the blonde. . . . Come in." There had been
a knock at the door.

Mrs. Dexter came in. She looked deadly pale and sank into a chair.

"Has anything happened? Are you ill?"

The doctor went up to her.

"Is he all right?"

"Yes, yes--he's all right. But he's--that man's not my husband."


                                   IV

For a moment the doctor and the Matron were speechless. Then Miss
Henderson went to her cupboard and poured out for Mrs. Dexter a dose of
sal volatile.

"Keep quiet for a few moments and then tell us about it," said Dr.
Faulkener.

The little woman recovered herself very quickly. She drank the sal
volatile and wiped a few tears from her eyes.

"I can't understand it at all . . . Something very queer must have
happened. You see, he's not my husband--_but he thinks he is_."

"You mean that he appeared to recognize you?"

"Yes, yes--and he seems to know me and everything that's happened."

"And have you no idea at all who he is?"

"Not the slightest . . . except that I think I have seen him before,
somewhere--I can't remember where."

Dr. Faulkener stood tugging at his moustache.

"You don't think that he could have been pretending?" asked the Matron.

"Not consciously--I'm sure of it. And why should he pretend? No, he
seemed genuinely excited and delighted and sorry all at once--he simply
couldn't have been acting a part."

"And what about him now?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, he still thinks I'm his wife. I thought that if I denied it there
and then it might bring on a relapse. You see, I'm quite sure he isn't
pretending. But I made an excuse to get out of the room--I said I'd
promised to stay only three minutes, and it was awkward . . . I--I
didn't know what to do. . . ."

She suddenly began to cry. Both the doctor and the Matron felt more
sorry for her than they could say.

"You've behaved very kindly and generously," said Dr. Faulkener, "and I
can only tell you how deeply I regret that you should have been brought
all this way for nothing. But we believed his story to be genuine."

"Of course you did, you couldn't have acted differently. I simply can't
understand how he's become possessed of his idea, and how it is he knows
so much about me--private things that I thought nobody knew."

She covered her face with her hands, and for a moment they were all
three silent. Then she suddenly looked up.

"I want to be frank with you, for I know you won't let what I say go
further than this room. My husband has gone to South Africa with another
woman. When I got home from the States I found a letter telling me
this--telling me that he'd gone and that he wasn't coming back. I said
nothing about it to anyone. My friends all think that he's gone on
business. So how can this man know? And he knows the girl he's gone
with, too--a girl I used to think a friend of mine. He mentioned her
name. . . ."

"Are you quite sure you can't remember who he is?"

"At the moment I can't. But I feel I've seen his face before--or
somebody like him. It's all a mystery."

"One of the biggest mysteries I've known," said Dr. Faulkener. He began
to walk agitatedly up and down the room, for he was beginning to see the
effects and repercussions of this affair in their medical aspect. What
was he to say to the young man? How was he to break the news to him that
his newly recovered identity was only a delusion? What would be the
effects of such a revelation?--probably a relapse into amnesia or a
complete mental breakdown.

"If you could possibly remember who he is it would be the greatest help
to us--and to him."

"I'm doing my best. But it's so difficult. You see I--I don't know where
to look for him. All I know is that he's no one I've seen lately.
Perhaps his name may come to me."

"If it does you'll let us know?" said Miss Henderson, conscious even
while she was speaking that she had made an idiotic remark. But as she
had only a minute before just stopped herself saying: "Are you quite
sure he isn't your husband?" she took comfort from the thought that the
situation was one on which it was almost impossible to comment
rationally, and that she might easily have said something much worse.

"I wonder if you would be so very kind as to wait here while I go to
have a look at him," said the doctor.

"Certainly. I'll wait as long as you like, and if there's anything I can
do to help. . . ."

"You're very good," he muttered as he went out of the room.

He found his patient calmer than he had expected, and for a moment he
too wondered if he could possibly be acting a part. But if he were the
deception was so useless and motiveless that it could only be regarded
as another proof of abnormality. His manner when he spoke was convincing
enough.

"When am I to see her again, doctor?"

"All in good time. I don't want you to be excited at all."

"I'm not excited. Not now I know that things are all right. But she
looked tired--she ought to go and rest after her journey. I was
horrified to see how tired she looked--and older somehow, though it's
only three months since I saw her. I feel as if I could kick myself from
here to John o' Groats."

"I certainly agree that she ought to have a rest. I'll try to persuade
her to lie down and have a good sleep. And I think you ought to do the
same."

"But mayn't I see her just for a minute first? She stayed such a short
time--and it wasn't as if she were a stranger."

Dr. Faulkener scarcely knew what to say. He mumbled something like "I'll
go and see what we can manage," and left the room, feeling that not only
had he involved himself in the deception, but that he had taken it a
stage further.

"You see," he said to Evelyn Dexter, "I simply can't at the moment tell
him bluntly that you deny he's your husband. For one thing, I doubt how
his mind would take the shock, for another he wouldn't believe me. His
enlightenment ought to come from you, and it ought to come gradually."

"If I could only put a name to him--the sound of his own name might do
the trick."

"It might, and in time you ought to remember it."

"That's what we want--time."

She was silent a moment, and then she suddenly said what the doctor had
hoped she might.

"Look here, I said I'd do what I could to help. Would it help at all if
I stopped on here for a day or two and saw a good deal more of him?"

"It would help very much--immensely; if you feel equal to such an
undertaking."

"Yes, why shouldn't I? I understand that the Matron has booked a room
for me at the inn, and I came prepared to stay. I feel that if I had a
long talk with him I would at least find out exactly how much and how
little he knows about me, and I might get some clue as to who he is.
Besides, if I do that he's sure to find out that he doesn't know me as
well as he thinks, and in time I can let him down gently. . . ."

"I am exceedingly grateful to you. That is just what I'd like. He'll
have to know all about things some day, and some day soon. But what I
want to avoid in his present state is shock; later on it might be good
for him, but not now. If you can only keep up the deception--if it
doesn't hurt you too much. . . ."

"It's sure to hurt," she said quietly, "but it'll be interesting too.
And I think I'm quite good at pretending. This won't be the first time
I've had to pretend."

It struck the doctor then, as it had struck the Matron earlier, that she
was not altogether sorry that it was not her husband she had found at
Mockford.

"I've told him that you need a rest, and I'm sure you do. But he's very
anxious for another glimpse of you before you leave."

"I'll go in just for one minute. Then I'll have plenty of time to think
out a plan before I come again."

"By the way, he thinks you've aged since he saw you last. That all
points to your having known him some time ago."

"Yes, I'm sure it must have been a long time ago. He's no one I've seen
recently." She stood up. "I think I'd like to go to my room. You're
quite right--I really do need a rest."

"I'll run you round to the _Feathers_ in my car, and then call for you
latish in the afternoon. It would be as well, I think, for no one to
know at present why you're here. Matron, make sure that your nurses
don't talk."

"The only one who talks here," said Matron, "is the patient."


                                   V

Evelyn Dexter had spent the last few years in a hard school, in which
she had learned to take command of herself in more than one difficult
situation. It was true that she had never met or imagined a situation
quite like this, but on the other hand it was not as painful as many she
had lived through. Her feelings were not really engaged, beyond a
general emotion of pity and interest. She neither loved nor hated the
poor young man whose life had become so mysteriously involved with her
own, so that he had no real power to make her suffer. But she felt under
an obligation to find out who he was, and so set him on his way back to
health and normal existence, because--strange, even ridiculous as it
might seem--she must be in some way responsible for his condition.

She came back to the hospital at four o'clock and had tea with him. Then
she sat by his bedside and talked==or rather let him talk--for more than
an hour. One thing she specially noticed was that though he often spoke
tenderly--called her darling, lovely, sweetheart, all the rest--he never
attempted so much as to take her hand; he did not even ask for a kiss.
Having no memories of physical intimacy to fall back on, that side of
his impersonation was bound to fail--though if he had been deliberately
acting a part he would certainly not have left out such an important
aspect of it. As things were he did not seem to notice any deficiency.
His confidence in his assumed personality seemed absolute, and she had
to confess that it was in many ways extraordinarily convincing. His very
talkativeness was Simon Dexter's, and he had besides a number of his
mannerisms, tastes and expressions. He asked her if she could not manage
to get him some Macedonia cigarettes. Simon had had a fancy for these
ever since he had served on the Italian front during the war.

"It's a perverse taste, but I owe it to a perverse time. Couldn't you
'phone Martin's, darling, and get some sent down by passenger train?
Would it be such a monstrous bother?"

That might have been Simon speaking.

On the other hand there was a great deal which he did not get right.
Simon's own private name for her had been Pusswoman, and he never once
used it. Also Simon had lately developed an unpleasant habit of
anatomical swearing, which he completely ignored. Nor did he seem really
familiar with Lindridge Court, though he must have visited it. Every now
and then she mentioned a name which he failed to recognize or started a
trail which he did not follow. He was quite unperturbed by these
incidents, seeming either not to notice them or if he did to put them
down to his own imperfect recovery.

"In time I'll remember everything," he assured her lightly.

"Even who you are," she longed to say.

Then suddenly he said something that moved her inexpressibly.

"Oh, Evelyn . . . oh, my dear! It's wonderful to be starting again with
you like this. We're going back, right back to the beginning--to the
days of Yeaman's Hall."

"Yeaman's Hall?"

She was astonished--she had not expected him to know anything of her
American stepfather's home.

"Yes. Don't you remember that evening down by Goose Creek?"

"Which evening?"

"The evening I proposed. Don't tell me you've forgotten it."

"No--no, of course I haven't."

Her hands began to shake, and she thrust them into her pockets.

"I'll never forget it, anyway--down on the edge of the swamp, with the
pines dark against the red sky, and a red light on little Goose Creek,
and you and I in the tall grasses . . . and a train wailing far away at
the level crossing, just as I took you in my arms."

His manner suddenly changed and became agitated. He had flung out his
arms as he spoke, and now he seemed to realize that they were empty.

"Evelyn, promise me. . . ."

"What?"

"That you'll--oh, no, I shall never forget that red water--the Creek
looked horrible as the darkness came, and I--and I--Evelyn . . . I feel
so lonely."

He stretched out his hand to her, and she took it, patting it
soothingly.

"There, there, everything's all right. Don't think of that time if it
disturbs you. Let's talk of something else."

Her own thoughts were confused and agitated. How was it that he knew
about that evening by Goose Creek?--how could he possibly know how Simon
had proposed to her? It was all a mystery--there now seemed something
occult and sinister in his knowledge. Yeaman's Hall--that evening down
by the Creek. . . . She remembered how the train had wailed in the
distance; even in Simon's arms there had been something chilling and
ominous in that cry.

She forced herself for a few minutes to talk of insignificant
things--her room at the _Feathers_, the strange cooking of British inns,
the nurses at the hospital--things which could bring about no clash in
their minds. Then she said that she must leave him. Both the Matron and
the doctor had made her promise not to stay more than two hours. He must
not tire himself with talking--even to her.

He was reluctant to let her go. She thought he seemed less happy and
easy than he had been in the morning. Evidently his memory of that
evening at Goose Creek--if it was a memory--was not as happy as Simon's
ought to have been. Perhaps something of his own personality was
beginning to force its way through the other that had overlaid it. If
only he would give her some real clue as to who he was. But so many
people had come to Yeaman's Hall that even his knowledge of it did not
really help her.

"My impression is," she said to Dr. Faulkener, "that he knows my husband
much better than he knows me. He knows him well enough to give a very
creditable imitation of him--he's even asked for his favourite
cigarettes. And yet there's a lot missing. My idea is that he knew us
both some time ago--he may have been a friend of Simon's before we
married and not have seen me more than once or twice. But he's been to
my mother's home in South Carolina. That's certain; but it doesn't help
me much. So many people come there."

"It might give you a clue as to the time you met him. How long did you
live there before you married?"

"Two or three years and I've been back there almost every year since. My
mother and my step-father are both very hospitable, and there have
always been a great many English among their visitors."

"This young man is certainly English."

"Oh, certainly. I think he must have been a friend of my husband's and
they may have visited us together, which would explain why I don't
remember him. . . . I might be able to trace him through my husband. . . ."

She looked distressed.

"That mayn't be necessary. Another conversation may give you a clue.
After all, this talk hasn't been entirely wasted."

"No, I suppose not. But the whole thing seems to me absolutely
preposterous."

"It's certainly mysterious--first lost identity, then false identity.
I've never heard of a case like it. If it doesn't resolve itself, I
shall have to call in another opinion. Meanwhile, take my advice and
don't look at it too much from the outside--don't keep on reminding
yourself how extraordinary it is; just treat it as if it was something
usual, a common form of illness. That is, of course, if you feel you can
go on helping us."

"Oh yes, I'll go on. Until I know definitely I can be no use."


                                   VI

After all, the clue--the discovery which led to the lightening if not to
the actual clearing up of the mystery--was provided not by her, but by
the little Nurse Kent. She came in that night to report to Matron before
going off duty.

"Mr. Dexter's just dropped off to sleep. He was a bit late getting
off--he seemed excited, so I let him have just half a dose as Doctor
said."

"He shouldn't have been excited. Have you any idea what excited him?"

"Oh, nothing except seeing Mrs. Dexter, I suppose. She was with him
rather a long time in the afternoon--or it may have been writing his
letter."

"Did he write a letter?"

"Yes, I'd have asked you about it, only you'd just gone out, and I
thought it wouldn't do him any harm--just a short note."

"You should have written it for him."

"He wouldn't let me. He was particularly anxious to write it himself."

"Where is it now?"

"I put it with the others, to go to the post."

"Good heavens, Kent! How could you do such a thing? The letter might
provide. . . ." She remembered just in time that Kent knew nothing of
the fresh twist the problem had taken. "It's the first letter he's
written since his illness. Mrs. Dexter ought to have been told about it
before it was posted."

"It hasn't been posted. He was too late for that, but I promised him it
should go to-morrow."

"So it shall--when Mrs. Dexter's seen it. Will you bring it here at
once."

Kent brought it--written on a piece of her own notepaper, and addressed
in a sprawling, vigorous hand to:

                     _Charles Ellison Deans, Esq.,
                          Lattenhazn Rectory,
                                 Kent_

Matron slipped it into a drawer of her writing-desk, and the next
morning showed it to Evelyn Dexter as soon as she arrived.

"Have you any idea who that is?"

Mrs. Dexter stared at the envelope.

"It's my husband's handwriting--or perhaps I should say a very good
imitation of it."

"Is it indeed? Well, I need hardly tell you that our patient wrote it.
But the name and address--do they help at all?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know. Charles Ellison Deans . . . Lattenham Rectory . . .
Charlie Deans . . . wait, though, I _do_ remember a Charlie Deans living
not so very far from us at Bethersden."

"I think we shall have to open the letter."

"Wait a moment while I try to remember. It's all coming back to me. Poor
little Charlie Deans. . . . Good heavens, Matron! I believe that's who
he is!"

"He--himself?"

"Yes--I'm nearly sure he's Charlie Deans, a boy my husband used to know
in the old days. I'm getting it now. Simon used to know him before we
were married. He lived only a few miles from Bethersden, and he belonged
to a cricket team my husband used to take about the country. Simon was
very fond of him and took him on a trip to America, and brought him once
or twice, I think, to Yeaman's Hall. That accounts. . . . Oh, yes, I
remember him--rather a pale, moony youth, with very little to say for
himself. We saw hardly anything of him after we were married and came
back to Bethersden. I remember Simon used to complain of his deserting
us. Then soon afterwards his father died, and the whole family left
Lattenham. He was very young then, of course--not more than twenty."

"Well, now we ought to be able to trace him, anyway. I shall have to
give this letter to the police."

"Must you bring them into it?"

"They're in it already. Mr. Dexter--Mr. Deans--whoever he is--went to
them in the first place. Besides, I don't see how we're to set about
finding his relations without the police."

"No, I suppose they'll have to be told."

"And I shall open the letter," said Matron.

"Oh. . . ." She knew that the scruple was absurd, but she felt it all
the same.

"It isn't as if it was an ordinary letter written by a patient. He
didn't write it as himself, so to speak; and it may give us some
information."

She tore the envelope and drew out two closely written sheets.

"Perhaps you had better read it first, Mrs. Dexter. It seems to be
mainly about you."

Evelyn Dexter took it from her with a queer reluctance. It was silly to
make all this fuss about a letter written by a man who did not know who
he was or whom he was writing to. But her reluctance was not dispelled
as she began to read, for she had not gone far before she discerned
under the palimpsest, as it were, of Simon Dexter a secret which was no
less a secret because it now must be betrayed.


"Dear Boy," the letter began, in a hand that was as good an imitation of
Simon Dexter's as the writing on the envelope. "I'm writing this from
the Mockford Cottage Hospital where I've been for over a week. I can't
remember how I came here, for I've been suffering from loss of memory
and have forgotten everything that happened immediately before the
accident or whatever it was that started the trouble. But I'm getting
things back bit by bit, and Evelyn is with me. All's well now between
her and me, so you needn't worry any more about us. I'm going to devote
the rest of my life to her happiness, to try to atone to her for all
I've done in the past to make her miserable. I want you to know this.
Mona is gone for ever, I don't know what's become of her and I don't
care. I know you will be happy to hear this, for all you want is Evelyn
to be happy with me, since she could never have been happy with you.

"Dear boy, that was a vain hope. She could never have loved you, so I
did not really take her from you, though I own at one time it seemed
like it. I knew that I had the power to make her happy, and I know still
that I have that power. So don't be unhappy about her any more, or think
I'm unworthy of her. You will find your happiness again in thinking of
hers.

"It's funny, but I never thought of you until this evening. We were
talking about Yeaman's Hall, and that evening when you saw us down by
the river. I suddenly felt worried about you, for I knew that your
unhappiness had started at that very hour. I knew you had been glad to
leave Lattenham, for you couldn't bear to see us together--not because
you were envious, but because you thought I was making her unhappy. You
were disappointed in me--I wasn't what you thought me. I had taken your
girl and then I didn't seem to value her properly. So I'm writing this
to say that all now is well. We shall now always be happy together, and
what is more I hope that you and I will be friends again as we used to
be. Let me know where you are. I want to see you. I'm sending this
letter to Lattenham, as I expect the new people at the Rectory will know
where to find you. Let me have your address, and we can meet in town. I
expect you would like to join the cricket team again. Everything shall
be as it was before.

                                               "Your friend,
                                                   "SIMON DEXTER."


Evelyn handed back the letter to Miss Henderson.

"It's queer," she said. "It's Simon's handwriting, but it's not at all
the sort of letter he'd ever write to anyone."

Matron read it slowly and then put it down.

"What an extraordinary. . . . I suppose you can understand it better
than I can. . . . I certainly think the doctor ought to see it."

"Is he coming soon?"

"Yes, he ought to be here any time now. . . . Dear me, I'm afraid it's
upset you."

"It has. I'd no idea he cared for me like that--not the slightest idea.
Why, even now I can scarcely remember him."

"It may all be part of his delusion."

But Evelyn did not think so.

"There are a great many things," she said, "that I can't understand. I
could swear that he'd never so much as seen that woman--Mona Etheridge.
How is it that he knows anything about her? Some of the things he says
explain certain things that baffled me yesterday. But I'm still quite
bewildered."

"It's extraordinary how he keeps it up. Is all that writing exactly the
same as your husband's?"

"It's a very good imitation, anyway. Of course I've no idea what his own
was like."

"Well, we'll show it to the doctor before we do anything about the
police. I think I hear his car now--yes, there he is at the door."


                                  VII

Dr. Faulkener was a younger, more enterprising practitioner than is
usually found in a small country town. He had come to Mockford frankly
because he could not find a job anywhere else--times were bad and
doctors only too plentiful. For the last few years he had felt himself
sinking gradually below the horizon of his hospital achievement. Common
ailments varied by a few motor accidents, panel patients crowding his
consulting hours with symptoms that gave them hopes of diseases new to
medical experience, but which were all too monotonously familiar to his,
the constant prescribing of the usual drugs and liniments, all these
were bringing him dangerously near to a groove, to a routine; more than
once he had felt himself becoming the typical small town
medico--thoroughly capable and experienced on certain narrow lines, but
limited and unprogressive--over-worked, under-paid, tied to a petty
social wheel.

A case like this one in the private ward, a case in which the body was
not involved save through the mind, and which for its treatment must
depend on all the newest resources of a new science, was a real
stimulation and revival of his dulling medical ambitions. There had been
a time when he had eagerly read the works of Jung, Freud, Rivers, Adler,
Havelock Ellis and other pioneers, but of late he had not had time for
reading, even if occasionally he might think that the more obstinate
ailments of some of his patients could find a cure on such lines. He had
not time to look for remedies outside the British pharmacopoeia. But now
he was forced to look for them, and the experience had done him good.
The pioneers of the new science had come down from the shelf, from the
neglected medical library, and it was in the light of their knowledge
that he read Charlie Deans's letter to Charlie Deans.

"Well, what do you think of it, Doctor?" asked the Matron. "Of course
this letter will be a great help to the police, but does it help us
here?"

"It gives us at least a suggestion of the cause of all this."

"You mean his--feeling for me?" said Evelyn Dexter.

"Yes. In one way this letter is an obvious effort to reassure
himself--his real self, Charlie Deans--that you are happy, that he need
now no longer torment himself on that score. But that isn't quite all.
It seems to me that he's trying to satisfy himself on another point.
There's the last few lines, asking for his address and suggesting a
meeting. He evidently wants his real self--Charlie Deans--to be on
friendly terms again with your husband. 'Everything shall be as it was
before.' The real purpose of the letter lies there, I think."

"Then you believe that, deep down, underneath, he knows who he really
is?"

"He must know--subconsciously. But he has assumed this other personality
because he thinks it will do certain things for him which he can't do
for himself. And up to a point, he's right. He's your husband, you're
happy again, and at the same time he and Simon Dexter are on their old
terms of friendship. The only drawback which he won't allow to trouble
him is, of course, that the whole thing's a fantasy and has no real
existence."

"But what are we to do about it? Is it likely to be a permanent state of
affairs?"

"Oh, no, I think not. These fugues, as they are called, are only
temporary."

"Then it's a thing that's happened before?"

"Yes, I've read of several cases--though never of one quite like this.
The secondary personality is always assumed for a definite purpose, and
this letter has given me a clue to the purpose in his case."

"But were still as far as ever from curing him--from bringing him back
to his real self."

"Not as far as ever. A knowledge of the cause is the first step towards
a cure."

"But how shall we go to work?--and if we should succeed in helping him
find out that he isn't Simon Dexter, won't it just be putting him back
into all his old misery? In that case the whole thing will simply start
over again."

"Not necessarily. He probably had a shock of some kind that brought on a
crisis. He didn't just drift into the condition we found him in. Also
there is such a thing as psychological treatment. There are doctors who
will undertake to rebuild his mind just as others rebuild the body. We
shall have to put that before his relations."

"I suppose," said the Matron, "that the police will find it quite easy
to trace his relations now they've got something to go on."

"Oh, it shouldn't be difficult now, I should think. Do you happen to
know, Mrs. Dexter, what sort of people he had?"

"I remember an elderly father, who died just before they left Lattenham;
I believe the mother had been dead some years. But there was a sister, I
think--I'm nearly sure there was a sister."

"It's odd she shouldn't have inquired after him," said the Matron--"made
some effort to trace him after he disappeared. It doesn't look as if she
could be very fond of him."

"I expect he'd been on his own for a number of years--ever since they
left Lattenham, which must have been at least six or seven years ago.
Perhaps when he sees her, doctor, he may remember who he really is."

"I'm sorry for him," said the Matron. "Poor young man, I expect he's had
a lot of struggle and trouble in his life."

"More trouble than his mind would stand, anyway."

"And we're sending him back to it all again," said Evelyn.

"Not necessarily, as I've said before. What we must help him do is to
face life as it is and make the best of it instead of running away from
it and pretending that it's what he would like it to be. He certainly
ought to have some constructive treatment when he comes out of this."

"And meanwhile, till his relations arrive, am I to carry on as before?"

"Not if it's painful to you. You've been the greatest possible help to
us, but we've no right to detain you any longer. You can easily make an
excuse to go home for a few days. . . . Say there's something you must
see to."

"And then not come back again."

"In a few days, I hope, we shall have found somebody belonging to him."

"I'll stay till they come," said Evelyn firmly. "I'd feel a skunk if I
left him like that and never came back; and I may still be able to help
a little."

"You're very kind and generous. After all, he has no claim on you."

"I wouldn't say that. You see, none of this would have happened but for
me. Even though I'm not to blame, I feel responsible--and I'd like to
see it through. Besides, there are some things I really want to know. My
impression is that he's seen Simon since I have. Otherwise, how does he
know he's left me? And how does he know anything about that girl he's
gone with? I wonder. . . . Tell me, is it likely to do him any harm if I
question him more closely than I've done up till now? I mean, hitherto,
I've rather slid over the gaps in his story, feeling that it might upset
him if I tried to probe them. But now, don't you think I might be a
little more--more ruthless?"

"I think you might. There's no harm in making him look closely at his
invention and see the weak spots. . . . Not that I suppose he'll
acknowledge the weakness. His subconscious mind will find some
explanation."

"Then how will he ever come out of it all?"

"Quite honestly, Mrs. Dexter, I don't know. Time and treatment may do
something for him, but as I've never had a case like this in my
experience I've no idea exactly how he'll wake up, though I believe he's
bound to do so before long."

Miss Henderson found herself toying with the idea of Charlie Deans
living happily ever afterwards as Simon Dexter; but even the sentimental
mist that had momentarily risen to cloud her faculties could not quite
disguise the breakers on the coast of fairyland.


                                  VIII

As Evelyn entered the ward she was at once reminded of the all-important
failure in Charlie Deans's impersonation.

"Evelyn, dear, Evelyn. I'm so glad you've, come."

He raised her hand and kissed it tenderly and respectfully.

It was not in such a way that Simon would have greeted her. This was a
boy's love--distant, delicate, a part of imagination and dream. He was
carrying on his boyish dream of her as he had dreamed it at Yeaman's
Hall. She did not think that his thoughts had ever come very close, that
they had even attempted what Simon had seized.

"Well, how are you feeling?" she asked lightly. "What have you been
doing since I saw you?"

"Oh, eating and sleeping mostly, like the hog I am. But I've written to
Charlie."

"Charlie who?"

"Charlie Deans. Talking to you yesterday about Yeaman's Hall made me
think of him, and I'd like to see him again."

"Why?"

"Because I want to make things up to him. Evelyn, you know I treated him
badly."

"In what way?"

"Well, he was in love with you for one thing. He told me so, and I
laughed at him. I told him I wanted you for myself; and I took you from
him--under his very nose."

"How under his nose?"

"Well he was there when I proposed to you. He'd come down to the creek
for a bit of fishing, and he saw us together--he saw me take you in my
arms . . . just as the train went by, wailing like that. . . ."

"How do you know he saw us?"

"He was behind a bush. I don't mean he was hiding, but he'd gone under
one of those big bushes for the shade; he could see us quite plainly."

"But did you see him? You gave me no idea of it."

She watched him check, as it were, and stumble. He looked anxious,
distressed, and immediately began to shuffle away from what he had said.

"Of course I didn't see him till afterwards, or I wouldn't have done it.
He can't blame me for that. Nor can he blame me for loving you. Tell me,
Evelyn, when do you think we shall be able to go home?"

"To Bethersden?"

"Yes. I want to get back and see all the apples ripe. You remember how
lovely the orchards used to be between Lattenham and Lenham. And I'd
like some cricket, too. It's ridiculous my stopping on here now I'm
quite well."

"You'd better ask Dr. Faulkener about that."

"I shall. This very day. I've missed two good cricket months, and I'm
terribly out of practice."

She was determined to bring the conversation back to Charlie Deans.

"It's some years since you had the team, you know. I expect you'll find
your old players scattered a bit. Have you any idea where Charlie is
now?"

"Oh, I can easily find him. The people at the Rectory will know where he
is and send my letter on. I particularly want him to play cricket
again."

"Do you think he'll want to? Perhaps after what happened he'd rather not
see you."

"But nothing's happened--nothing's happened. What makes you think that?"

He was becoming agitated, and her instinct was all for drawing back and
soothing him with some quiet, non-committal conversation. But his very
agitation seemed to show her that she was near some tender spot, some
weak point in his defence, which must be broken through if he was to be
restored to life and reality.

"Well, you yourself have just told me that he was upset by your
marriage. . . ."

"Yes, yes; but that's all over now. Now he knows that we're happy
together again."

"Does he know that?"

"He will when he gets my letter. When he knows we're happy together
he'll be friends with me again. He hated me only because he thought I
was making you unhappy. And when he finds out that I haven't really left
you--that I've come back. . . ."

"It has never struck him, I suppose, that I could be happy without you?"

He looked startled.

"But you aren't without me. I've come back, and everything's going to be
as it was before."

She nerved herself for yet another thrust against his dinted armour.

"But what about Mona Etheridge?"

He suddenly flushed with anger.

"Her!--that woman! I pray God I never see her again."

"But have you no idea what's become of her?"

"None--and I don't want to know."

"But something must have happened," she said cruelly, "to make you feel
like that. When I last saw you, before I went to America, you were madly
in love with her."

"Was I then?"

"Yes, of course you were. Don't you remember that time I was ill?"

He was staring at her now like a frightened, bewildered child. She felt
a brute to be forcing her questions, and yet the very fact that he had
no real slickness of self-defence made her see the urgency of
no-surrender.

"Listen to me," she said gently, leaning forward and speaking to the
prisoner within. "You've remembered things that belong to many years
ago, and one or two that belong to a few weeks ago. But before you're
quite well you'll have to remember what happened just before you got
ill."

"I don't want to remember. Why should I? Oh, do stop worrying me,
Evelyn. There's no need to remember, now you're happy again and I've
written to Charlie."

"But perhaps your remembering will help you find Charlie Deans?"

"How could it? The letter will do that. He'll come at once."

"There's just a possibility the letter may not reach him, since you've
sent it to an address that he's left so long. But I've a strong feeling,
my dear, that you've seen him quite recently--probably only a short time
before you became ill. Are you quite sure that you didn't meet him once
when you were with Mona Etheridge?"

She had said it. She had run her sword through the weak spot in Simon
Dexter's armour and pierced the quivering flesh of Charlie Deans. She
saw his face turn pale, become drawn, and he sighed as if he had felt
the wound.

"I saw him? . . . Did I?--yes, I did. He came up to me and said----"

"What did he say?"

A queer, obstinate, almost childish look came into his eyes.

"I don't remember."

"But, my dear, you must. It's absolutely essential if we're to find
Charlie."

"I don't know that I want to find him."

"Oh, but you do. You've written to him on purpose to bring him back."

"That was before . . . that was before I began to remember--before I
knew that I hate him."

"You hate him!"

"Yes, he's a cad and a swine. Oh, Evelyn, don't make me remember! Don't
let it come back!"

He leaned forward and seized both her hands. She could feel that he was
trembling, and she had again to steel herself, to remind herself that
this was the best, perhaps the only way of putting an end to a
preposterous situation. If she could not bring him back to himself he
would be left to the mercy of unsympathetic, half-estranged relations.
He must have lived cut off from them for years, and now when they came,
if she could not free him, they would find him bound hand and foot by a
dream. Though he meant nothing to her as a man--no more than the shy,
awkward, half-forgotten boy had meant at Yeaman's Hall--she felt his
claim upon her as a human being, a human being whose life had been
monstrously twisted up with hers.

"Listen, my dear," she said, "I want you to try to remember this, for my
sake as well as your own. Why do you hate him? What was it he said to
you?"

"It wasn't only what he said--it was the way he said it . . . sneering
. . . he spoke sneeringly of you--with that little beast standing beside
him."

"What little beast?"

"Mona Etheridge."

"But . . ."

"Yes, she stood there grinning the whole time--grinning and listening.
She was proud of having got him away from you."

"Oh. . . ."

"Yes, I can remember it all now--it's all coming back to me. It was the
day after I'd left the works and I'd walked as far as the pub at
Shellover when he and the girl came in."

"You mean Simon and Mona Etheridge?"

"Yes--I hadn't seen him for at least three years, and at first I was
pleased--I didn't know what to do with myself I was so pleased."

"Did you speak to him?"

"Of course I did, and then I saw something had happened--he was changed.
'Smatter of fact both he and the girl were a bit tight. When I asked
after you--as I naturally did--he told me straight out he'd left you,
and then he looked at me--oh God! . . ."

"Simon looked at you?"

"Yes--you'd think he was gloating. And the girl grinned. I tell you they
were both tight. He said they were going to South Africa and that now
was my chance to step into his shoes. . . ."

He stopped suddenly and a look of blank bewilderment came over his face.

"And what happened then?"

"I don't know . . . I seem to forget. He--I, that is--no, he . . . I
mean myself. . . . You see, I'm not quite clear. . . . Oh, Evelyn,
Evelyn, which is it?--who am I?"

He started up in bed and threw his arms round her.

"My sweet, you're mine--tell me that it's true that you're mine."

He held her, almost crushed her, so that she could feel his heart
beating--his lips were close to her face. Now at the very last he was
her lover . . . then suddenly his manner changed and seemed to dissolve
into a gesture of childish helplessness. His arms relaxed and his head
slid down to her breast. She felt her response to him sink from startled
excitement to almost motherly pity. Poor boy, poor child . . . she
lifted her hand to stroke his hair, when he seemed to change again. She
heard him gasp and felt his body shrink and withdraw. He slipped out of
her arms as suddenly as he had come into them.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled awkwardly. "I've been making rather an ass of
myself; but it's quite all right now."

She did not know what to say, for she was not sure whom she was speaking
to--Charlie Deans or Simon Dexter. He too was silent. He seemed to have
lost that fluidity of speech which had been so characteristically her
husband's. He sat looking at her with great moony eyes in which
embarrassment mixed with an ever-growing fear. She could have taken him
in her arms again, if she had not known how little it would comfort him.
He sat, looking at her, very red and confused. She saw that she had
become a stranger.

"I say," he faltered. "I really am sorry. But I'm not feeling well,
somehow. Do--do you think you could fetch somebody?"

"Yes, at once."

She went to the door, looking back at him as she opened it. He lay
slumped in the bed, awkward, almost oafish, all his energy and
brilliancy gone, changed for an ever-growing confusion.


                                   IX

It was not till very much later that she really understood what had
brought back Charlie Deans. At first she had thought it was the probing
of her words, finding him at last under his disguise; but after a time
she realized that he could have dodged that exposure just as he had
dodged others. His inner self, determined on making the world as he
would have it, would have found some way to evade her. But what he had
been unable to stand against had been the shock of holding her in his
arms. Then quite crudely, quite physically had been brought home to him
the fact that she was a stranger, that he had never in his life been
near her, never possessed her, never been her husband, never been Simon
Dexter. Even the hidden deceiver had been unable to resist such an
ultimate proof of remoteness.

She did not go near him again that day. Dr. Faulkener told her that he
had not even asked for her. The doctor had found his patient disturbed
and unhappy, but mentally clear, though, for the first time inclined to
reticence. He gave him a sedative and after a few hours' sleep he was
able to talk about himself more calmly, though still unwillingly. He
could now remember the events that had led to his collapse.

He had given up his job on the clerical staff of a big motor works, and
having saved a little money had decided to take a walking holiday before
settling down to work again. Then, at some country hotel where he had
stopped for a meal he had surprisingly fallen in with Dexter and the
girl Etheridge. The shock of his idol's perfidy had been too much for
him and a long period of amnesia had been followed by a desperate effort
of his unconscious mind to adjust things to his liking. His brief
performance as Simon Dexter now appeared to him as a dream, remembered
as a dream is remembered, in flashes and fragments, but with an
embarrassing sense of actuality that made him turn himself away from it
to the business of waking life.

Dr. Faulkener considered him cured in so far as his memory was
concerned. Physically he still needed rest and mentally he needed
rebuilding. The relations would see to that. Deans spoke of a sister
actually married to a doctor and living somewhere in the north near
Hexham. He had not seen her for a year and was not at all surprised that
she had never been aware of his disappearance, but he would certainly be
able to stay with her and her husband for a time, till he was fit to
work again.

To Evelyn Dexter the arrangement did not sound inspiring.

"Poor boy! She can't be very fond of him or she'd see him more often."

"If he's been working in the south, and she lives in the north. . . ."

"Even so, it's odd that he should go off like that and disappear from
his friends entirely for a fortnight without her knowing about it."

"She probably thought he was on holiday. Anyhow, I shouldn't think he
was the sort of man to make close ties with anyone--he's very shy and
awkward--quite different from what he was when he thought he was Simon
Dexter."

"Would it be a good thing if I had him to stay at Lindridge Court?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I don't think he'd come for a moment and I doubt if it would help him
much if he did. He seems to be acutely embarrassed by the little he
remembers of what happened. I think I'd let him get over it in new
surroundings."

"But I feel I've a debt--that I owe him something for what he's suffered
on my account and on Simon's. I wish I could do something that really
would help him."

"You've already done that--you've helped him recover his memory--or
rather his identity. I think you've fully paid him what you owe."

"If there's anything else I can do--of another sort--I don't know how
his relations stand . . . but I'm quite well off. I mean, if there has
to be any psychological treatment."

"Thank you," he said gravely. "I'll remember that if there's any
difficulty. He's evidently a dreamy, introverted type, and apart from
this thing that's happened a mental overhaul would do him all the good
in the world."

"Do you know what he feels about Simon?"

"I am trying to make him talk about him, but it isn't easy. The thing to
do is to make him face and accept the inevitable."

"Which is what we all find so difficult."

"Quite so; but mercifully we don't all try to get over the difficulty in
the same way as Charlie Deans."

"I should like to say good-bye to him before I go back."

"Oh yes, you shall certainly do that. Though you'll find him a little
self-conscious about you."


She did. He was painfully, if vaguely aware that he had made a fool of
himself where she was concerned, and was doing his best to redress the
balance.

"Good-bye," he said stiffly. "And please forgive me for having made an
ass of myself."

"You haven't at all. I've quite understood. And I want you to know--I
want you to think of me as perfectly happy."

"Oh yes, I certainly will."

"But you know what I mean? You mustn't think of me as lonely and
disappointed. I shall enjoy living my own life. And Simon must live his.
We'll both be happier that way."

"Oh yes, quite--I quite see."

Now I understand, she thought to herself, why I can scarcely remember
him at Yeaman's Hall. I wonder if he still thinks himself in love with
me. I somehow believe I've cured him of that too. If I have, it's the
only real good I've done him.

She wondered sadly what he would make of life, whether he would ever
find as much happiness in it as he had found in his dream. When, about
six months later, she heard from Dr. Faulkener that he had married the
little Nurse Kent her heart rejoiced, though her mind felt a shock that
was almost disillusion. Whatever treatment he had received must have
been successful in so far as it had certainly brought him to earth. But
he need not, she thought, have hit it with quite such a bump.



                                   II

                       _The Praises of Obscurity_

                                   I

The public knows the story of the painter Gauguin and how he overthrew
respectability, security and comfort, wife and children, all that is
worth most to most men, in order to serve art and win fame. Most people
probably feel that they ought to regard his conduct in this respect as
admirable, since their artistic conscience tells them that it is
admirable to love Art better than comfort and Fame better than
obscurity. But some of us may have thought a little of the opposite
adventure, and remember the young French poet who, having put the
literary world of his day at his feet, suddenly kicked it aside, married
and took to trade, deliberately working for his own oblivion.

Perhaps his story is not so rare as you imagine. Anyhow, I can give it a
parallel in modern English life. I know--or rather knew--an Englishman
of our world to-day who turned deliberately out of the path of certain
fame to seek and finally to win that gentle bride, Obscurity, whose
praises he sang as other men have sung the praises of her rowdy, blowzy
sister, Fame.

Do you remember Clement Bruce? You do not; but thirty years ago you
would have known him and all about him if you had any claim to
citizenship in the literary world. In those days we were all convinced
that time would only add breadth and security to his reputation. The
critics spoke of him as a Rising Star or a Coming Man, as they favoured
romanticism, or realism in their style; indeed, some had gone so far as
to say he had already Risen or Arrived. His work would stand, they said,
the test of time; no doubt he had not yet given us his best, but when he
had, that best would live with the best of other ages.

Bruce experimented in different styles. He was not one of those writers
who plod conscientiously up and down the same lane; he was over the
hills and far away with every book he wrote. Mainly a novelist, he had
passing encounters with poetry and the stage, and in his novels alone
there was a bewildering variety of style and subject as he moved from
the sordid to the romantic, from the realistic to the fantastic, from
cities to the soil. This variety, the fact that it was impossible to
associate him with any definite type of work and thus impress the public
imagination--which requires to be hit several times heavily in the same
place before it will notice a man--may have enabled him to carry out
successfully that which I am convinced was not the mere accident of
circumstance but his own deliberate plan. If he had really worn an
impression on the mind of the general public, thirty years would not
have been enough to rub it out. But he had failed to reach or rather to
impress the man in the street, and the man in the studio and the man on
the newspaper have notoriously short memories.

I knew Clement Bruce when he was at the height of his career--round
about 1900. He had by then written some half-dozen novels, a book of
verse and a couple of plays, which had been printed though never
performed. His first books had appealed only to a small circle, but with
every publication the circle had widened, and he had the distinction of
having his early work continue selling quietly long after the time when
by all the laws of fiction it ought to have been dead. All the leading
publishers were anxious to get hold of him, for everyone said that his
would be a solid reputation, independent of literary fads. His novel
"Dust and Iron" was published in July, 1901, and had sold twenty
thousand copies within six weeks of publication. This was his first
really popular success, and in addition the reviewers hailed it as a
work of genius. They had given the same greeting to most of his earlier
stuff, but there was more conviction and less of mere enthusiasm about
their present tone.

Naturally, I thought Bruce must be liking all this. In my capacity of
reporter, as well as by virtue of my convenience as an unattached and
socially minded man, I met him a great deal here and there. He had
become a lion, not only in the dens of literature, but also among the
hunters. You met him in the houses of established men of letters, as
well as in houses whose distinction was social rather than literary. At
the same time he lectured to literary clubs, and even went on a
provincial lecture tour, which won him immense favour among those
Reading Societies attached to Nonconformist chapels, where lasting
reputations are chiefly made. I thought him a lucky man, who had built
his fame on the twin rock of literary merit and popular appreciation.
Then one night he destroyed my illusions.

We had been together at some crush or other, I have forgotten where: all
I remember is that it was a warm summer night and a few stars shone
dimly above the roofs as we came out. We decided to walk home, or
rather, I think, to take a walk together before we went home, as he
lived appropriately in Chelsea and I lived in Bloomsbury, which was then
far from being the fashionable quarter that poetry and politics have
made it since. We walked along Park Lane on the park side of the road,
and somehow we began talking about himself and his reputation. We had
always been good friends but never particularly intimate, and this was
the first and only occasion he confided in me. I do not know if he ever
unburdened himself in the same way to anyone else; sometimes I think
not, for his attitude towards his own fame was apparently unknown to
anyone but myself. He had intimate friends, but one does not always
choose intimate friends for confidences.

That night he told me that he was absolutely sick of the whole business.
He hated London literary life, whether as lived in Chelsea or in
Mayfair. He said the outlook was artificial, and that it was impossible
for an artist living in an artistic environment and seeing life only in
relation to art to have any real knowledge of what life really was.

"And it's life I want--not art. Art's no use except to interpret life,
and it's foolish to try to interpret a language one doesn't know."

"Why don't you go away into the country?" I suggested. "There's no need
for you to stay in London now. Your reputation's made, you can take
yourself off where you please. You're not like us poor sweats, forgotten
at the end of a month's holiday. You're known all over the country--not
only in a small London set."

"That's just it," he said bitterly, "I'm known all over the country.
Wherever I live I shall be Clement Bruce, the well-known novelist. It
will leak out in the remotest village that I can bury myself in. People
who have never read my books will send for them to the nearest library.
Even the tradespeople will become aware that I am different from
themselves and their usual customers, that I belong to another genus of
mankind--the literary gent. Simple people will expect me to 'put them
into my books.' Ordinary human motives will never be credited to me. If
I go anywhere at home or abroad the idea will be that I have gone to
acquire copy or 'local colour.' Bah! If I were to marry, all literary
London would be lost in conjecture as to how it would affect my art, and
every enterprising newspaper editor would ask me for my views on married
life, or on divorce, before I was back from my honeymoon. I tell you I'm
sick of it! I want to live like an ordinary human being, and I can't."

"But surely you're not as famous as all that?" I remarked, taking the
risks of candour.

"I am quite famous enough to be separate from my own kind. It requires
only a small variation of type to create astonishment and curiosity in
the rest of the species. The critics tell me I am a genius. I believe
that genius is a disease--a disease of the brain, only a chance
variation of that disease which separates men from their fellows in
prisons and asylums. Just vary the chemical ingredients to the smallest
degree and instead of being Clement Bruce the famous novelist I am Bruce
the murderer or 'poor Uncle Clement who had to be put away, you know--so
very sad!' I'm separated, I tell you, I'm separated! I have to live with
men like myself whose ideas and aims are conventionalized by art, or
else I have to live with people who treat me as a strange and terrible
phenomenon, as someone who can never be quite as they are. I tell you
that sometimes I wish I could chuck it all up and be just a country
grocer--a chap who never reads anything but the local paper and whose
social centre is the pub and the Oddfellows' Society. He's a human
being, and I'm not."

"I don't think you're speaking decently. You've got something that the
country grocer hasn't, and you have--possibly, for I don't admit it--got
to pay for it with something that he has. That's all."

"But I'd far rather have what he has than what I have."

"Then you are abnormal in other ways besides genius. What normal man
would give up a reputation like yours for the life of the most humanly
satisfied grocer in creation?--to say nothing of the money you earn. It
isn't as if you were just the ordinary sort of novelist. The idea seems
to be that you've got a reputation that will last--that after you're
dead men and women will be reading your books--that your name will live
long after all your contemporary grocers are buried and forgotten."

"That," said Bruce solemnly, "is the most dreadful thought of all. If I
thought that when I died, or soon after, I should be forgotten, then I
believe I could bear it better. But I picture myself being read and
remembered after I am gone. . . . I don't say I have reached that stage
yet, but it's a probability and a fear that haunts me. To think of
myself getting a specially increased sale on the new advertisement that
my death will give me, of being read in editions that get cheaper and
cheaper as my copyrights expire, of becoming at last perhaps a classic,
bound in red leather and stuck on people's library shelves and never
read, or bound in calf and given as prizes to poor little blighters
who'd far rather have a set of tools! And then think of all the idiots
spouting tosh on my centenary, and the dry-as-dust articles in the
highbrow papers, and the controversy as to whether "Dust and Iron" was
written in the spring of nineteen hundred and one or the autumn of
nineteen hundred, and the statue put up to me in a London park,
'realistic' in plus fours or 'expressionist' with my head like a horse's
and my feet turning into hoofs--God! I can't bear it. Don't you see that
it separates me from them more and more? For my memory to remain among
men after I am gone only makes me more and more unlike them, who lie
down in comfortable obscurity in village churchyards and after a
generation or two are forgotten.

I had heard him talk in this style before, though not on this subject.
He occasionally liked to indulge in a purple patch of conversation,
perhaps as an antidote for having to deny himself that happy outlet in
his novels.

"I tell you," he continued, warming to his work, "that as men have been
willing to sacrifice everything for fame, I sometimes feel I would
sacrifice everything for obscurity. Obscurity! That's the real goal of
the true artist! Obscurity, which is twilight and firelight, where fame
is an incandescent glare! Obscurity, which is the life I can share with
my fellows instead of life that I must live apart from them, which is
fame! Obscurity, which is the death I can die with my fellows instead of
the death I must die apart from them and after which I must live again,
which is fame! I tell you it's time that some poet sang an ode to
Obscurity, that some adventurer risked everything for Obscurity. I tell
you--oh well, never mind! It's no good telling you any more, for you
won't understand."

I felt relieved that he did not intend to tell me any more as his voice
had risen to heights incongruous with the empty London streets. Two
passers-by turned to stare at us, even a taxi-driver looked round. My
own love of obscurity was enough to make me change the conversation.


                                   II

I did not see him again after that date, or rather in the light of
subsequent events it would be safer to say that I don't know if I ever
saw him again. The mood evidently remained with him for a day or two,
for the next evening I had a letter from him in the same style as his
speech. It began by apologizing for having made an ass of himself last
night and then proceeded to repeat everything that, as an ass, he had
said. There were patches in that letter of an even deeper purple than
any in our recent conversation; he wrote two whole pages in praise of
obscurity--evidently he was pleased with the idea. For some reason or
other I kept the letter. I think I meant to answer it and then didn't.
Anyhow, I found it put away with some others in a drawer years later and
then decided to keep it, for it was the only link with him I had.

I left London rather unexpectedly a couple of days after my talk with
Bruce. Various events took place which are my own story. It is enough to
say that I did not return to town, but left England altogether in
another six weeks, and was in New Zealand and then in New South Wales
until the spring of 1914, when I returned to London. I was anxious to
join up old links, correspondence having as usual failed. Therefore I
attempted to ring up quite a number of people, including Bruce. Twelve
years make a big gap in one's social life--I found that most of my old
acquaintances had left town or changed their addresses. Bruce's name was
not in the telephone book, so I tried his publishers, who were also
friends of mine. But they could tell me nothing about him, they did not
know his address. He had, they understood, left England. He had not
published anything with them or anybody for more than ten years, and
such cheques as still fell due for his old work were paid direct into
his bank. I was surprised. Certainly I had heard little or nothing of
him while I was away, but I had not been among people or places where
modern fiction is of much account. It seemed odd for him to have
disappeared like this. I made some fruitless efforts to trace him. I
wrote to him care of his bank, but received no reply--I made one or two
inquiries among common acquaintances, but no one seemed to have heard
anything of him for periods varying from nine to eleven years.
Apparently in 1902 he had gone off to Italy, and thence to Austria and
Servia; but there was evidence that he had returned and rumours that he
had settled in Scotland, also others that he had been seen in Cornwall.
But there seemed to be no recent information and certainly there was but
little interest. Nine years of total disappearance is quite enough to
rub a man's name out of the conversation of literary London. "Oh, he's
giving himself a rest"--"He was afraid of writing himself out"--had been
given and received as ample explanation at the start; then even such
eddies had ceased.

I could not help thinking that he had acted deliberately. He had really
meant what he said to me that night in Park Lane. I had not forgotten
it; it had impressed me even more than I thought at the time. My own
absence from my usual haunts and the ease with which apparently I had
fallen from all acquaintance there made me realize that what had merely
happened to me Bruce might have achieved by deliberate purpose. Was he
mad? Is the slaughtering of a man's own reputation--the violation of his
will-to-live in the world of ideas--as sure a sign of a disordered brain
as the slaughtering of his own body, of his will-to-live in the world of
sensation? Was Bruce the felon of his own fame? And if so, how did he
fare in the limbo whither he had sent himself? Having won Obscurity, did
he find her the bride he had imagined? I longed to know, and wrote to
him again at his bankers' address. But again he did not answer, and this
time I was angry. I told myself that I wouldn't worry about him any
more. He wanted me to forget him--well, forget him I would. And I did.

No doubt the outbreak of war in August helped me. I succeeded in getting
out to France with the Durhams, and apart from that the world in which I
had known Bruce ceased to exist. The Arts no longer counted except in
the primitive emotional forms which they took in music and poetry. For
nearly five years it was as if the earth's axis shook, and one saw the
Bronze Age coming back--and the Stone Age. Then the vibration ceased and
everything flew back to where it had been before; poetry died, and
fiction and the drama rose up again. But they rose with a new set of
names. The last of Bruce's cheap editions had vanished from the
bookstalls--during the scarcity of labour and paper his publishers had
not thought it worth while to reprint him, and now he really was
dead--felon of himself.

I thought that he must be dead in fact as well as in name. I could not
imagine him still existing apart from the world he had lived in and the
art he had served. For a time--yes--but not for so long. Perhaps he had
been killed in the War. He was over age, it is true--ten years older
than I--but still he might have done it. He might have joined up under
his assumed name--for he must have chosen a name for his oblivion--and
now be lying at the foot of one of those numberless crosses in Flanders,
obscure in the common glory.


                                  III

In the August of 1922 I went on a walking tour through Kent. I was hard
up, and it seemed the best sort of holiday that could be had for my
money. After I had begun it I wished I hadn't, for the weather was
rainy, and terribly cold for the time of the year. Still I stuck to it,
and one wretched and drizzling day I tramped cross-country from
Canterbury to Ashford, a distance, I suppose, of about twenty miles. I
had been fool enough not to bring a map; I had trusted to signposts to
help me, not reckoning with the economy of Rural District Councils. I
wandered about in small lanes, with a continual wet mist driving between
the hedges. There seemed to be no villages, only occasional farm-houses
and groups of cottages where one could perhaps find a small shop, and
perhaps not.

Towards dusk I stopped at one of these, to replenish my store of matches
and to ask the way, as I was beginning to recognize the symptoms of
being lost. It was one of those shops where you can buy everything from
a pair of boots to a pound of biscuits. It looked cosy enough as I
stepped in, out of the dusk and wet, and there was the flicker of
firelight in the room beyond. No one was behind the counter, but as the
little bell over the door buzzed loudly on my entrance, a woman came in
from the back room and asked me what I wanted.

"A box of matches, please. And can you tell me the best way to Ashford?"

She picked the matches off the shelf, but seemed puzzled by the
question.

"I dunno. Reckon it's some way yet. But I'll ask him."

She called into the back room--"Father!"

A man came in. He was of middle height, inclined to be bony; his hair
was thin on the top and he wore a big walrus moustache. But the moment
he came in I knew that he was Bruce.

I had not thought of him for years, but directly this man appeared I
recognized him. It was not the sight of any special feature, the putting
together of any memories. It was just a complete emotional recognition,
a complete awareness apart from detail. Then my general impression
became confirmed by a dozen signs. There were his hands, chiefly---for
you cannot disguise hands, and in spite of a certain exterior coarseness
the long nervous fingers remained, the fingers of the artist and thinker
who was Clement Bruce.

"Father, this gentleman wants to know the best way to Ashford."

He fixed his light grey eyes upon me, and I prepared myself for his
start. But it never came. Then suddenly I doubted, and the vividness of
my first impression passed. His utter impassivity, his obvious lack of
recognition in that first moment made me doubt. If he was Bruce he must
recognize me, since I had changed but little, and if he recognized me
surely he must be betrayed into some token of it, utterly unprepared as
he was. But he never budged.

"If you go on to the cross-roads, you'll see Pope's Hall on the
signpost," he said impassively, "go on from there to Boughton Malherbe,
and three miles farther on you're on the high road from Maidstone to
Ashford."

I stared at him again, to break his guard. The eyes were
Bruce's--bluish-grey and curiously retracted; there was the irregular
and bushy eyebrow that I remembered and the same long sensitive nose.
The moustache of course was new, but that was obvious and easy to
account for. I resolved to make him talk as much as possible.

"Perhaps I could get a bus on the high road?"

"There's one leaves Maidstone for Ashford every two hours or so.
Lenham--where you strike the road--is about midway."

I noticed that he did not speak with the drawl of the county; on the
other hand I could not definitely recognize the voice as Bruce's, no
doubt because I have not the same memory for voices as I have for faces
and hands. He did not seem inclined to talk much, and I was rather at a
loss how to prolong the situation. Then suddenly a thought struck me.

"Could you let me have a cup of tea?" I asked. "I've come from
Canterbury and it seems I've a long way yet to go."

"Surelye," said the woman, who was Kent most certainly, "the kettle will
be boiling in two minutes. Reckon you must be tired, having come so
far."

I wondered if she was his wife. Apparently so, since they addressed each
other as "Mother" and "Father." She seemed a nice comfortable thing,
somewhere in her middle forties; I should say a small farmer's or
shopkeeper's daughter. She asked me to come into the back room, while
"Father" was banished to the kitchen.

I am reserved by nature, and the situation made speech doubly difficult,
but I put on an air of _faux bonhomme_ which, if he really was Bruce,
must have given me away at once, and went and stood in the kitchen
doorway while she boiled the kettle and he sat by the fire with a
newspaper. I tried to work up the conversation on a personal note. I
discussed the weather, the remoteness of the district; asked if they saw
many people, if they had been long in the hamlet, if they found it
lonely, if they had any family, and several more rather impertinent
questions. The replies were quite naturally given. They found it lonely
in winter, but now the buses were running between Ashford and Maidstone
things weren't so bad and they got about more. There were scarcely a
dozen cottages in the hamlet, but Boughton Malherbe was only two miles
away--that was where the children went to school. They had four
children, the eldest of whom was thirteen; their name was Dunn, and he
had come, he said, from the shires, though she had been born in
Canterbury and had lived there till her marriage.

"Ever been in London?" I asked him indifferently.

"Oh, yes, I was born there. Spent a lot of my time there, too."

"In a shop? Did you get your experience there?"

"No, I didn't start shopkeeping till I came to these parts. I was clerk
in a warehouse."

"Fight in the War?"

"No, I was over age and not very strong, so they wouldn't have me. I did
a bit of Special Constable work for a time."

I was tried by the offensiveness of my own curiosity and resolved to
bring the matter to an end. I asked him straight out: "Did you ever know
a man called Clement Bruce?"

If he wasn't Bruce it would merely appear to him an idiotic question,
such as a foolish and ill-mannered person like myself would be likely to
ask. If he was Bruce surely he would be betrayed into some sign. But
again he never budged.

"Clement Bruce?" he said. "I don't think so. I've met hundreds of people
in my time but no one of that name, that I can remember. Where did he
live?"

"In London," I said. "He was a writer. He wrote novels. I used to know
him, and it struck me that you were rather like him."

He shook his head. "I've never had anything to do with writers, they're
not the kind of people I'd be likely to get on with. Trade's been my
line all through."

I gave it up. I was now convinced that I had made a mistake--that this
was not Bruce. If he was Bruce he must have carried the art of lying to
a finer pitch than he had ever carried the art of fiction. Besides, he
would have recognized me, unless indeed he had completely lost his
memory; my unexpected appearance in his refuge would have taken him
totally by surprise, and I could not imagine that he would have betrayed
absolutely no sign or have seemed so totally unmoved by my presence or
my questions.

My tea was ready and I went back into the little sitting-room and they
shut the door. It was a perfectly ordinary room, such as one would
expect to find at the back of a small village shop. The walls were
papered with a heavily patterned paper, which did not prevent them being
also covered with pictures and photographs and brackets. There were lace
antimacassars on the chairs and a heavy green cloth on the centre table
where also lay one or two books of the Sunday School prize sort. A small
bamboo table stood in the window with an aspidistra upon it, filling the
space between the Nottingham lace curtains; a green crinkly paper shade
adorned the lamp that hung from the ceiling. It was all typical of
modern cottage bad taste.

When I had drunk my tea, I got up and had a look round. You might say
that the whole family history for the last fifteen years was on the wall
in photographs--but I noticed significantly that there was nothing
earlier than the Wedding Group in which he stood very stiff in his
blacks and buttonhole, with oiled forelock, drooping moustache and
upright collar, beside his bride in her lace veil and orange blossom,
with two smirking bridesmaids on either side of them. Then there was a
photograph of him and his wife evidently taken on some pier during their
honeymoon; then he stood behind her as she held her first baby; then she
had another child in her arms with the first youngster at her side, and
gradually the group enlarged to four children. I inspected other
photographs. There was one of him taken with the rest of the Wesleyan
choir on their Annual Outing, another of him with a prize marrow that he
had exhibited in the local Flower Show, there was his certificate of
membership of the Ancient Order of Druids. . . . Bruce must have been an
even greater genius than I had thought if he had done the thing so
completely--had so entirely lifted himself, not merely out of his
profession, but out of his class, and taken such apparently firm root in
new soil. The man as I had known him was incapable of it. He could not
have lived this life for a year. This could not be he.

Then suddenly I stood still and almost gasped. I had come to what I
thought was another framed certificate, but on closer inspection it
proved to be an illuminated parchment, hanging in a plain dark frame
between two reproductions of family orgies. It was evidently the work of
some amateur in illumination, and impressively decorated with scrolling
and gold work. It was headed


                       "THE PRAISES OF OBSCURITY"


I read it with a shudder in my spine.


"Obscurity is the true refuge of the true artist. Obscurity is twilight
and firelight, while Fame is an incandescent glare. Obscurity is the
life I can share with my fellows, while Fame is the life I must live
apart from them. Obscurity is the death I die with my fellows, while
Fame is the death I die apart from them and after which I must live
again--apart. Oh ye lovers of Fame! turn and seek Obscurity, for she is
gentle where Fame is hard, and kind where he is cruel! She will give you
love and goodwill where Fame will give you hate and envy. And you will
sleep sweetly in her arms at the last."


I cannot pretend that I had remembered word for word Bruce's outburst of
so long ago, but the gist of it had stuck in my memory owing to the fact
that it was the last conversation we had had together. Also it had been
further impressed upon me by the letter, which was, as I have said, an
embellishment of the speech, just as the illumination appeared to be an
embellishment of the letter. I was now quite decided. The man was Bruce.
No other would have been likely to write the Praises of Obscurity, and
this was Bruce's own language. Here, in this hidden Kentish hamlet, the
name of which I did not yet know, he had found what in his heart he had
desired and sought more than Fame--the life of an obscure country
shopkeeper--the grocer he had once envied. . . .

I rang the bell as if to pay for my tea. The woman who called herself
Mrs. Dunn came in. I wondered how much she knew. Had she helped him
accomplish his adventure, or was her ignorance a part of it? I remarked
as casually as I could:

"That's an interesting piece of illumination you have over there, Mrs.
Dunn. I have never seen anything like it before. Where did you get it?"

She hesitated for a moment. She did not seem to remember. Then suddenly
I saw Bruce behind her in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. He was
staring at me intently--and I seemed to see in his eyes a look of
pleading--an entreaty that I would probe no further--that I would have
mercy, and let him be. I felt myself falter in my intention, and the
next moment he spoke.

"We got it at a sale. Don't you remember, Mother? Over at Souledge."

"Yes, maybe it was there. We bought a lot of pictures."

"Do you approve of the sentiments?" I could not refrain from asking her.

She seemed bewildered.

"Oh . . . I reckon we do. Not that I'm sure of having read it myself,
the writing's too difficult!"

There was nothing more to be said. I paid for my tea and went.

By the time I had got to Ashford I had already begun to doubt that look
in Bruce's eyes--the look that had silenced me. After all, it is foolish
to judge by such appearances. He had probably only been staring out of
ordinary curiosity, and I had read his curiosity into an appeal, being
already predisposed by my own state of mind.

I have never been able to settle the matter. To this day I cannot feel
sure that the man in the village shop was Bruce; on the other hand, I
cannot feel sure that he was not Bruce. Of course I could have made
further investigations, but I didn't care to. If he wasn't Bruce, then I
was merely being impertinent. If he was . . . in that case I felt I was
being something worse than impertinent. So I have left him there, in the
hamlet of which I do not even know the name. Whether he is or is not
Bruce, he is the man Bruce would have liked to be. Whether Bruce could
have lived like that for fifteen years is another matter. Apart from
questions of fame and money, I find it difficult to believe that he
could have existed so long outside the world where his soul lived--the
world of thought and art, and achievement. And yet . . . after all, what
in the end can life give us more than herself? The form may vary, but
the essence is the same. Are the rewards of the artist and the grocer so
very different? I don't know.



                                  III

                           _The Pharisee Boy_

The kitchen at Ellenwhorne Farm was full of sunshine. It seemed to hold
it like a tub. Beams, walls, and hearth were yellow with it, and the
tints of the furniture, of the flowery cotton blinds, of the plates on
the dresser, seemed to glow through it, as in those pictures which the
artist first puts under a wash of yellow, at once softening and lighting
up all other colours.

Bathed in the tranquil glimmer of the whole, Great-Aunt Hannah sat
drowsing in her chair. She herself was like a piece of furniture, and
Penson no more thought of speaking to her than of speaking to the
dresser. He stood by the window, staring out idly at the slope of the
home field, and at the kilns of the two Ellenwhorne Oasts, like bulgy
steeples at the end of the barn. He wondered how long Mrs. Ades would be
before she came back from asking her husband about the Surrey pullets. . . .

It was Penson's wife who supplied the word that was to link up
Great-Aunt Hannah for a few passing moments with the world from which
she now sat remote, frilled and rosy in her beehive chair, with the
strangely knowing smile of the over-old upon her face. Dora Penson came
into the room with a breeze from the farmyard and a cheering clump of
thick-soled shoes, scattering the dim, rather worn phantoms that were
beginning to gather in the old room.

"Mrs. Ades not back?--Lord, what a time she's been! I've settled about
those coops and seen the pig. I thought you and she would have finished
long ago."

"She's got a job that wants talking over," said Penson glumly--"Ades
will have to show her exactly how she can sell those pullets for twice
as much as they're worth."

They naturally ignored Great-Aunt Hannah, discussing her relatives
before her as they would have discussed them before the kitchen stove.
"I detest Ades," said Mrs. Penson briskly. "I don't object so much to
his wife--she's just a cheery, ordinary little swindle. But the man
himself's a hypocrite. He was holding forth to me only yesterday about
the mean tricks of farmers when they want to 'come it over' gentlemen
small-holders. And now look at him, with that grey, solemn face of his
. . . Pharisee!"

She rushed out the word a little inappropriately, for Ades was not the
man to make long prayers, as a pretence or otherwise; but she had had a
wearisome afternoon, bargaining for the needs of her little holding with
those who seemed part of the soil on which she and Penson were
strangers. An echo came droning unexpectedly from the beehive chair.

"Pharisee . . . Pharisee . . . ever seen a Pharisee boy?"

The Pensons both stared, as if a voice had come from the kettle. They
had always understood that Great-Aunt Hannah had reached those happy
fields beyond the river of speech.

"Ever seen a Pharisee boy?"

She repeated the question directly to the young people. Evidently they
had swum into her world, and for the moment they both felt rather
draggled and breathless in the new atmosphere. A strange sense of shame
was upon them, as if they were unworthy to tread these paths of
Great-Aunt Hannah's feet. They were defiling them with their youth and
activity, with their rowdy interest in a world which she had left long
ago, and now kindly despised from the peace of her own country. Then
once again the question came, a fragile token of herself borne over the
dividing river on the cracked barque of her old voice.

"Ever seen a Pharisee boy?"

Mrs. Penson hastily nudged her husband. "She means fairy. That's what
they call them here--used to call them in her day. No, ma'am, we've
never seen a Pharisee."

"You wurn't here when the young Pharisee warked fur Faather?"

"No, Mrs. Pix." Great-Aunt Hannah's age had given her rank as a matron.

A sigh fluttered in the beehive chair. It stole like a wind across the
gulf fixed between age and youth.

"Surelye, we had a young Pharisee warking fur Faather a dunnamany years
agone. Sister Milly called up to me at the bedroom winder--'run araund
to the best room, Hannah, and see the valiant young chap as Faather has
fetched in to the cows after old Munk.' And I ran and I looked, and I
saw his curly head a-bending over the trough. I knew then he wurn't no
common lad, for each hair of his head wur a-shining lik the sun, and
under it I saw the points of his ears, sharp-pricked lik a hare's--you
can always tell a Pharisee by his ears." Her voice hummed down into a
silence that the Pensons felt themselves called upon to break.

"Did--did anyone else--did your sister know he was a Pharisee?"

They could not tell if the question reached her--probably not, for after
a moment she continued:

"Some Pharisees have horns on their heads, but he had naun, and some
have sheep's feet, but he had just the brown feet of a boy. If it hadn't
bin fur his ears I'd never have known him fur a Pharisee--his ears and
the way as he talked to the cows, just as if they wur his sisters. And
they never guv better milk nor when he had 'em--coaxing and
whistling--they knew who he wur, I reckon, fur cows have more know in
such matters than us."

Great-Aunt Hannah sighed again, rather sadly this time, as if a shadow
had fallen on her pleasant land.

"Reckon he wur valiant, reckon he wur praper, my Pharisee boy. Fur he
wur mine. I loved him--and when I looked into his face I saw them two
dark pools in Brede Eye Wood. Then they'd swim together, and I'd go
dazed like. I'd no sense to go loving a Pharisee. And one day he said:
'Come into the barn wud me, Mistress Hannah,' and I come and he kissed
me there. And I looked in his eyes and they swum together and I wur
drowned in them. . . . When I come out of that barn he wur agone, and my
faather and sister and all the folkses wur agone, and strangers there.
Fur I shud have known as a Pharisee's kiss is fifty year--there I wur an
oald body and no kin left, and the Pharisee boy wur gone. He aun't old,
he's always young, and sometimes I hear him laughing behind the
wood-stack."

Her head drooped towards the bib of her lilac apron. She shook it sadly,
and then from her came the ghost, the echo, of a laugh faint as the
rustling of straw.

At that moment Mrs. Ades bustled into the room. She glanced from
Great-Aunt Hannah to the Pensons, and smiled broadly.

"She's been talking, has she? She doesn't often talk, but when she does
she talks queer. She's been bad in her head ever since the beam of the
Dutch barn fell on her fifty years ago. My grandad told me. Seemingly
she went in with a young chap that was courting her, and the beam fell
and knocked them both. He wasn't particular the worse, and went and
married over at Bodiam. A tedious bad lot, he was, my grandad said, and
I know he was for ever around here begging for old bottles and such-up
to a year ago, when they put him into the Union. But grandad always said
he'd wonderful ways with cows and women."



                                   IV

                           _Strong Medicine_

                                   I

"The prisoner," read Mrs. Livyett, "was given a seat in the dock, and
listened to the proceedings with an air of indifference. Only once did
she display any emotion, and that was when her son, Albert, aged
fourteen, told the court how his mother had once appeared to hide
something when he came into the kitchen. She was making tea for his
father, and he saw her slip a small bottle into her pocket. In answer to
Sir Charles Winham, for the Crown, he stated that she seemed upset when
he came in . . ."

Molly Livyett's eyes flew down the page, skipping from one paragraph to
another. She sat in the last of the light, hunched childishly beneath
the window in her blue and white cotton frock, her heels gathered up
under her, her head bent over an apple which she munched as she read.
Though she munched and was dimly conscious of the voices of her
children, playing in the field, her mind was far away at the Old Bailey,
where a Streatham woman was being tried for murder.

Had she done it? She probably had, by the look of things. The husband's
illness didn't seem natural, which of course it wasn't, for arsenic had
been found in the body. The prisoner was proved to have bought some
weed-killer, and he had been carrying on with another woman for six
months. It certainly looked as if she had done it.

And who was to blame her? She had done only what lots of wives would do
if they weren't afraid. Some women had guts; they didn't just go on as
usual, pretending not to see things for the sake of the children.
Perhaps it would be better if more women had guts . . . not that this
one seemed any happier for what she had done, but at least somebody had
paid, somebody had got what they deserved, instead of going off
whistling and enjoying themselves as if there were no such things as
cruelty and wickedness. . . .

Molly Livyett was staring over the top of the newspaper into the shadows
that thickened round the fireplace. She sat in a queer stiff attitude,
still holding the apple half-way to her mouth, as if her arms had
frozen; a piece of apple lay unswallowed on her tongue.

It was odd how these murder trials gripped you--made you feel it was you
yourself who had done it. You might have, of course; you had had just as
much to put up with as this woman. But somehow you didn't feel you could
have done quite the same. For one thing, you couldn't have hurt
Pete--even though he had hurt you, you couldn't hurt him, because you
loved him. She probably hadn't loved her husband, or she couldn't have
made him suffer what the newspapers said he had. Yet if she hadn't loved
him, why had she minded him taking up with another woman? . . . Perhaps
she had loved him once and love had turned to hate. They said love often
turned to hate. Perhaps your love for Peter would some day turn to hate.

Would it make things easier if it did? It might--if you wanted to kill
Pete . . . But you never would; and you simply couldn't understand why
that woman had killed her husband instead of the other woman who had
taken him from her. That other woman had broken up her home and spoiled
her life, but her husband was only a victim like herself. She should
have killed the other woman . . . then she and her husband could have
been happy together again . . . as they used to be in the old days.

"Mums."

Her little girl's voice called her back into the darkening room.

"Mums, what is it? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. Why have you come in?"

"We're tired of playing--we want to go to bed."

This unnatural request showed her how late it must be. She had
deliberately refused to look at the clock, afraid of what it might tell
her.

"Very well, dear; come along. I'll put you to bed at once."

She took a hand of each, the little girl and the little boy, and led
them upstairs into the big low room that faced the orchard. Here a beam
of sunshine lingered from the west, and in that warmth and redness the
day once more stood still. She was able to pretend that the light was
all round the house and let her children's voices chime her into a sort
of content.

"What were you playing at in the field?"

"We were playing at dipping sheep, only we hadn't anything to play with
but my teddy, and now he's all dirty from the ditch."

"What made you play at dipping sheep?"

"They're dipping them at the farm to-morrow. Mummy, may we go and see?"

"Oh, yes, I expect you may."

"Will you ask Daddy?"

"Yes, I'll ask him."

The swifts were wheeling and screaming against the sky, and the sunshine
was only another clock . . . it had moved from the floor to the ceiling.
. . . And now it was gone, leaving the tops of the apple trees to darken
slowly in the wind. The birds were like shadows flying. . . .

"Mummy, don't look like that!"

What was the matter with the child?--or with herself, rather. She spoke
sharply.

"Don't be so silly. I'm looking just as I always look. There now, you're
ready for bed; get in while I finish Ralphe."

Thank goodness Ralphe was neither so observant nor so talkative as
Pamela. But evidently some movement troubled the quiet pool of his mind,
for he said suddenly:

"I don't want to go to bed before Dad comes in."

"Why, darling? You said you were sleepy."

"But I want Dad to come and say good night to me. Where is he?"

"He's out, working late at the farm."

"He never used to be late."

"He has more work to do now."

"Why?"

She grew irritable.

"Don't ask so many questions, and get into bed at once. I'm busy."

He looked at her with a surprised pain that made her heart ache. But she
would not comfort him, for fear that he might ask more questions. She
tucked the bedclothes round them both, kissed them and went out of the
room. She had hardly closed the door before she heard their voices
murmuring.


Now she stood alone face to face with the darkness and emptiness of the
house. Yes, she was angry with Pete all right, even though she didn't
want to kill him. She looked through the darkness into the evening he
had condemned her to--sitting there alone in the silent house, lighting
the lamp and sewing under it, strolling at last into the kitchen and
boiling herself an egg and making herself a cup of cocoa, just for fear
that the hunger she had not felt all day might seize her in the night
and wake her up to think.

Then, perhaps, he would come in. She would offer him supper, but he
would say he'd had a bite of something at the farm. It was a full six
weeks since she had asked him any questions and therefore six weeks
since he had told her any lies. She knew where he had been and he knew
she knew. . . . They knew too at the farm; oh, you bet they did! They
knew and the whole village knew that Peter Livyett was neglecting his
wife and children and running after Clara Chance. She had already seen
compassionate looks on some faces--on Dr. Seafield's and on the Vicar's
and on Pearce's at the Farm; they were sorry for her because she had
brought her husband into the country only to lose him there. And she had
seen contemptuous looks on faces in the village; the farmers and
cottagers of Churchsettle despised her because she was a foreigner and
her husband was a foreigner running after another foreigner--all in fact
behaving as you would expect foreigners to behave. . . . The villagers
of Churchsettle were a damn lot of oafs. . . . But on the whole she
preferred the contempt to the compassion; for contempt made you feel
hard.

Of course there was always the possibility he would get over it, but not
the same possibility there would have been with a lighter man. This was
the first time he had ever looked away from her, though they had been
married ten years and up till eighteen months ago had lived in London.
The part she could not understand was why, when after all those years of
faithfulness he had strayed, he should stray after such trash as Clara
Chance. In London he must have seen dozens of her sort and never noticed
them except with repulsion. Was it the incongruity of her surroundings
that had cast a glamour over her?--sitting there in that lovely old farm
house, scattering cigarette ash and trailing her gowns over its brick
floors, rubbing her peroxide hair against its oaken beams, drinking her
eternal whiskies under the sagging rose-arches of its neglected garden.
. . . She liked the country, she said, and when somebody--nobody knew
who but you could guess what--had left her a little money she had bought
old Potkiln and taken her queer, ugly life there. She pretended that she
had always wanted to live in the country; but now that she was there she
did not seem to know what to do with herself, except make a set at poor
Pete. At first Molly had thought it funny, they both had--she had never
dreamed that he could fall seriously for such stuff. But he had fallen,
and now Molly and the children and the new life at Mayshaves were
nothing but a background to a low common passion, whose redemption of
constancy was the most damnable part of it.

Her anger had blazed up again, but now it had left Pete and burned
Clara. Oh, if only it could really burn anyone but herself! The tears
dribbled from the corners of her eyes; they were hot and salt, and felt
as if they must scar her cheeks. All her mind and body seemed to be heat
and flame. She could bear no more. She must do something. She would go
up to the farm and ask for Pete. She would no longer accept the swindle
of his working late. She would go up and ask for him, and if necessary
follow him where he had gone. It was not likely that any good would come
of it--any more good than had come of that Streatham woman's dealings
with her husband--but at least something would be done, someone perhaps
would smart.


Mayshaves cottage was only a quarter of a mile from Mayshaves Farm. Soon
Milly Livyett was walking in the yard, looking for Pearce.

She found him, as she had expected, in the little section boarded off
the cart-lodge, which he called his office. He was busy with his
accounts, and peered at her over the rims of his spectacles. Then he
smiled. She had always liked Pearce from the moment she had first
accepted him as her husband's oldest friend. It had seemed an ideal
arrangement that they should go into partnership at Mayshaves; Pearce
had experience of farming both in this country and in Canada, and the
doctor had urged Pete to live an open-air life. Now, she supposed,
Pearce knew as much about Clara Chance as she did--probably more.

"Good evening," she said. "Has Pete gone?"

"He left quite a little while ago, but I believe he said he was going
round by the village."

"Yes--he told me he might play snooker at the George . . . but I came
here on the chance. I thought I might walk over with him. I've been
indoors all day."

"It's a pleasant evening for a walk--I wish I could offer myself instead
of him, but I must get these wretched things finished to-night."

"Oh, I'll go and find him at the pub."

She spoke carelessly, and wondered if they were both lying or if only
she was. She thought he looked a little hang-dog and conscious, after
the manner of a man standing by another over something he doesn't quite
approve of. He had always been a good friend to Pete, but he liked her
too--she knew it.

"It's two miles," he said, "to Churchsettle."

She knew then that he was trying to detain her--to give Pete a chance.

"No, thanks awfully. But I don't think I'll go after him. I'll just take
a stroll and then go home."

"I wish I could come with you; but if I don't finish these accounts
to-night I never shall. We're frightfully busy to-morrow; we start
dipping, you know."

"Yes, the children told me."

"They're keen on the farm, those two. I hope they'll come and look on."

"I'm sure they'd love to help."

"Oh, I don't know about help. They're rather too little to have anything
to do with sheep-dipping, except look on--and they're welcome to do
that."

As he spoke his eye fell on a large tin drum on the floor close to his
chair, and she saw the word Poison in red letters on a label pasted
across it.

"Is that what you dip them in?"

"Yes, for the first dip. It's diluted, of course."

"What is it?"

"Arsenic, mainly."

"Oh . . . the same as weed-killer."

"Yes, you've got to have something pretty drastic for the first dip. The
second one's only a wash."

"But isn't it dangerous?"

"One has to take precautions, of course--both for oneself and for the
sheep. I've known a careless looker lose half his flock by making the
mixture too strong."

"How much do you put in?"

"A teaspoonful to the gallon's safe enough. But of course some of the
virtue's lost if you make it too weak."

"A teaspoonful to a gallon sounds almost nothing at all."

"Oh, a little of this stuff goes a long way, I assure you"--and Pearce
laughed.

Molly laughed too. It suddenly struck her as very amusing that after all
she had read in the paper about that woman and all she had thought about
Clara Chance she should have a drum of arsenic put under her nose like
that.


As she walked away from Mayshaves her thoughts went back to the poison
drum. If opportunity had been put in the Streatham woman's way as
crudely as that, small wonder she had taken it. Nothing would be easier
than to sneak a pinch of arsenic once the drum was opened, and it would
be opened to-morrow for the sheep-dipping. She could go up to the farm
with the children and slip away while everyone was busy. The drum would
probably--certainly--still be there in Pearce's office, and as they used
only such small quantities it was not likely to be empty the first day.
Nor was Pearce likely to lock it up or hide it once it was open. He
might put it on the shelf out of reach of ignorant or careless hands,
but she did not expect more of his easy-going, unsuspicious nature than
that. It would be the simplest thing in the world to take what she
wanted--only a pinch would be enough. She could carry a little bottle in
her pocket like the woman in the newspaper . . . or better still, her
powder compact.

Her thoughts had run on so far that she was frightened directly she saw
where they were taking her. How could she even for a moment and only in
her imagination be such a fool as that woman? She had been thinking what
she would do if she was a fool; and she was not a fool. Apart from other
considerations--for after all, murder was murder even if you killed the
person you hated instead of the person you loved--she knew that she
could do herself no possible good by poisoning Clara Chance. She would
be found out immediately, as that other had been found out. When a
strong, healthy woman dies suddenly in agony, suspicion is aroused at
once; and when it is known that another woman's husband has been
dangling after the murdered woman for months. . . . She shuddered. It
would just be the Streatham murder story over again--gossip, suspicion,
the funeral stopped by the coroner, and then her own arrest,
imprisonment, trial and . . . Her imagination which had carried her so
blithely to the crime sickened and failed before the punishment.

Besides, even if it would be easy to take the powder it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to administer it. She was not likely ever
again to have a meal with Clara or any chance of tampering with her
food. It was true that there was no open breach between them and a
certain smear of false friendliness still covered their doings, but it
was several months since she had been to Potkiln and longer still since
Clara had been to Mayshaves Cottage; and if she went round to-night and
found her and Peter together, and there was a row--as she meant. . . .

No! the Streatham woman was a fool. She had acted without counting the
cost--she had thought nothing of suspicion, talking neighbours,
post-mortems or the fact that arsenic can be found in the body for a
long time after death. She had been such a fool as almost to deserve
what was coming to her. Molly Livyett was not going to risk her neck for
Clara Chance. She would rather endure what she was enduring now, as she
walked alone in the dark, thinking of her husband and that woman alone
together at Potkiln. . . .

She had come to where the lane divided. One fork led to Potkiln, the
other to Mayshaves Cottage. She hesitated. She had set out determined to
go to Potkiln and make a scene; she had promised herself that someone
should smart. But now she found in herself a certain reluctance to tear
off the dingy veil that had hidden her feelings for so long. If she made
a scene the whole village would hear of it; whereas perhaps now they
only guessed how much she knew. Perhaps even Pete still only guessed
. . . men were often unbelievably dense where their vanities were
concerned. Quite probably Clara still only guessed. It would be
better--yes, certainly it would be better--if the thing did not become a
quarrel and a scandal. Anyhow, she could wait. She took the road to
Mayshaves.


                                   II

Old Mrs. Lurgan was the only cheap help available in the neighbourhood
of Churchsettle. The girls either did not care for service, or else they
went into the towns. As a result Mrs. Lurgan was constantly in demand
with housewives who would otherwise have despised her rather fumbling
ministrations. Molly Livyett did not think much of her, but she could
not do without her occasionally. She was useful if only for scrubbing
the floors, and sometimes, when they were all going out, she would have
a meal ready for their return.

So it was convenient that to-morrow happened to be her "day," as then
Molly could quite easily go up to the farm with the children. Mrs.
Lurgan came to Mayshaves Cottage every other Tuesday--hard facts and
inflexible figures had compelled the Livyetts to decide they could keep
clean on a fortnightly scrub.

On Mondays she went to Potkiln, and on Thursdays and Saturdays as
well--in fact she was up there almost every day for what she could get.
Clara Chance had no need to skimp--she could have Mrs. Lurgan as often
as she wanted.

It was therefore another mark on Molly Livyett's score against her when
her aged handmaid, arriving late, announced that she could stay no more
than an hour, as she had to get back to Mrs. Chance.

"She was taken awkward last night with her stomach, and I promised I'd
look in and see her, as she can scarce move this morning."

"Couldn't you come back here afterwards? I was hoping you'd cook our
dinner."

"I'd never do that step twice of a morning--'at that I couldn't! Two
miles and a quarter it must be. No, when I finish up there I go home and
rest."

"Then could you come to-morrow? You won't get anything done in an hour."

"I could come in for a bit after I've been to Mrs. Seafield's."

"Very well; that must do, then. I'll have to leave the children at the
farm and come back here and cook the dinner."

"I'm sorry to put you to it, but I can't do no different; not with Mrs.
Chance so tur'ble awkward--vomiting every five minutes, poor soul, and
her such a nice lady."

Molly stared at her, searching for marks of irony on her walnut of a
face. But there was none.

"An uncommon nice lady," she repeated, and Molly remembered hearing that
Clara Chance paid her overtime in whisky.

"Well, I'll expect you to-morrow, anyhow."

She left her scrubbing out the passage, while she dressed the children.
They must wear their oldest clothes for the farm, and be careful not to
stand too near the dipping.

"I shan't be able to stay with you, darlings, as I've got to go home and
cook the dinner. But Daddy will be there, and he'll bring you back. Have
you both got handkerchiefs? All right, then--just wait while I powder my
nose."

They laughed to see her powdering her nose before going up to the farm;
she did not as a rule use powder during the day, but a glance into the
mirror made her decide that she could not go out with her face all moist
and flushed from the kitchen fire. She shook out the little puff and
powdered carefully, as if she was going to walk in the Fulham Road
instead of in Mayshaves Lane. She was quite a time over it, as she used
to be in the old days when they lived in London--powdering with unusual
care before the glass, and then, as she used to do in London, slipping
the little case into her pocket.


The next day she watched for Mrs. Lurgan.

"Well, how is she? Can you stay your full time?"

The old woman peered at her out of her dim blue eyes.

"She's tur'ble ordinary, but I reckon it'll do if I go to her in the
evening. She don't take nothing but slops and tea. The doctor he says
she's gastric."

"I expect she's got a chill."

"Gastric influence he says it is. He's given her a fine bottle of
medicine what she takes three times a day. I go in and give it to her.
I've taken a sip myself, and I tell you it's fine medicine."

"It must be very tiring for you, having to go there so often."

"I'd do a lot to oblige that poor lady; and she don't want no work done
now she's so ill. I just go and give her the medicine and any food she
can take."

"Do you sleep there?"

"Deary no. In the evening I give her a cup of harry-root and her dose.
Then I put her straight, poor dear, and I go home. She's a nice lady."

"Oh, yes, she's a nice lady. Then you'll be able to do all the floors
to-day?"

"I'll do my best to do 'em anyways, but I can't make no promises. I'm
old."

Molly left her, and settled down to her own work, which was mainly the
preparation of the midday dinner. Pete always came home from the farm at
midday, when he had an hour off. She always knew where he was, she
reflected bitterly, until the evening, when the lies and deceits began.
She wondered if he was going to Potkiln now that Clara was ill. He had
been out late last night, as well as the night before.

"Mrs. Lurgan's been telling me that Clara has influenza," she remarked
casually when the children had finished their dinner, and she and Pete
were sitting alone over their gaspers and a pot of tea.

"Oh, yes--I heard it from Seafield."

She would not look at his face while he spoke, for fear that he should
see her looking.

"She seems pretty bad."

"Mrs. Lurgan would make the most of it. Seafield seemed quite happy
about her."

"But it must be dreadful to lie there all alone, with no one to look
after her but that half-witted old woman."

"Mrs. Lurgan's far from half-witted. I gather Clara finds her a great
stand-by."

Her eyes shot up and looked into his. But all she saw were the long
black lashes drooping over them. His eyelashes were curly and silky like
a woman's; something in their curving shadow upon his cheek had always
stirred her senses. To-day the sight of them went deeper than any sense,
to a grave beneath the senses where her love for him lay in agony with
her hate of Clara Chance. She found herself trembling and hurriedly
looked away.

"Tell me," she said, "do you think you'll finish the dipping to-day?"

"To-morrow, I expect. But talking of dipping, there was a chap at the
farm this morning who travels in insecticide poisons, and it appears he
saw a bit of that murder trial that's on now--that Mrs. What's-her-name
who's poisoned her husband. He was in court yesterday, and he says he
understands that the defence mean to prove that she didn't buy that
weed-killer for her own use, but passed on the tin unopened to a
friend."

"Oh . . . she may get off then."

"I should think she's certain to if they can really prove that. I mean
the buying of the weed-killer seems to be an important part of the
evidence against her. Have you seen to-day's paper?"

"No."

She wondered why she had lied to him over so small a matter.

"Nor have I. I might have a look at it before I go back."

"Shall you be late home to-night?"

"I dunno. Don't expect me back before eleven, because if I'm through
early at the farm I'll go to the inn for a game of snooker."

"I might come up and join you there?"

"I shouldn't. It's a rough place at any time, and it gets worse in the
evenings."

She saw his eyes fixed on her now and thought she read anxiety in them.

"Oh, all right then. But"--she said it suddenly against her judgment--"I
do think I might go and have a look at poor Clara Chance."

This time there could be no mistake about his anxious glance, and his
voice came hurriedly and sharply.

"There's no need at all for you to do that. She's got Mrs. Lurgan to
look after her, and as I told you--as Seafield told me--she isn't really
ill. He didn't seem to think it was anything more than a bilious
attack."

"Still that may make one feel pretty wretched, and I can't agree with
you about Mrs. Lurgan being a good nurse."

"Well, I don't want you to go. If she has 'flu you might catch it, and
give it to the children as well as being ill yourself."

"But you say it's a bilious attack."

"You seem to have heard a different story. It may be 'flu and I won't
have you risk it."

She fumbled with her reply. Now was the time to have things out with
him--he had given her the chance. For a moment she desperately longed to
beat down all this thorny hedge of lies that had grown up between
them--to beat it down, or at least to break through it and stand close
to him once more, her husband . . . close enough to strike or to
embrace, it made no difference, so long as they ceased to look at each
other over a hedge. But she knew that if she chose this way she could
not choose any other. That might have been the Streatham woman's
choice--she might have chosen to break her way through the thorny hedge
to her husband and then when she was close to him found that she must
kill him. . . . No, it was better to have this hedge between them for a
while longer, till she no longer carried anyone's death in her pocket.


That evening she waited, counting the hours after seven. He came in
about half-past ten and she knew that he must have gone to Clara. She
lay in bed, staring at the ceiling where the darkness hung among the
beams, a roof over the moonlight that flooded the room. She hoped he
would get into bed without saying anything, as he was usually so glad to
do. But to-night he stooped over her, staring at her to see if she was
awake. She kept her eyes fast shut, but suddenly as she sensed him there
above her and knew that he searched her face, a fear assailed her that
she had not felt till then but which now would never leave her any more.
She trembled, and opened her eyes.

"What is it, dear?"

"Oh, you're awake, are you?" he said roughly. "Tell me, what made you go
to Clara's after what I said?"

She would have thought that her heart and breathing had stopped if she
had not found herself able to speak.

"I only went in to inquire after her--I was passing."

"Passing? . . ."

"Yes, I went for a walk this afternoon. Mrs. Lurgan was here with the
children, and I thought it a good chance to get out."

"Well, there was no reason for you to go and see her after what I said."

She suddenly found herself able to think.

"It was because of what you'd said that I went. You said it was only a
bilious attack." Then as feeling followed thought, she cried angrily:

"Why did _you_ go, then?"

"You know that she's a particular friend of mine."

It was dreadful to hear him say that, so calmly and firmly, and to
realize that he had decided to break down the hedge between them now, at
this moment of all moments. . . . She mustn't let him do it. That hedge
must stand up for a while longer; she could not bear to meet him yet.

She forced her voice into a tone something like his.

"Yes," she said clearly and kindly, "I know you're friends. That's why I
took your word for it that it was only a bilious attack; I made sure
that you'd know more about it than Mrs. Lurgan. I just looked in to ask
how she was--to see if she wanted anything. I didn't know you'd be going
to-night or I shouldn't have troubled. How--how did you find her?"

"Pretty much the same--not too bad."

He looked deflated. He had expected her to make a scene and wondered why
she had not. Women were supposed to like scenes, and he was surprised to
find her waving aside his offer of a first-class row. He had not
actually wanted one, but this evasion of it baffled him.

"Clara spoke to me," he said lamely; "she said she wanted you to know
about us."

"I do know about you."

"She didn't think you could--at least, not everything--or you wouldn't
have been to see her."

She was unable to speak, because for the first time she felt something
other than fear. She remembered Clara Chance, lying there in bed, with
her kimono, that strange coat of many colours, wrapped about her like a
shawl, her hair with its golden stripes of dye, hanging round her
unpowdered face. She had not expected that tawdry, blowzy disheartened
lump of womanhood to flower into honesty like this. She had hated her
for that very tawdriness and blowziness, for being so cheap as well as
so dear; but now for a moment she ceased to hate her, and the stopping
of her hatred was like the stopping of an engine--she felt herself come
to a standstill like a machine that has run down.

"She doesn't think you know everything," continued Pete.

"I don't want to know everything." Fear was still the ruler of her
being, and thus commanded she was able to speak. "Anyhow I don't want to
discuss it now. I'm horribly tired and sleepy; let's go to sleep."

"You're a strange woman, Moll."

"Why?--because I don't want to sit up all night talking about Clara
Chance? These things are better left alone."

"So I've always thought. But I didn't expect you would."

"Well, now you know, so you might let me be."

She turned her face on the pillow towards the wall. She must end the
conversation somehow.

"I will, but you must promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Not to go and see her again."

"Why--why not?"

"Because I don't like it. If you don't mind, I do. Promise me, Moll."

"Very well, I promise."

"She's perfectly all right, you know. Mrs. Lurgan goes there every
morning, and does everything she requires; and she goes back in the
evening, too. She came in just before I left, to give her her medicine
and settle her for the night."

Molly said nothing. She stared at the wall and saw Clara Chance's
medicine bottle. She saw it standing like a column of gold on the
kitchen table. She had noticed it at once as she passed through the
kitchen on her way upstairs--a new bottle, just come from the doctor's.
Clara had even asked her if it had arrived--"Doctor Seafield said he'd
be sending it round this afternoon, and I thought I heard his boy's
bicycle, but I wasn't sure."

"Yes, it was there," she had answered. "Would you like me to go down and
bring it up?"

"No, don't you bother. Mrs. Lurgan will bring it when she comes. I don't
have another dose till bed-time--the last thing, you know, just to
settle my stomach for the night."

She had sat a few minutes, chatting, but all the time she had been
thinking of the medicine. She had started thinking of it the moment she
had first seen it, thinking how it would be the best thing to use . . .
on her way to Potkiln she had thought of arrowroot or a cup of tea. But
she could not see any arrowroot and the tea would have to be made on the
bedroom fire which was the only fire in the house. The medicine would be
best, for both Clara and Mrs. Lurgan had said it was strong medicine and
the taste would disguise any alien saltiness. The bottle was unopened,
but not sealed--it was just an ordinary, corked medicine bottle from the
doctor's dispensary. When the time came for her to go it would be easy
enough to take the cork out and shake in the powder from her vanity
case. . . . What powder do you use, Mrs. Livyett? For a moment it seemed
as if Clara had asked her that, but all she had asked was to be handed
her own case, so that she could do up her face a little. . . . "I get a
sight lying here in a sweat. . . ."

With an effort she dragged her thoughts away from Potkiln. She felt as
if she had actually been there, as she turned her eyes from the wall and
looked at Pete. He was still talking, anxiously and uncertainly. He did
not know which way to take her. She seemed to want reassuring about
Clara being alone more than she wanted reassuring about his being with
Clara. Women were queer, but he had not known till now that Molly was as
queer as this.

"I'm tired. Let's go to sleep," she said.


Her sleep, into which she fell with surprising suddenness, was first of
all dark and deep, a sort of eternal night. But it could not have lasted
long like that because it was only a little after midnight that she saw
Clara Chance. At first the outlines of her face were dim--her mouth was
bloated and twisted, and she murmured--"A queer, salty taste--that's
what it has." Then she became more distinct, with her striped yellow and
brown hair falling about her. She said:

"You were surprised to find me so honest, but I always was an honest
sort, and now, even when I know you've done for me, I'm going to go on
being honest. I'll tell you some mistakes you made. First of all you
shouldn't have come upstairs to see me. You could have slipped into the
kitchen and put your powder into my medicine without my being any the
wiser; if I'd heard anything I'd have thought it was the cat. But of
course you coming up to see me startled me a bit, and I felt I ought to
tell Pete and make him promise to let you know what we were to each
other. I thought you were so kind; I couldn't bear to deceive you. And
now of course when he finds out I've been poisoned he'll remember you
were there, and no doubt he'll put two and two together. You've two
chances over that--one chance is that he says nothing, and it's quite
likely that he won't for the sake of the children, though how you can
expect him ever to live with you after what he knows you've done passes
my understanding. The other chance is that he'll never know I've been
poisoned. Doctor Seafield isn't very sharp, and when I die to-morrow
he'll just think it's the illness got worse. That's why you did it, of
course. You knew I'd gastric trouble, and you saw your chance of
finishing me without ever being found out. But you weren't clever enough
for the job. There's another bad mistake you've made. You put poison
into a full bottle. There's still plenty left, and if anyone should
think of analysing it, then it will be found. That was very simple of
you. You should have waited, and then poisoned the last dose. But you
were in too much of a stew to wait--you wanted to get me over and done
with, so you didn't stop to think. Fool! Fool! Fool!"

Clara Chance's face seemed to swell with a great ugly light behind it
. . . rays came from it--it burned. Molly heard herself shrieking as it
burned her, and the light faded into darkness. The room was quite
dark--she had somehow imagined that morning had come, but now she knew
that it was still several hours off. Had she been dreaming? It was a
queer dream in which her thoughts had come so lucidly, forming
themselves on the lips of Clara Chance. She saw now what she had never
seen while she was awake. She saw the mistakes that she had made, that
would now undo her. Her fear waxed so great that her teeth chattered and
she had to lay hold of the side of the bed to stop herself trembling and
waking Pete.


Morning came at last, with a lovely rush of golden sunlight into the
blue sky. She had watched it come through long hours, and now that at
last it was there she felt exhausted with waiting. She also felt
depressed; because all the time she had lain longing for it she had
grown to think that its coming would bring relief. But of course it had
brought no such thing; it had brought instead an increase of anxiety.
To-day Peter would hear that Clara was dead, and then terrible things
would happen--even if he did not suspect her they would still be
terrible things. Somehow till then she had not pictured what his
feelings would be; if she had thought at all she had imagined him just
forgetting Clara and coming back all tenderly to his wife. But now she
saw what a fool she had been not to imagine his grief and his despair,
the dreadful angry shock. . . . It was as Clara had said in the
night--she did not think.

She was afraid of talking to Peter, so she rose without waking him,
dressed and went downstairs. It was half-past six, and the morning
newspaper lay on the doorstep--for the boy delivered it on his way back
from meeting the newspaper train, which came in at five. She picked it
up eagerly, and tore some of the pages in her anxiety to find the one
she wanted. Somehow she felt that if she saw that things were going well
with the Streatham woman they would go well with her. Yesterday she had
been enormously encouraged by the news that the weed-killer had not been
bought for the defendant's own use but for the use of a friend who had
duly received it from her unopened. If that was the case Pete had said
that she would probably get off. . . . Perhaps she was already
acquitted? . . . Where was the report? There it was. Her eyes travelled
down dark swimming columns of print. There was no headline telling of a
verdict--she must find out what had happened.

She was too nervous to read attentively and had to force her gaze down
the column more than once before she absorbed its contents. Then she saw
that the defence's hope had failed. Mrs. Roper had broken down under
cross-examination--it was not she who had opened the tin, though she
would swear that nothing had been taken out of it. But only a tiny pinch
would be enough . . . only a tiny pinch of white powder, such as a woman
puts with a miniature puff in her flapjack or vanity case. . . .

Molly felt cold and stricken and almost personally injured. She had
always said the woman was a fool, but she had never expected anything so
bad of her as this. Why had she gone out of her way to incriminate
herself? She could have bought the tin for her own use, and having taken
what she wanted, strewn the contents over her garden paths in token of
necessity. Why had she introduced the complication of a friend? The
answer was: because she had tried to be cleverer than she was able--like
the woman who had poisoned Clara Chance.

She felt as if she had been let down by a confederate, and yet she found
a measure of profit in the occasion. Her reading of the trial prompted
her to take out her vanity case, knowing that probably one or two grains
of powder might remain in it. She burned the puff in the kitchen fire,
substituting a small twist of cotton-wool, as she had often seen women
do when their puffs were lost or dirty. Then, she washed out the case at
the sink, wiping it and rubbing it vigorously. There was nothing about
it now that could possibly confirm suspicion. Her sad reading had done
her good in that it had impressed her effectively with the law's
searching ways and attention to detail. She began to feel a little
strength and hope, though these left her as soon as she heard Peter's
footsteps on the stairs.

She must wake and dress the children, prepare the breakfast, and write
the fiery scroll of judgment all over with household commonplaces--tea,
sugar, milk, bread, biscuits, bacon, soda, towels and soap.


The morning was like one of those little coves she had known long ago in
Cornwall, twisting between high banks to an invisible sea. Far off she
could hear the sea roaring and all her being moved towards it in an
expectation that now was dread. That invisible roaring sea was the
dinner hour when Peter would come back. The little sheltered cove of the
morning ended there--afterwards there was nothing but an empty stretch
of stormy water, and perhaps shipwreck and drowning.

She would not let herself think of Peter's return, she would not even
look at the clock. It might have been any time when she suddenly noticed
a car pull up at the garden gate--the shambling old car they used at the
farm. Was that Peter? Had the shock been so dreadful that he had been
unable to walk home? But the man coming up the garden path was Pearce.

She knew at once that something had happened, though it was not what she
had expected; she ran trembling to open the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Livyett."

She tried to read his face, but the expression on it was new to her. He
looked away from her while he spoke and his hands fumbled.

"I--I've come for Pete's things. He asked me to ask you to pack his
bag-- He--he has to go away."

"Away. . . ."

"Yes--he has to push off at once to catch his train--business, you know.
He has to look at some stock for me. Here's a note."

She took it, staring at her hand to make sure that it did not tremble.

"Won't you come in?"

"Oh, thanks. . . . . I'll just sit here and wait for the bag. I don't
suppose he wants much."

She saw then that his expression was one of embarrassment--only that. He
was embarrassed by the part he had been made to play, sorry for her and
perhaps a little ashamed of Pete, but sorry for him too. She felt
relieved, for obviously he suspected nothing; though the next moment she
asked herself why she should have thought that he suspected anything.
There was nothing in Clara Chance's death to rouse any suspicion. Even
Peter probably did not suspect anything. . . . She must look and see.
Directly she was upstairs she tore open his note.


"DEAR MOLLY,

"This is to tell you that Clara Chance is dead. After what happened
between us last night"--(What had happened? She could not remember: her
mind felt numb.)--"I feel it would be as well if I did not see you for a
while. Pearce wants someone to go to Norwich Agricultural Show and buy a
stallion for service here, so I said I'd go. I'll let you know where I
go afterwards. Please pack my good suit as well as my shirts and things.

                                                           "PETER."


She read the letter twice and even then she did not know its import.
What did he mean? Was he never coming back? He must be--he wouldn't
desert his children like that, even if he would desert his wife. But he
evidently meant to stay away some time. He was fed up with her--he could
not bear to have her near him in his sorrow. Did he suspect anything? He
must, or he would not be so angry. And yet how could he? He must be
angry because of what had happened last night. But nothing had happened
last night--nothing, nothing; if it had she could not remember it.

Mechanical with fright she packed his best suit, some shirts and collars
and his night things. He must hate her or he would have come back to say
good-bye. He must suspect her. But he could not--Clara's death was
perfectly natural. No one could suspect foul play, and she had spoken
most carefully last night. . . . Carefully? she had spoken graciously.
She had amazed Peter because she had refused to "have things out,"
refused to quarrel. How dared he talk about "what happened last night"?
He was angry with her--that was all, and wanted to worry her and upset
her by going away. Or perhaps it was just that he wanted to be alone
till he had got over his loss. She was feeling calmer when she took down
the bag to Pearce.

"Here it is. I hope there's everything he wants."

"Thanks very much. I don't suppose he'll be away long--the Show closes
on Saturday."

"Oh, it'll do him good to get a change."

"Yes, I thought so. I--I mean, when he suggested going after the horse
. . . but I should have thought of it earlier, so that he had more
notice. . . ."

"That doesn't matter a bit. I'm sure he doesn't mind that."

He still stood looking at her anxiously and it struck her that it would
seem odd if she did not mention Clara's death.

"I hear Mrs. Chance is dead."

"Yes--she died this morning. Doctor Seafield called and found her very
bad--almost gone--and she died an hour later."

She hoped her face had not changed much. "Did--did he expect it to end
like that?"

"No--in fact, he told me he thought her much better yesterday. But these
things often take a sudden turn for the worse."

"You've seen him, then?--Doctor Seafield."

"Yes, he came round--I mean, I met him in the drive. He told us--me that
Mrs. Lurgan found her dying when she went in this morning. She must have
been taken bad in the night, when nobody was there."

"She ought to have had someone sleeping in the house."

"Yes, of course; but she wouldn't even have Mrs. Lurgan. She was always
alone--I don't think anyone ever went to see her much."

He evidently did not know that she had been; no one knew but Pete. No
one was at all suspicious--she hadn't been so stupid as Clara had made
out. . . . Then suddenly it occurred to her that it would have been
better if she hadn't mentioned the death after all. She wasn't likely to
have heard of it so quickly, alone here at Mayshaves cottage. Of course
Peter had mentioned it in his note, but Pearce wasn't supposed to know
that. Pearce believed that she did not know anything about Peter and
Clara, or at least that Peter did not know she knew. . . . A mazed
feeling of exhaustion came over her. Henceforward she would never know
what to say or what not to say. She would never dare speak until she had
read the mind of the person she was speaking to, and as she wouldn't be
able to read everyone's mind, she would always go on making mistakes
like this.


                                  III

That afternoon she went into the town to do some shopping. She could not
endure the thought of any more lonely hours in the house. Also at the
back of her mind she had a feeling that if she went into the town she
might find out something that would help her. So she left the children
playing in the meadow and took the 'bus in to Huddlestreet.

There was a cheap return ticket on market Thursdays and the 'bus was
crowded. She had to nod to several women that she knew. This had not
occurred to her when she set out, or she would not have gone, for she
dreaded the thought of having to speak to people. However, she managed
to avoid any actual conversation, sitting by herself in the front seat.
But she felt that all the women behind her were whispering about her,
wondering how glad she was that Clara Chance was dead. She could feel
all their eyes boring into her back. It was lucky for her to have her
husband's mistress die like this. Lucky? Was it only lucky? Now, you
know she might have done something to help . . . some women did--that
woman at Streatham for one. Perhaps Mrs. Livyett had done something very
much the same.

In the town she bought an evening paper, and saw that the trial was
nearing its end. The prosecuting counsel had made his speech, and
to-morrow would come the speech for the defence and the judge's summing
up--and perhaps the verdict. She would not hear till the day after
to-morrow what had happened to the prisoner. How should she ever endure
waiting so long? For in some curious way the prisoner's fate had become
her own. She felt that if she was acquitted all would be well with Molly
Livyett, but if she was condemned then the whole world would know that
Molly Livyett had poisoned Clara Chance.

The women were talking about the trial in the 'bus on the way home. One
or two of them had bought evening papers and were reading bits of them
aloud to the others. This time Molly could not escape into isolation on
the front seat, for the only empty place was next to Mrs. Vine, a very
talkative woman who kept the shop at Churchsettle.

"Seen the paper, Mrs. Livyett?"

"Yes. I've got the Argus."

She had been a fool to come out into the world like this. She might have
known what would happen.

"How do you think it'll turn out?"

"What?"

"That murder trial. I'm ready to bet a shilling the woman gets off."

"I'll take you," said a tall, thin, elderly woman who managed a small
chicken-farm at the back of the village. "She'll be hanged for certain
sure."

"And what makes you say that, Mrs. Bousted?"

"Well, it's all in the paper, Mrs. Vine. That lawyer who's against her
put it most clear to my thinking. She didn't like her husband going
after that gal, as none of us would, and she bought a tin of weed-killer
made of arsenic, and he died of arsenic poisoning; so as far as I can
see it's clear enough."

"But things in the law aren't the same as in life," said Mrs. Tickner, a
farmer's wife from Fourmile Houses. "I marked that well when our case
was on. There were we with proof that that fellow had swindled the
Copthalls as well as us, and they wouldn't so much as let us mention it,
and we had to hold our tongues and see the verdict given against us."

"Oh, we all know the law's queer," said Mrs. Bousted, "but it seems to
me that the thing's proved against her by the evidence that's out. No
one needs to say any more or prove that she ever murdered anyone else."

"I can't think how she was such a fool as to use arsenic," said the
thinner voice of Mrs. Lampen, the schoolmaster's wife; "everyone knows
that it's a poison that can't be hidden even in the grave. I mean, even
if the doctor doesn't suspect anything at the time the body can be dug
up months afterwards and arsenic found in it."

"That's what happened here," said another woman; "at least the coroner
stopped the funeral and had him opened."

"What made him think of that?"

"Oh, everyone was talking, and he'd had some anenomous letters. Didn't
you read about it?"

"Can't say I did. Well I'm glad it was found out if it happened. I've no
sympathy with poisoners."

"No, it's a mean way of killing anyone. And I can't think why she killed
the man and not the woman. If I ever wanted to murder anyone it 'ud be
the woman who'd stolen my man and not the man I wanted as bad as all
that, if you take my meaning."

"She couldn't have wanted him. It was just revenge."

"We're all talking as if she were guilty, but she may get off
to-morrow."

"She won't get off. Mark my words."

"I'm not so sure."

"If she was innocent why didn't she go into the witness box? It always
tells against them if they don't. I say she's done it and I hope she's
hanged. Are you getting out here, Mrs. Livyett? The Black Lion's
nearer."

"I want . . . I have to give a message to Mrs. Lurgan."

She was off the 'bus before she remembered that the Black Lion was
nearer to Mrs. Lurgan too.


She watched the 'bus disappear, then turned off into the fields. She
felt sick and faint, almost collapsing. Those dreadful women! Their
tongues would kill her. Yes, perhaps they would actually kill her, as
the tongues of women like them would have killed that poor thing at the
Old Bailey. They were probably all talking about her now. They would
talk and talk and perhaps write anonymous letters until the coroner
heard about it. They were bound to suspect something, with Peter gone
away like this. Oh Pete! Pete! why did you go and leave me all alone
among those talking women? I did this to bring you back to me because I
love you--I love you--and instead you've gone away and left me alone
just when I need you most. They'll talk and talk until it gets round to
the police, and even if Clara's buried they can dig her up and find the
poison in her body.

She began to cry, weakly in self-pity. She could walk no farther, but
setting down her parcels in the field she sank into a heap beside them
and sobbed unrestrainedly. Her tears did her good; they seemed to
relieve some of the throbbing anguish in her head. She noticed two silly
sheep staring at her; they were like the women, only mercifully dumb. It
was funny to see them stare like that, and, come to think of it, it was
probably the first time they had seen a woman cry--it wasn't usual for a
woman to lie in the corner of a field and sob and cry. Their fleeces
were brown instead of white, and she realized that it was the colour in
the dip . . . hastily scrambling her parcels together she got up and
walked away. But the next field was full of coloured sheep, all dipped
and dyed in Clara Chance's death.

She did not dare go home till her face had recovered from her weeping,
so she had to sit in the fields among the accusing sheep till her pocket
mirror showed her that she was fit to appear before the children. They
would be full of questions, of course--had been so at dinner-time; but
she was not afraid of their questions, because they were content with
her random answers: Oh yes, Daddy would soon be back. He had only gone
to Norwich to look at some big horses. Yes, he was sure to bring them
something home.

They loved their father and it was cruel to see them missing him like
this; it had been better for them while he was running after Clara
Chance. Even if he had sometimes been out at nights, they had at least
seen something of him during the day, whereas now they saw nothing.
Perhaps he would never come back--perhaps he would write to her telling
her she had better arrange a separation. She would be left on some small
allowance to struggle alone with her fatherless children. Oh, no, no,
not that. Oh, Pete, come back! I did it to bring you back--come back!

That night between sleeping and waking Clara Chance came again. She
said:

"You were a fool to use arsenic."

"Yes, but what else could I use?"

"Well, personally I think you needn't have used anything at all--things
were better then than they are now. But if you had to poison me you
needn't have been in such a damned hurry; you could have waited until
you'd found out something safer than arsenic. There are several things
that are safer as well as less painful."

"But not so easily come by; besides, I had to act while you were ill.
It's safer killing an ill person than a well one."

"But not with arsenic. You see it's still in me as you read in the
evidence--in my stomach, in my liver, in my nails and my hair. If Doctor
Seafield's suspicions were aroused he could find it to-morrow; and even
after I'm buried, if those women talk. . . ."

"Oh, no, no! They won't talk."

"But they will talk. They'll talk about you as they talked about that
other woman. They'll have noticed that you were uneasy while they were
discussing the trial, and that you got out of the bus a stage too early.
I tell you that if you want to commit a murder you must think of
everything, and so far you've thought of nothing. . . ."

"Pete doesn't suspect me."

"He may or he may not. I don't know. But if he doesn't now he will when
he comes back and hears the talk. You'd better pray that he never comes
back."

"Oh, Clara, Clara, forgive me! Don't torture me like this."

"I'm not torturing you. It's your own heart that tells you these
things--your own heart crying out with my voice. . . . I tried to act
honestly by you because I was grateful to you for coming. I didn't know
you'd come to kill me, to leave me to die alone in agony in the dark."

"Clara, forgive me."

She was certain now that someone was there--and she could see Clara's
medicine bottle shining on the table. . . . It seemed to light up all
the room . . . then suddenly darkness fell and she woke in the dark.


The next night Clara was almost comforting. At first Molly had thought
she would not come, for it was a long time before sleep was near enough
for her voice to be heard. She lay wide awake, trembling at the thought
of to-morrow's newspaper, which would tell her the result of the trial.
Not a rumour had reached her all day. At one time she had actually
thought of going into Huddlestreet again for an evening paper, but in
spite of what Clara had said she was not such a fool as all that.
Besides, she did not really want to know--she was afraid of knowing. She
had not the courage or the strength to go into the town and buy a paper,
even if to do so would not excite suspicion. She must wait for
to-morrow's news.

It was while she lay awake thinking of these things that she knew that
she wanted Clara to come. Listening to Clara was not so bad as lying
here alone and wakeful in the dark with Peter's empty place beside her.
She would not believe that Clara's voice was only the voice of her own
heart; she felt sure that someone had been with her, someone who once
thought of her kindly--who perhaps even thought of her kindly still.
. . . Yes, she would believe that, for though Clara had begun by mocking
and reproaching her she had changed during her last two visits--she was
sorry for her now. She did not seem to bear her any grudge, but to
understand and pity her. Clara could afford to pity her, for she was
really the better off of the two.

"It isn't so bad," said Clara; "it isn't so bad being dead, especially
when, like me, you die thinking kindly. I thought kindly of you when I
died, and I hoped Pete would be good to you. I hoped he hadn't told you
too much so that you shouldn't worry about the past once I was safe out
of the way. Of course I didn't know what you'd done and when I knew I
hated you like hell. . . . But now I don't hate you any more. I'm sorry
for you, for I'm better off than you are. I don't say that being dead is
grand, especially when you're a woman who enjoyed her life as I did, but
it's better than running away from your own shadow, or wandering in the
fields where the very sheep accuse you, or lying awake at night with a
man's empty place beside you, while your heart cries out for vengeance
with my voice."

"Oh, Clara, don't! don't!--don't say things like that. They're worse
than the things you said when you were angry."

"I can't help what I say, for I tell you I'm only speaking with your
voice. If you think a thing I've got to say it, and you think I'm better
off than you because I'm dead."

"I do--I wish I was dead like you."

"Nothing's easier. You've only got to sit still and let the women talk."

"Oh, no! no! no!"

Her own voice woke her, crying out in terror. She was panting with her
face in the pillow--cowering with a rope round her neck . . . it was
only the sheet that had got twisted. She sat up in bed, trembling and
gulping the air, filling her lungs and wondering how she could ever have
wanted to die. The room was full of light; thank heaven that morning had
come! She would go downstairs and make herself a cup of tea.

Lifting the blind, she saw that the sun had steeped the meadows in a new
day. The trees, the hedges and the further green of the woods all seemed
alight in themselves, burning with a green fire, giving light to the sun
rather than taking light from it. The air and the earth smelled as if
new-made. She turned from the window with a queer pain in her heart, and
began huddling on her clothes almost without seeing them.

Downstairs she lit the kitchen fire and put the kettle on to boil.


                    "I took a kettle large and new,
                     Fit for the deed I had to do."


The words came to her from some hidden place in her childhood, and she
repeated them over and over again as she went about her work. At all
costs she must not let herself think.


                "My heart went hop, my heart went thump,
                 I filled the kettle at the pump."


She heard a movement outside the door--a car was stopping . . .
footsteps sounded on the brick path, then came a queer rustling sound. A
newspaper being pushed under the door--the morning newspaper. She saw it
lying on the mat, all except one corner which was still under the door.


             STREATHAM MURDER: PRISONER SENTENCED TO DEATH


                  "Then someone came to me and said,
                  'The little fishes are in bed.'

                  "I said to him, I said it plain,
                  'Then you must wake them up again.'"


Quick! Quick! she must remember some more.


                 "I said it very loud and clear. . . ."


She had forgotten the rest. No----


                  "I took a corkscrew from the shelf:
                   I went to wake them up myself."


That was it. She would go and wake the children. It must be nearly time.


              "And when I found the door was locked,
               I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.

              "And when I found the door was shut
               I tried to turn the handle, but----"


"Mummy, what _are_ you saying?"

"It's only a funny poem, dear, that I used to know when I was a little
girl."

"Go on with it. Say some more."

"I don't think there is any more."

"But there must be--it hasn't really ended."

"It ends like that in the book." ("Is that all?" Alice timidly asked.
"That's all," said Humpty Dumpty. "Good-bye.")

"Well, I think that's sillay."

"Don't say 'sillay,' darling. Say 'silly.' And it's meant to be
silly--funny, I mean."

"Why?"

A sudden exasperation seized her. How ignorant and foolish they
were--just like animals, except that a dog would understand her better.
A dog would know that she was in anguish and stay quietly beside her,
whereas these two children scrambled and chattered and quarrelled,
tormenting her with their questions.

"Hurry up," she said; "hurry up and get dressed. I want us to have
breakfast early."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going out."

She had suddenly made up her mind to go out. She must get away from her
children. She saw now that she had lost them too, as well as Peter.

"Mayn't we come with you?"

"No; it's going to be a very hot day--you'd much better play in the
garden."

"Where are you going, Mum?"

She opened her mouth to say "I don't know," but changed it into "Never
you mind."

She must know what the women were saying. She must go where she could
hear them talk--perhaps they would be talking in the shop . . . or the
inn . . . though it was more likely that they would all be at home doing
their housework. She might have to wait till next Thursday, for the
cheap 'bus into Huddlestreet. . . . She could not possibly wait so long.
She must know at once what they were saying about her. If only it was
Mrs. Lurgan's "day"! She always knew what was being talked of in the
village, could always be trusted to repeat the latest gossip. She would
know what the other women were saying about the trial and about Clara
Chance. After all, Molly had not seen her since Clara's death--she might
have a lot to tell her about that. She had been the one who found Clara
dying and sent for the doctor. . . . If only it was her "day"! But she
would have longer to wait for that than for the Huddlestreet 'bus.

Then she remembered that in the undisturbed course of events Mrs. Lurgan
would be going to Potkiln to-day; that through Clara's death she had
lost part of her employment and was probably at home this morning,
unless somebody else had snapped her up. It might be worth while going
round to her cottage and having a talk with her; she could easily make
the excuse of wanting her for an extra day herself. She both dreaded and
longed to talk to someone about Clara Chance.


Mrs. Lurgan's cottage was at the back of the village, separated from the
main street by a row of gardens. By the time she reached it Molly had
begun to hope that she would not find the old woman at home. As her mind
passed out of the numbness of shock she realized that the thing which
had frightened her so dreadfully had no real substance of danger. The
Streatham poisoner's doom could not possibly involve her own, any more
than her acquittal could have saved her. The connection between their
fates was quite imaginary, existing only in the fever of her terrified
mind. On the other hand she had her own needs, her own perils and
emergencies. Talking to Mrs. Lurgan was not likely to be the best way of
providing against these. At best it might distress her, at the worst it
might betray her. . . . She hesitated outside the closed door. Had she
still time to go before it was opened? Then suddenly the latch moved and
she forced a smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Lurgan."

"Good morning, mum."

It seemed as if the old woman was peering at her sharply.

"I--I just called in to ask if perhaps you could manage to come to me on
Monday."

"Step inside, won't you?"

Molly hesitated; fear, monstrously divided, pulling her two different
ways.

"I don't know . . . thank you very much--I think I must be getting on."

"Just a minute while I look at my book. It's hot out there in the sun."

This was the first time Molly had ever been asked inside the cottage,
and Mrs. Lurgan's urgency seemed to her unnatural. No doubt she wanted
to talk--perhaps to question her. . . . She had better go away. Yet she
had come for that very purpose--to talk. Here was her chance to find out
what was being said about her in the village. And it would look odd and
suspicious if she refused to come in.

"Thanks very much--just while you look at your book."

The little kitchen was clean, but untidy and rather dark. Mrs. Lurgan
brought forward a chair.

"You look tired--at that you do!"

"It's a very hot day."

"It is, surelye. I feel the heat pretty bad myself. I'm old."

"I just called in for a moment to ask if you'd be able to come on
Monday. I must start my jam-making, or the fruit will be over-ripe, and
that doesn't give me much time to get round the house."

Mrs. Lurgan nodded and peered at her book. "I could come that day I
reckon. It's one I used to give that poor creature. I've some days to
spare now that she's gone. I'd have been over there this morning if she
hadn't died."

"Yes, I know."

"You've heard all about it, I reckon?"

"No, only that she's dead."

"Wasn't you surprised?"

"Yes, yes, dreadfully surprised. I--I thought she was getting better."

"So did we all. It didn't seem natural her dying sudden like that. She
wasn't old like me."

Molly felt sick. She wished she hadn't come. Mrs. Lurgan would only
frighten her more terribly than she was already frightened. There seemed
to her as she sat there something sinister about the room, something
ominously familiar. Looking round it she realized that a number of
Clara's things were there. The darkness had so dimmed the colours of her
Spanish shawl that she had not recognized it when she first came in. Now
she saw it trailing over the back of a chair, on the seat of which were
unmistakably two of Clara's hats, while on a little table close by stood
a bottle of whisky.

Mrs. Lurgan followed her travelling gaze.

"Yes, those are her things. She gave them to me. I was with her when she
died."

"I know. Mr. Pearce told me."

"Mrs. Bousted was saying as you'd heard of it from him. Mr. Livyett
didn't come home at all then, before he left?"

A deep flush crept over Molly's cheeks. She was angry as well as
frightened. What right had Mrs. Lurgan to speak to her in this way? She
must suspect her or she couldn't dare be so impertinent. The women were
talking as she had feared, and their talk was no less insulting than it
was perilous. But the next moment it occurred to her that they might
suspect no more than Pete's infidelity, his passion for Clara Chance.
They were all agog to know how he had borne the news of her death and
what were his forsaken wife's reactions to it. The thought gave her
courage to speak.

"Mr. Livyett had to go to Norwich Show for Mr. Pearce, and he hadn't
time to come home first. Luckily I knew he was going the day before and
had his bag packed ready for him. He had only to send for it."

She spoke with a struggling carelessness that failed obviously to
deceive Mrs. Lurgan.

"It was what Mrs. Bousted said that made me wonder. Her Joe works at
Mayshaves and he was there when Doctor Seafield brought round the news."

Molly could have bitten her tongue. With a little thought she might have
avoided this display of herself as a liar. She should have guessed that
Mrs. Lurgan would know more than she did about what happened at the
farm. The women sat at home, but their eyes and ears were all over the
district in the heads of their husbands, brothers and sons.

This conversation was only leading her into danger. She must put an end
to it by going home.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lurgan. Then I'll expect you on Monday."

"Surelye. But don't you hurry off. You're looking tur'ble ordinary. I
believe that poor thing's death is worrying you."

"I didn't--I don't like to think of her dying alone."

"She wasn't alone. I was with her. As luck would have it I got there
early that morning, and directly I saw her I knew as she was dying. I'd
have gone for the doctor myself, but she begged and prayed me not to
leave her; and then I saw Tom Pannell in the road and I shouted out of
the window to him to go, while I stayed with her and held her poor hand.
You've no idea of the state she was in, but I couldn't do nothing; for
she was too weak for me to change her nightgown or the sheets. Besides,
said I, since she's dyin' let her die in peace. When she's dead we'll
have her clean enough."

Molly shuddered, but felt in a measure relieved. The old woman only
wanted someone to listen to her, to hear all about her share in the
drama of Clara's death. She wanted to unload the ghoulish contents of
her mind and boast of her usefulness. It would be unwise to cross her by
cutting her short.

"She thanked me for what I done," continued the old woman. "Lying there
she said: 'You can have my whisky, Luggy, and you can have my shawl and
anything else you fancy.' That was all she spoke, for she was almost
gone."

"Did Doctor Seafield get there before the end?"

"Scarcely, as you might say--she was only just breathing. I reckon he
was as surprised as anyone at her going like that. For she was getting
better, all owing to his medicine. She'd said only the day before as
that medicine was doing her a power of good--a valiant strong medicine
it was. She'd finished a bottle of it and had just started on another. I
gave her the first dose out of it myself."

Molly began to talk at random.

"Doctor Seafield's a very clever doctor. He'd have pulled her round if
anyone could. . . . I was surprised when I heard she'd gone. I was
upset. For I liked her--I liked her very much."

"She told me you'd been around to see her the day before. She hadn't
looked for it."

Once again Molly felt sick--this time so sick that she thought she might
faint.

"Oh . . . she told you I'd been round there."

"Aye, she told me you'd come and she was sorter worried because she
hadn't done better by you in some ways. But I told her you wasn't the
sort to bear a grudge--not like that woman they're going to hang. I was
sure as you weren't the sort to do like that, I told her--as I told the
others."

"What others?"

"All the folk around here who are saying it was mighty queer as you
should go to see poor Mrs. Chance the day before she died."

"Why--why should it be queer?"

"Well, it ain't my business to say."

Molly moistened her lips with her tongue, which felt swollen and stiff.
Her throat seemed to have contracted and to be so dry and small that she
could hardly force the words through it. She must get out of here before
she was too ill to go. She stood up.

"There's always been a lot of gossip about Mrs. Chance, but I don't like
listening to it. I really must go home now."

"Oh, don't you hurry off, Mum. You look tur'ble awkward. Let me make you
a cup of tea. I could do with a cup of tea myself."

"I really mustn't stay."

"It won't take more than a minute--the kettle's nearly boiling. You and
me will have a nice cup of tea together."

"But I mustn't . . ."

"I shall be tur'ble sorry if you go, and I can't think what everyone
'ull say at my letting you walk out looking so awkward. They'll think it
queer you wouldn't stop and have a nice cup of tea with me."

Molly sat down. Her legs had suddenly failed to support her.

"I--I should like some fresh air."

"Well, we can open the window. It's a long time since it was opened, but
it still works. There you are!"

A heavy breath came through the screen of geraniums, bearing their scent
on its heat. Molly held her hand to her head. She seemed to have left
the world and to be living in a dream--a dark dream, smelling of
geraniums. As in a nightmare she watched Mrs. Lurgan hobble across from
the window to the hearth and push the kettle over the fire, and as in a
nightmare heard her say:

"Don't 'ee worry, Mrs. Livyett. You can trust me. I don't listen to the
talk. I tell 'em it's all nonsense."

"Who--what are they saying?"

"That you poisoned poor Mrs. Chance same as that creature poisoned her
husband. It's those women--they've nothing to do but talk, and now the
trial's over, they've started on you. They say you had more sense than
her, for you didn't kill your husband but the woman who'd come between
you, and there seemed better sense in that. But I tell 'em it's all
nonsense, whichever way it was, and I don't believe none of it. Mrs.
Vine was in here this morning saying someone ought to go to Doctor
Seafield; but I told her--now hold up, dearie! don't let yourself go.
I'm coming."

She ran across the room to Molly, but was not in time to prevent her
falling from her chair.


"There you are--that'll do you good."

Was it Clara who had spoken? And was that light the sunrise creeping
through the bedroom blind? Clara, stay with me, comfort me, don't go
. . . don't leave me alone to die.

"There, there; that's better."

She felt a coolness in her mouth--a coolness that seemed to pass into
her head, driving the darkness away. She swallowed. A pleasant familiar
taste lay upon her tongue. Once more the coolness came into her mouth,
and she swallowed again, refreshed. Then she opened her eyes.

Mrs. Lurgan was bending over her.

"There, I knew it would do you good. Have another drop."

"No, thank you."

"Come, you should ought. There's plenty more. The bottle's nearly full.
It's Mrs. Chance's, and I haven't touched any of it till now."

"No, I really don't need any more. It might make me drunk--it's so long
since I tasted whisky."

"Bless your innocence! that ain't whisky. That's her medicine--her fine
strong medicine."

"Mrs. Chance's medicine. . . ." She sat up and tore open her collar.

"Yes, I took it back home with me along of the other things. I couldn't
bear to see a fine bottle of medicine go to waste like that--only one
dose she'd had out of it. I made sure it 'ud come in useful, and so it
has. You look a heap better."

"You haven't given me Mrs. Chance's medicine!"

"Reckon I have, and why shouldn't I? It's fine doctor's medicine that
nearly made her well, and might have saved her if I could have got any
of it into her when she was dying. But she was past swallowing, poor
dear--her teeth were kinder set together as if they was soldered
and--sweet heaven! she's off again."

Molly's head fell back crashing on the floor. She felt something against
her clenched teeth--Mrs. Lurgan was trying to make her swallow some more
of the liquid. But her teeth were set together as if they were soldered,
and the last thing she felt before she fainted right away was the
medicine running out of the corners of her mouth.



                                   V

                       _The Field of the Irises_

In the summer of 1920 Josephine walked up the road from Mullion with her
back to the sea. The wind blew from behind her, fanning the dust into
the hedges, where it lay, a white powder over the wild rose. The road
was white with dust, and looked dreary as it lifted slowly towards
Penhale. It was always the same, when you came inland in Cornwall--all
the beauty grew by the sea. Inland the roads were frowsy and
adventureless; and yet she was always coming inland, leaving Sue to
drowse on the beach and get the fine grey sand all over her skirts. In
Sussex the beauty was not by the sea; things were reversed, and the
coastline was banal and meretricious, while inland lay secrets and
loveliness--little field-paths and wood-paths, and flowery slopes of
meadows, and farms sunk deep in the thickets of their orchards. She
began to wish she had gone to Sussex this year instead of to Cornwall.
Yet even now she was not sure that she could bear to be in Sussex.

She had not been there since 1916. Before the war she had lived there.
To-day it was like a dream--living at Chiddingly, seeing Eric every day.
There was something unreal about the way she had thought of him for so
long as no more than Eileen's husband. Then just as she had suddenly
seen him with changed eyes, while she was yet giddy with her discovery,
before she had had time to plan or act, war had broken out and sliced
her life in two. He had belonged to the part cut off, and had gone with
it. She had told herself that she ought to be glad. Eileen was her
friend.

Perhaps she might have grown to be really glad if it had not been for
that day in the third summer of the war, when she had accidentally met
him in town, and he had thought her looking pale and washed out, and
finding she had a week-end off from the Government office where she
worked, had asked her to come down to him and Eileen at Chiddingly. They
were there just for his leave--packing up the place preparatory to a
let. It had all been rather in confusion, and she was conscious of a
strain between herself and Eileen. But she had loved seeing the old
place, and on the Sunday Eric and she had walked out to a farm over by
Golden Crouch and had tea there. That had been perfect--to her; she
could not tell what he had felt about it, though from time to time a
look in his eyes, an inflection of his voice had given her a delicious
wound--a wound which she healed unwillingly with the medicine of her
duty to Eileen.

That had been the end of it all. Six months later he was reported
wounded and missing. She had written to Eileen and offered her
conventional sympathy, begged for news if any came. There had been
none--at least, not up to the end of 1918, by which time Eileen had
somehow drifted below her horizon. She had heard indirectly from the
Sharps, three or four months before the Armistice, that nothing more had
been heard of him. Then she had thought it better not to inquire again;
better think that he was dead. . . . But how silly she was!--not even a
word of love had passed between them. It had probably all been just her
sentimental fancy. Sometimes she was ashamed of the tiny seed from which
her life's harvest had sprung. Other women, with their substantial,
full-grown romances, would laugh at her if they knew; they would see the
beginnings of old maidenhood in her romantic reconstruction of an
ordinary friendship. And yet she could not stamp the feeling out, or
think it foolish or renounce its comfort in these grey, post-war years.

She had come to the twist of the road on the hillside, the corner where
you catch your first or last glimpse of Mullion Church-town. She stood
for a moment and looked back--the sea was a blue gash between the hills.
The hum of a car on the road beyond the bend made her look behind her,
and as she looked she caught sight of a slabbed Cornish stile, with a
little footpath leading into some fields. Footpaths always attracted
her--though in Cornwall she usually found them disappointing--there was
always the chance that they might lead to some hidden farm or secret
field that would remind her of home, and let her dream of the old days
unhampered by that green, hard outline which so often made thoughts of
Sussex impossible.

Konk-honk. . . . Whoosh. . . .

The car was closer than she thought. It seemed to be upon her. She felt
the swirl of it as it went by, and then she suddenly found herself
standing on the slabs of the stile. For a moment she thought that it had
struck her--she felt a dull pain as from a blow on her left shoulder,
but almost instantly it had passed, and not troubling any more about it
she stepped down on the footpath.

It ran on straight for a yard or two, and then turned suddenly to the
right. She gave a start of surprise. Before her lay a field full of
yellow irises massed, with a fleck of ragged robin, at the end of a wide
blue pond which stretched the length of two or three fields to a distant
farmhouse, half-hidden among trees. The hedges rose out of a foam of
meadow-sweet, the scent of which puffed softly to her where she stood.
Her eyes swam a little with the effect of sunshine dancing on yellow,
green, white, and blue; but her heart was beating fast with joy. She had
never thought that anything so beautiful, so peaceful, so homelike in
its effect of flowers and water, could be hidden near the austerities of
the Penhale road. It was queer that she had never noticed the pond . . .
she looked back towards the road, but the high hedges hid it entirely,
their green mass dazzling against the blue. Even the line of the Poldhu
and Gunwalloe hills was wiped out, with the blue gash of the sea.

She sat down to rest on the fringe of the irises. She felt a little
tired and shaken--it must be the scare of that horrid car. This field
reminded her of a field at home--a field near Golden Crouch. She must
come again. She would come and bring Sue . . . she made a little
unwilling grimace, and remembered rather gladly that Sue would not care
for the field of the irises. She liked the sea, Polurrian and Poldhu,
and a swim in Mullion Cove. There was no need to share with her this
secret refuge, as she had already begun to call it in her heart.

But she would bring her back some irises. Feeling rested and refreshed,
she scrambled to her feet and wandered off into the marshy ground,
filling her arms with the big yellow flags. They had a dim, sweet,
indefinite scent, reminding her of something, she could not tell what.
For a moment she had a queer illusion, as of herself lying dead with an
armful of sweet-scented lilies, but she put it from her with a little
shiver, lifting her face thankfully to the sunshine.

She had come now to the edge of the pond, and saw that for several yards
the water flowed over the grass. The green coolness was tenderly
inviting to her feet, and she suddenly made up her mind to take off her
shoes and wade. The sea had never tempted her so much as this still,
green water, warm in the sun. Quickly taking off shoes and stockings,
she stepped in, and felt the healing of the water creep up her legs,
bringing a sweet peace to heart and brain. Under the soles of her feet
the grass was like tender moss . . . she paddled about on the rim of the
pond; a yard or two further on it seemed to slope into deep water, and
she kept close to the banks, watching the dragon-flies dart to and fro
among the irises, streaks of green-blue light, while the butterflies,
less subtle, poised in spots of yellow, and blue, and speckled red, on
the curled petals of the flowers. Lifting her arm, she pulled down a
bough of wild roses to her face, pressing her lips into the cool little
flowers . . . they scattered over her face, falling on her breast,
spattering on her skirt, and lying at last in a pale, scented scum on
the water.

She looked up, and staring drowsily through the sunshine, saw that she
was not alone in her refuge. A man was coming through the reeds at the
far end of the pond, evidently to bathe, for the light struck back in
whiteness from his shoulders above the tall reeds. He slid into the
water, and she saw him strike out, with a silvery wake of bubbles behind
him. He must have been a full furlong away at the deep end of the pond,
yet he was near enough to give her an almost overwhelming sense of his
happiness--of intense, clean, physical enjoyment. She seemed
mysteriously to feel his joy in the ripples under him, stroking back
from his arms, to share his pleasure in his strength and coolness and
his firm, straight progress through the water. It was as if she swam
herself--she who could only make a few uncertain strokes in Poldhu Bay.
Standing there at the edge of the pond, among the flag reeds, in sheer
delight, she clapped her hands.

He caught sight of her, and she was surprised to see him wave his arm,
and then turn and scramble back into the reeds. For a minute or two he
disappeared into the tangle of loosestrife, meadow-sweet, and dipping
willow boughs that mixed with the irises at the far end of the pond;
then, as she sat on the short, turfy grass, pulling on her stockings,
she heard a footstep crackling on some fallen twigs, and the next minute
he was beside her, smiling down at her.

She stood up with only her hands and her smile speaking for her. Her
heart was choking her with its thick beats. The joy was almost a pain in
its uncertainty. Could this be? Was it true, was it possible, that her
life had not been buried after all in a German grave, and now had come
back to her in this entranced place.

He seemed curiously unflurried.

"I thought I saw you while I was bathing," he said. "Have you been here
long?"

"No, I've only just come."

"I'm so glad."

His smile flashed out at her again--the good wide grin in his brown
face. She saw that he was wearing those same old grass-stained flannels
that Eileen had told him weren't fit to be seen, three years ago, at
Chiddingly.

"Is Eileen here?"--the disturbing question must be asked.

"Oh, no, she hasn't come."

"And you," she breathed, feeling the air lightened. "I didn't know . . .
the last I heard of you was that you were 'wounded and missing'--and up
till last year the Sharps had had no news of you."

"That all seems very long ago," he said. "I'm afraid you were unhappy."

He knew, then--he had seen.

"I was--rather."

"But it's all over now; it's astonishing how soon one forgets the things
that don't matter. All that horrible time in Germany--sometimes I find
it quite difficult to remember it, and soon you will, too."

"You'll tell me all about it, though?"

"Yes, I will--but not just yet; there are so many things I want to talk
about first."

They were walking along the edge of the pond, towards the group of
farm-buildings among the trees. The light was dipping and mellowing,
raking softly over the water and the reeds. Josephine had an uneasy
feeling about supper and Sue, but the next moment she drove it almost
angrily away. She wasn't going to spoil this perfect time by worrying
about Sue, who did not really care. Sue would sit down and have supper
without her when she had got tired of waiting, and meanwhile it was
possible that Eric would ask her to come and have supper with him at
this place where he was staying. That would be an evening's complete
atonement for the long sorrow of years. Of course, there was still
Eileen--but Eileen seemed to matter very little to-day, to fade into the
background with Sue, as someone who 'did not really care,' and therefore
did not really matter.

"What a beautiful place this is," she said.

"Ah, but you should have seen it when the primroses were out."

"Were you here then?"

"Yes, rather--I've seen it in the autumn, too, with the bracken.
Sometimes I go away, but I always come back."

"Are you stopping at that farm?"

"Yes, it's a wonderful place. You must come and have supper with me
there."

"Oh, I should love to. . . ."

They moved on over the short grass spiked with rushes. Their bodies
seemed to swim through the yellow sunset.

"How long are you here for?" asked Josephine, after a silence.

"I don't know. I haven't thought about it yet."

"Will Eileen come and join you?" She was beginning to feel a little
bewildered.

"Oh, no. I don't think you understand . . . Eileen and I will never see
each other again."

"What! You've separated! But I always thought. . . ." She was a little
scandalized by the levity with which he treated the subject.

"We never really belonged to each other, you know. She was a good sort,
and I'm glad I . . . but there never was any real link between us, and
we're much happier apart."

A flood of questions rose to her lips, but she could not let them pass.
There were questions that she simply could not ask him.

"Good old Eileen," he continued. "I hope she'll be happy--she deserves
it."

"You still think kindly of her, then?"

"Kindly! I should think I did!--and so she does of me."

"Yours seems to be the ideal separation--if you can imagine such a
thing."

"Yes, I think it is," he assented cheerfully.

They were coming to the farm now, and she noticed the unaccustomed flush
of red tiles through the trees. Her heart warmed towards it after all
the Cornish white and grey.

"You see," he continued, "Eileen and I never really mattered to each
other. I was fond of her--she had got me in that queer way you can't
explain. Perhaps we were fools to marry, but then I didn't know what the
other thing was--I didn't know till I'd met you."

"Till you'd met me----"

"No. Almost directly I saw you, I knew. I knew then what it means to
belong to a person. Eileen had just 'got' me--you 'belonged.' It's
queer, and difficult to explain. But it's absolutely true. I knew it
then for a fact--but I couldn't say anything to you because of Eileen
. . . and I didn't know whether you cared or not."

"You didn't know?"

"Of course, I knew afterwards, but not then--besides, there was old
Eileen. It was something of a fight, I can tell you, and I felt pretty
sick . . . but I'm glad now."

"And have you been thinking of me all this time?" she could hardly say
the words, she was like a woman in a dream.

"Of course I have, every moment. And now we're both free."

She did not understand him. The exact means by which he had broken free
from Eileen still puzzled her, though he talked as if she ought to know
all about the business. But she did not trouble much about this aspect
of their revived friendship--the past and the future seemed both to have
lost their significance. She felt melted, poured, into the present
minute. . . . Oh, was it a dream?--pray God it was not a dream. They had
come into the yard now, and were walking up to the farm. It was an old
red house, very like the farm at Golden Crouch, and yet not quite the
same. It lacked the new brick gable she had deplored, and the shape was
different, running out in wings. The tiles were mottled with lichen, and
queer cresses and mosses grew down the hollows of the old roof. "Why!"
she exclaimed, "it's just like a farm in Sussex--we might be back at
Chiddingly."

"It's a fine place, isn't it?" said Eric, "and they make me jolly
comfortable. There's Mrs. Bream; I'll tell her you're coming to supper."
He called to a youngish, pleasant-faced woman who was taking in some
washing, spread on bushes in the last of the sunshine.

"This is my friend, Mrs. Bream--the one I told you about. I met her in
the iris field, and she's coming in to supper. I hope you've got
something nice for us."

"Surelye," said Mrs. Bream, "there's a salad and strawberries."

Josephine touched his arm.

"She talks like the people at home--she doesn't sound a bit Cornish."

"She isn't Cornish; she comes from Sussex--she used to be at a farm down
by Selmeston, you know, where the downs begin. I knew her a bit then,
but not well. I'm awfully glad to have run across her now--she's a dear.
She's got some decent little kids, too--they're in there, in the
kitchen."

Josephine saw some small figures moving round a lamp. There was no lamp
in the room into which she followed Eric. A pleasant dusk hung over the
table, dimly revealing the shapes of bowls and cups, of a cottage loaf
and a great plate of strawberries.

She felt her heart grow large and warm as they sat down in the twilight.
Through the windows showed the trees, and the pale sky washed with
evening. The trees swung their branches to and fro across a single star.
. . .

Eric piled her plate with salad, and cut her some bread.

"We won't have the lamp yet," he said, "it's so beautiful like this; and
it's easier to talk. I've got such a lot to talk about that I don't know
where to begin--all the things I never said _then_. You're the same, I
expect."

"Yes," said Josephine, but she found herself unable to say them.

There was a hum of voices in the next room where the children were at
supper. Suddenly she caught some words raised above the others.

"It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness;
it is raised in power"--at the same time she seemed to hear the echo of
a woman's sobbing.

"What's that?" she cried sharply, gripping his arm.

"Nothing--don't look so scared. You've only overheard something--one
does occasionally."

"But that poor thing crying--somehow it sounded like Sue."

"She isn't really unhappy--she's only crying because she thinks it the
proper thing to do. Come, don't think about them."

Comforted, she turned to her plate and began eating the salad she could
not see in the twilight. The little light there was fell on Eric. He was
drinking out of a large bowl of milk, and as he held it to his lips his
sleeve fell back and she saw the drawing of a big scar on his arm.

"Is that where you were wounded?"

"Yes--one of the scars. Do you notice it much?"

"Not very much. Shall you always have it?"

"I suppose so."

"Does it ever hurt?"

"Oh, never."

He looked into her eyes.

"Come, you're getting scared again. You mustn't think about these
things--they don't matter, and I've such a lot to say to you now I've
got you for ever."

He held out to her lips the bowl from which he had drunk.


Sue could not stop crying, though she knew that her tears were out of
all proportion to her grief, for she had not really cared for Josephine,
not more than one usually cares for an occasional holiday companion. But
it was dreadful to think of her being knocked out like that all in a
moment by that car on the Penhale road.

"She had just nothing of a life, and now she's gone."

"Cheer up, dear," said her landlady; "she had a lovely funeral. I never
saw such flowers."



                                   VI

                            _A Wedding Morn_

                                   I

An Easter day was slowly breaking over one of those squares in North
Kensington which an ebbing prosperity has left derelict for many years.
Strips of golden cloud lay across the sky behind the houses and a
quickening light made the rare street lamps hang like dim fruit against
the trees of the garden. From innumerable backyards came the cluck and
croon of waking fowls, and every now and then the shrill note of a cock,
sending a dream of farms to the sleeping country-born. The whole place
was held in the dawn like a pearl, full of mysterious glows and a
brooding dimness. It was the Square's moment--a moment in which it was
almost a landscape of high cliffs and deep pools instead of a mere
agglomeration of houses, pavements and lamp-posts zoning a few exiled
trees. The moment passed as the light grew, and revealed the faces of
crumbling stucco, the waste paper that filled the gutters and drifted up
the doorsteps, the sooty tanglewood of the garden where the grass grew
rank and tall over the neglected paths and forgotten beds.

The dawn came in at the uncurtained window of a room set high in number
seven Luna Square. It stroked the sleeping face of Ivy Skedmore, and she
woke, for she was sleeping lightly. She started up, her mind full of
whirling wheels, of a dream that was scarcely done. Her big round eyes
went wildly round the room, and drew reassurance from the hanging strips
of wall-paper, the walls that were so high that they soared into shadows
under the ceiling, the cornices of plaster fruits and the matchboard
partition which shut her off from the room where her parents and the
children slept.

Ivy slept with the lodger, who went by the name of Miss Peach Grey,
forgetting some Baptismal Maud or Mabel, and worked as a model at a
small but aspiring dressmaker's. She was still asleep, and Ivy felt
glad, for she did not want talk or company just yet. She wanted to feel
herself alone, to gather some sort of strength with which to face the
day. How many hours? Of course she had no watch or clock. On working
days there was always the big buzzer at the paper works. But to-day was
not a working day, and she suddenly huddled herself over her knees as
she realized that there never would be another working day--no more
rising in clammy dusks, no more dressing in the darkness, no more
hastily drunken tea--she could feel the hot catch of it now in her
throat--gulped before she ran down the huge rickety flight, across the
Square into Luna Street, past the waking shops to the tube station, and
then with her worker's ticket into town, to the Oxford Street restaurant
where she washed up dishes, all day, all day . . . smells of grease and
cabbage water, the miserable roughness of her skin in the constant
water, the unutterable weariness of her legs at her unresting stand
before the sink . . . all day, all day. . . . No, never, never, never
again.

She sprang out of bed, forgetting the slumbers of Peach which luckily
were too deep to be disturbed. Her heart beat quickly and her pulses
tingled with the realization of the new world she was making for herself
by this marriage. She had escaped the tyranny of every-day and all day,
that deadly grind of going out to work; and she had not done as so many
girls did in marriage and merely exchanged paid labour for unpaid, the
back-breaking toil of the workshop for the heart-breaking struggle of
the home. From this day forward she would be easy and comfortable, she
would sit in a parlour and sleep in a brass bed, she would have electric
light, and bacon for breakfast, and a girl to help her sometimes in the
house. She, Ivy Skedmore, nearly twenty-seven now, who had slaved at one
ill-paid job after another ever since she had left school, and no
prospect before her but toil till her life's end, had captured the heart
of a childless widower, earning eight pounds a week as an electrician,
and offering her a snug little flat full of undreamed-of luxuries.

How it had all happened she scarcely remembered now. The first casual
meeting at a friend's house, the next unsought encounter, the appointed
tryst, later walks and excursions, the growth of expectation and the
final settlement, all were merged together in an uncertain fog, in which
stood many dark shapes she was wary of as she glanced back, so she
glanced but seldom. The fog stretched all the way to the year she had
left school. Before that it lightened, and she had neat clear memories
of family progressions from house to house, of brothers' and sisters'
births and deaths, of her work and play at school and in the streets.
The Skedmores were regarded as one of the old families of the district,
as though they had been driven, chiefly by internal expansion, to many
changes of residence, they had never moved out of the withered squares
and crescents of Royal Kensington, as she lies North and is forgotten by
her own kingdom in the South.

Ivy knew nothing of East End slum tradition--of drab rows of houses and
dreary pillars of tenements, which have never been anything but the
homes of the poor. The houses she had always lived in--the house she
lived in now--had been built with a very different intention. A tablet
in the wall of Number One Lunar Square recorded how the first stone had
been laid by the Hon. Mrs. Addleham in 1839. Enterprising Victorian
speculators had planned a new district of wealth and fashion on the
slopes behind the Notting Hill racecourse. They had designed squares and
crescents and terraces, and planted trees and gardens. For a few sweet
years, gay crinolines had swum over the pavements, elegant carriages had
stood at front doors pillared with gleaming stucco, the music of the
waltz and the polka had sounded of a winter's night, and in the
galleried churches Victorian ladies had prayed into their muffs and
Victorian gentlemen into their top hats.

It was all gone now. For some reason or other the district had never
really thriven. Those who wanted suburban air went to Putney and
Tooting; those who wanted the town remained clustered round Mayfair and
Belgravia. No one wanted to be either so far or so near as Paddington.
So rents and glory fell. The houses which had once been so respectable
and inviolate became disreputable and common. They sheltered two, three,
four, five families. Even their floors and finally their rooms were
divided. Their basements seethed. Strings of washing were run out, fowls
clucked in their areas. Their back gardens became backyards, and their
square gardens became jungles, the haunt of the sleeper-out and the
unchartered lover.


                                   II

When Ivy looked out of the window, she might, had she been so made, have
seen the ghosts of the happy and respectable people who once had lived
in Lunar Square and must have been vexed to haunt it by its present
ways. But instead of ghosts she saw only one or two cats prowling among
the rubbish in the gutter. The place was void and silent, alight, but
without the sun. The dawn wind rustled to her through the trees, and she
shivered.

Then she noticed a movement in the tanglewood of the Square garden. At
first she thought it was the wind, then that it was a pair of those
unchartered lovers. But the next moment a man pushed his way up to the
railings, and beckoned to her to come down.

She stood motionless. Her round eyes staring from under the shock of her
hair. So it was Bill--so he had come over, though she'd never thought
he'd do it. Bill . . . there was no matching him for cheek. There was
nothing he'd stop at. She caught her breath. Bill . . . he might have
left her alone. He was one of those dark shapes in the fog, and now he
had come out to stand in the dawn of her wedding day. How dared he? How
dared he, the swine! She clenched her hands fiercely and helplessly.
What was she to do? She couldn't make him go. She couldn't shout to him
across the silence of the Square. He was making signs to her. He was
beckoning her down. His lips were forming her name. The window was shut
and she could not hear distinctly, but she knew that he was calling her.
He mustn't call her. He mustn't wake the place.

She opened the window very softly and put her head out. She made signs
to him to go away, but he only grinned and shook his head.

"Come down," he called to her.

"Shut up."

"Come down."

"I can't. Do go away. They'll hear you."

"I don't care. If you don't come down, I'll come up."

"You can't."

But she knew he could. The catch of the front door at number seven was a
weak makeshift, and once he was in the house there were no keys between
him and her. She would have to go down. If she wanted peace and quiet
and decorum on her wedding day she would have to go down. She could
easily talk him into sense--she had done so many times. Then he would
go, and she could get on with her business.

Ivy did not wear a nightgown. She had always done so until recently, but
her couple were both worn out, and though she had bought three for her
wedding, a pink and a blue and a mauve, everyone knows that it is
unlucky to wear your wedding clothes before the wedding day. So for the
last month she had slept in her vest and knickers, and dressing this
morning was merely a matter of pulling on her old blue coat frock,
thrusting a comb through the tousle of her bobbed hair, slipping her
feet into her old black shoes with their worn soles and trodden-over
heels. What a blessing it would be never to wear them again. Of late
they had hurt her badly and they let in the wet. She thought of the
comfortable new pair waiting for her feet.

New clothes, new shoes, new furniture, a comfortable home, a comfortable
bed, light work, warm fires, good food. She thought of all these things
as she ran down the staircase of number seven. The banisters had most of
them gone for firewood, but the great and splendid width of the stairs
allowed her to run without fear of falling. She dragged open the front
door, and was out in a sudden snatch of cold.

The gate of the Square garden had long been pulled off its hinges, so
she was soon treading through the high grass to where Bill waited for
her, mercifully discreet, in a thicket of lilac.

"Don't let anybody see us," she said wildly, as he grasped her.

"They can't see us here."

"But they might have. . . . Oh, Bill, how could you? You nearly got me
into ever such a fix."

"Nonsense. Nobody'll wake up here for hours yet."

"Why did you come?"

"That's a pretty question. I came to see you."

"But why should you? I mean how dare you? You've no right to see me.
I've done with you, Bill."

"Yes, so you told me once. But that's no reason why I shouldn't come to
wish you luck on your wedding day."

"You know that's not why you've come."

"Of course it is; what else should it be?"

"Then why didn't you come at the proper time?"

"Because I'm going out for a day in Epping Forest. That's one reason,
and another is you never asked me. If I come to your wedding I come by
invite from the bride like a proper little gentleman. But I've a feeling
the card went astray in the post."

"I didn't know you were back," she said sulkily. "I thought your ship
didn't get in till the end of the month."

"So that's why you fixed to get married to-day."

"No, Mr. Smart, I'm getting married to-day because it's Easter Sunday."

"Is it reelly, Miss Clever? Well, we live and learn. And may I ask why
you're in such a temper on your wedding morning. Haven't things been
going as smooth as they ought?"

"Not since you came."

"But I haven't been here half an hour, and that temper of yours has been
brewing for days. I know my little Ivy."

"Don't."

She did not forbid his words so much as his hands which had come
suddenly about her waist.

"Don't, Bill."

"Why not?"

"Because if you've only come to wish me luck you've no right to--to mess
me about."

"Oh, so that's it. You think it should be hands off because I've only
come to pay you the compliments of the season. But suppose I told you
that I'd come to give you one last chance of changing your mind before
it's too late."

"Don't, Bill."

"It seems you can say nothing but 'don't.'"

"I--I can't bear it."

"Then I'll say 'don't.' Don't bear it, little girl."

Her hands flew up between them against his breast, but it was too late.
His arms were round her and his mouth on hers, forcing back her head.
The tears ran out of the corners of her eyes, but she made no resistance
and no sound. She merely seemed to melt and fade and grow weak, and then
suddenly to break, as love and sorrow smote her at once.


                                  III

After that they talked more quietly together. She had tried at first to
be angry, but she knew all the time her anger was unjust. She was vexed
with herself rather than with him--not for any moral failure, but for
allowing the past to come and upset the present, now at the very last
moment, when everything had seemed settled and she herself was ready for
everything. The fire in her had suddenly died, and she was cold and
abstracted as he talked on.

"You don't love this chap."

"Don't I?"

"Of course you don't. You know you don't. You love me--you've just shown
me that."

"I dunno."

"What d'you mean by you 'dunno'? I bet you do. I bet you wouldn't have
kissed me like that if you hadn't loved me."

She shivered.

"Ivy, little Ivy, give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. You didn't,
you know, last summer. There was I all burning for love of you, and you
sent me away."

"I didn't--your ship sailed."

"But you could have given me your promise to take with me."

"What 'ud have been the good of it? You said yourself you couldn't marry
for years."

"If you'd loved me you could have waited."

"That's just it--that's what I'm telling you the whole time. I don't
love you."

"Yes, you do--you've shown me that. You do love me--but it's the waiting
you can't manage. You're afraid of waiting. Well, I'll tell you
something. You shan't wait. I'll chuck the sea and get a job ashore. I'm
handy at most things and we could manage if you didn't mind having a job
of your own at the start. It was only as I didn't want you to have to
work, and if I'd gone on I could have done better for myself and you too
some day. But if waiting's all that's the matter, I tell you what I'll
do. I can't do much now, for I've only three days' leave--on Wednesday
we go to Middlesbrough to refit. But I'll make it my last voyage. We'll
be back in September and I'll marry you then. I'll get a job in a
garage--or maybe we could both go as caretakers somewhere. . . . I knew
a chap in the Navy who got a thundering good job as porter in a block of
flats . . . anyhow, we'll manage fine. So you go home, Ivy, and tell 'em
the wedding's off."

Ivy did not speak. She was still thinking--thinking, as she always
thought, in a series of pictures. She saw herself as she had been, going
out with Bill last summer, pleased with the places he took her to on
Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes of an evening in the week when she
was not too late or too tired. He had spent money freely, and done her
well, and other girls had envied her. He had kissed her freely too, and
asked her to marry him when he was better off. At present he was just an
ordinary seaman on the _Clio_, one of a small steamship line plying
between London and Sydney. Like her, he knew what it was to be out of a
job, though, as he said, he was handy at most things--at too many,
perhaps, she had criticized in her heart, and the reviving criticism
gave her a new set of pictures, this time of the future. She saw herself
standing in front of the sink--standing till September--another six
months of early and weary days, of roughened hands and greasy water, of
aching legs. . . . She'd already started what the Square called various
veins, and the dreaded threat of "bad legs" was upon her. . . . She had
thought it all over and done with, done with in time, before the evil
happened--another six months might bring it about, and she would have
legs like those of so many women she knew, like her own mother's, aching
and ulcerated, perpetually swathed in greasy bandages as one patent
ointment was tried after another. . . . At the thought her mouth and
nose wrinkled up adorably, and her pictures were destroyed by Bill's
provoked kiss.

"Sweetheart, I've got a better idea. Come away with me now, so as you
won't have to face them at home. I'll take you straight to Mother's, and
you can stop along of her till I come back. You'll like it, you know.
You and Mother always did get on together. You can go to work just as
easy from there as from here, and give her something for your keep and
save the rest."

Ivy laughed shortly. That showed the way he thought of things. "Save the
rest"--as if there'd be any "rest." Bill was too cocksure by half. He
saw things much too bright. He saw them married in September when most
likely they wouldn't have a penny piece to do it on. He'd have spent all
his money--he always did--and she wouldn't have managed to save any of
hers. He'd have to get another job, and try and save on that . . not
likely . . . more years of waiting, more years of working. Then there'd
be more working after she was married--standing before the wash tub just
as now she stood before the sink, standing over the kitchen fire, always
cleaning, always trying to manage on just too little. Bill's would be
the sort of home in which there was never quite enough, because Bill's
would be the sort of home in which there would always be periods of
unemployment, lean weeks that would eat up any small fullness, lean
weeks of struggle on the dole . . . she shivered again. She knew the
dole, and so did he--it was failure to get work on land that had sent
him to sea in the first place. Poor Bill . . . poor, darling adored
Bill. For of course she adored him, loved him . . . ever so much . . .
Oh God! That made another picture come. She had a picture of
babies--babies coming year after year, wearing her out as she had seen
so many women worn out, binding her yoke upon her without pity or rest.
Ivy had no illusions about marriage in general, and, more remarkably,
she had no illusions about marriage with Bill.

"Well, precious, what's it going to be?"

"Nothing," she jerked at him shortly.

"Ain't you coming with me?"

"No. And I'm not going to stop the marriage neither."

"Oh, yes, you are."

He tried to pull her close for another kiss, but she pushed him from her
almost violently.

"No, I say. Stop pawing me about. I won't have it. Gawd! You ought to
know better than to speak as you do, to me, as good as married. I tell
you I've made up my mind and I know what I'm doing. You leave me alone."

"Very well, Miss Spitfire. If you want to be miserable all your life,
you're free and welcome, and maybe I've had a lucky escape."

"I shan't be miserable. I'd be miserable if I married you, but I'll be
ever so happy if I marry Sid Hurley."

"Bah! He's older than your father."

"He ain't. He's only forty-six, and anyway, better be an old man's
darling than a young man's slave."

"So that's it, is it?" His young face darkened, and at the same time his
lip quivered childishly. She could not bear it. She turned from him with
a little moan, and fought her way out of the bushes. He did not attempt
to follow her as she rustled through the wilderness towards the gate.
One or two sick flowers went down under her feet. Her coat-frock caught
on a twig, tearing a shoddy seam. She cursed, and ran on. She wanted to
forget. She wanted to blot out that picture of him standing there with
his angry eyes and childish trembling mouth.


                                   IV

It was eight o'clock in the Square--very different from the eight
o'clock of most days. Usually at eight o'clock the pavements echoed with
the patter of girls' feet. From under the solemn porticos which long ago
had sheltered the slow, swaying exits of crinolined ladies, tripped
groups and strings of prettily dressed girls. No Victorian belle had
looked smarter or sweeter than these in their stockings of sunburn silk,
in their high-heeled shoes, in their big wrap coats and little
close-fitting hats. It was incredible that they should emerge from these
ruins of homes, that the muddle of the common living and sleeping room
should produce anything so fresh and delicate and gay. Yet out they
came, on their way to the dressmaker, the hairdresser, the caf, the
drapery store, to spend the day waiting on elegance and learning from it
their natural lesson of charm, to return at night with step less springy
and eye less bright, and maybe mud on the high-heeled shoes (which often
let in water) and spots and stains on the sunburn stockings (which often
defeated the efforts of the wrap coat to protect its wearer from
chills).

Ivy had never counted herself as a member of this society. She belonged
to a smaller inferior troupe that set out an earlier, more unfashionable
hour, and went to wait on necessity rather than on elegance. Yet it was
she and not one of them who had been chosen to live in a four-roomed
flat, to preside over the glories of a bathroom, a gas cooker and
electric light, to run an eight-pound-a-week home in unimagined honour.
They would marry men like Bill, and in five years become middle-aged
slatterns, slaving in three-pound-a-week homes, that periodically would
become twenty-four-and-sixpenny homes as prosperity ebbed and flowed
over the district and the dole took the place of wages. Ivy Skedmore
could pity them as she fled from passion to security, running across the
empty square, and up the many steps of number seven to where the giant
door stood unlatched.

It was lucky that the Sabbath was in the Square, or she and Bill would
have been discovered and the story down all the streets by this time.
But on Sunday no one ever thought of getting up before nine o'clock; at
nine-thirty the shops opened, and the market, and the streets were full
of those who bought and sold fish and meat and vegetables that the main
road shops had not been able to get rid of on Saturday night.

The Skedmores had not, on this occasion, left their shopping till Sunday
morning, but had done it in superior fashion on Saturday afternoon. The
wedding feast had shared their sleeping chamber, the more perishable
parts bestowed for safety on the window-sill. As she passed her parents'
door, Ivy was surprised to hear the sound of voices. She felt uneasy.
Had they somehow discovered her absence? Had Peach woken up and gone in
search of her to the main room? She decided to go in and find out the
worst.

But she need not have alarmed herself. Her parents' early rising was due
entirely to social reasons. To-day was their eldest daughter's wedding
day, and they had already received one, or rather several wedding
guests. A large woman, with a baby in her arms, was seated on one of the
double beds that the room contained. Round her knees squirmed a mass of
children, four of whom were her own, the other three being little
Skedmores, arrayed only in their underclothing, as their wedding
garments were for obvious reasons not to be taken out of the drawer till
the last moment. On the other bed lay Mr. Skedmore, smoking a pipe while
his wife struggled with the fire.

The room was big, and even now almost handsome, with its soaring walls
and richly decorated cornice. Peach and Ivy's room was a mere slice cut
off it, and much remained in the chief apartment to suggest the
splendour of the rock out of which it was hewn. It was crammed with
furniture--two big beds, a big table and one or two smaller ones, a
chiffonier, a chest of drawers, innumerable chairs, most of them
decrepit, and a broken-backed sofa. The walls were gay with pictures,
and ornaments and the family china and glass, for which there was no
cupboard, adorned all available space. Clothes were everywhere---they
hung from hooks on the wall, they were rolled up in piles in corners,
and eked out the blankets on the beds. The place in its litter and
hugeness suggested a parish hall rather inefficiently stocked for a
jumble sale. The Skedmores had many possessions, none of which was
intact, unblemished or really serviceable, but all of which were loved,
prized and hoarded till the day of final disintegration.

"Well, dearie," cried Mrs. Skedmore cheerily, lifting a blackened face
out of the smoke, "and how are you this morning? I thought I'd leave you
to have your sleep out."

"Thanks, mum, but I couldn't sleep late this morning."

"Of course she couldn't," the lady on the bed declared with cheeriness,
"when it's her wedding day and all."

"A pity to waste a Sunday, though," said Mrs. Skedmore.

"What's that matter to her, marrying Sid Hurley? She may lay in bed all
day if she likes."

"Of course she can--and will sometimes, I dessay. It'll all be ever so
nice, I tell her."

"I bet she don't want to be told. Ivy, you're looking fine this
morning."

Ivy's cheeks were blazing and her eyes were bright.

"It's ever so kind of Mrs. Housego to come in and help us," said her
mother. "I thought I'd got everything straight yesterday, but it's all
gone and got messed up again. Drat this fire--it won't catch and I've
gone and used up all the newspaper."

"Let me help you, dear," said Mrs. Housego, heaving from the bed. There
was a flaw in the Skedmores' grate which involved desperate measures
every morning with a threat of suffocation throughout the day.

"Try a drop of paraffin, dearie."

"There isn't any in the place."

"I'll try and find you some downstairs. Mrs. Spiller has some, I know,
for I saw her bring it in yesterday."

"Don't you go chucking paraffin on the fire," shouted Mr. Skedrnore from
his bed; "you got me fined a bob last year for setting fire to the
chimbley--it'll be half a crown next time."

The matrons heaved and struggled amidst clouds of smoke. Finally one of
Mrs. Housego's children found a piece of newspaper under the bed, and by
holding this in front of the grate, a flame was persuaded to kindle and
grow. By the time the paper had caught fire and whirled blazing up the
chimney there was some chance of the kettle being boiled for a cup of
tea.

"And we'll all be glad of that," said Mrs. Skedmore. "What you standing
there for, Ivy, like a stuck pig? You'll be tired before you've gone
through half to-day."

Ivy sat down upon the bed.


                                   V

"Let's talk about the wedding," said Mrs. Housego. "How many are you
expecting, dearie?"

"I've got food for ten besides ourselves. Mr. Hurley's mother 'ull be
coming and his sister Grace. And then there's yourself, Mrs. Housego,
and the Lockits and the Gaits and old Mr. Willard. We'll be a crowd, I
tell you. But don't you worry--nobody shall go without. I've got salmon
and crab and tongue and prawns, a lovely cake and some fancies and a
vealanam pie, and two dozen of ale and dozen of Guinness for a start."

"Coo! listen to that. Ivy, your mother couldn't have done you prouder if
it had been your funeral."

"Well, I didn't want Sid Hurley's people to think he was marrying dirt,"
said Mrs. Skedmore modestly.

"They won't think it after this. What a breakfast! What a treat! When I
married, my mother didn't give us nothing but fish and chips and
tea--not but what she didn't have to pawn her crocks to get that much.
Pore Mother! Which reminds me. I've got my five-shilling parcel back,
and it's got my best hat in it as well as the sheets, so I shan't look
such a guy at your wedding, Ivy, after all."

"Are you coming to the church?"

"You betcher life--now I've got my hat. I'm all for the church, as I
told the clergyman the other day. Why, I was as weak as a rat after
Monty was born till I had my churching. I said to the nurse 'for mercy's
sake, let me out. I know what's good for me.' And I did. She found me
cleaning the windows the next time she came. Now that Mrs. Winter at
number three has never had herself churched nor her baby christened. I
tell her the child won't ever be strong and healthy till it's done. And
it don't cost nothing like being vaccinated, and you don't have to fuss
about keeping the place clean afterwards. I tell you I'm all for the
church."

"Well, I wish the church 'ud let us get married a bit earlier. They
won't have us till a quarter-past twelve, which means nearly half the
day gone."

"That doesn't matter to Ivy. She'll have more than the day for her
holiday. Is he taking you away Ivy?"

"We're going down to Eastbourne till Tuesday."

"Did you ever, now! Eastbourne! I've heard that's a fashionable place.
Ivy Skedmore, you're a lucky girl, as I've always said. Now, I believe I
hear that kettle boiling. Let's have a nice cup of tea all round."

She went to the tea-making, while Mrs. Skedmore spread a piece of
newspaper on the table and set out the heel of a loaf and some
dissolving margarine.

"We don't want more than just a bite just now. There's plenty coming
later."

"Only a cup of tea to freshen us all a bit. Ivy 'ull have to think about
getting dressed soon."

"Oh, there's time enough. She might spoil her gown if she sat about in
it."

"Is she having any bridesmaids?"

"Just our Nellie. We've got her a wreath of flowers. That's why I've
done up her hair like that in rags. I thought maybe it 'ud curl."

"She'll look ever so sweet. Oh, it'll be a pretty wedding, Mrs.
Skedmore--quite like the ones you read about. Who else is getting
married with Ivy?"

"I don't know for certain, except that there'll be young Spiller and
Rose Chown--at last and not before it was time, to my way of thinking;
and there'll be the gipsies."

"Who?"

"Those Lees--Tom and Dinah. I'm sorry about it, but it can't be helped."

"We've too many gipsies in these parts. My Jim was saying to me only
yesterday as they've quite spoilt the barrer trade. They always seem to
think of better things to take round on barrers than ordinary
Christians."

"Talking of barters, Mr. Skedmore's thinking of a new job. There's a
chap asked him to go shares in an ice-cream stall."

"Ice-cream's no good. People are mostly too cold these days to want it."

"Well, you can do chestnuts and baked potatoes in the winter."

"Yes, and tortusses in the spring. Don't I know it? Haven't I been
through it all with my poor Jim? I tell him that's the way to keep our
home about us--ha ha!" and she pulled out a handful of pawn tickets. "It
ain't every woman who carries her home in her pocket."

"I hope you haven't too many things away, dear--nothing that's really
wanted, I mean."

"Not now I've got my five-shilling parcel back. But I've not had a hat
to me head nor a sheet to me bed these six months, and all because my
man wants to be his own master."

"Quite right too," growled Mr. Skedmore into his teacup. "It's a dog's
life working for a boss. I'm all for being me own capitalist."

"He's getting quite red--Mr. Skedmore," said his wife proudly, "sings
the Red Rag and all. But I'd rather he stayed at the works; then I know
where I am. Even as it is, I'd have had a lot of things away if it
hadn't been for Ivy's Mr. Hurley's kindness, getting everything back for
us in time for the wedding."

"Did he reelly? Well, that's what I call generous and handsome. My Gawd!
Ivy's in luck."

"Ivy!" cried her mother, "what are you staring at? Come away from that
winder and take some notice of us all."


                                   VI

Ivy was looking down at the Square garden. She could see tracks in the
grass, the spoor, as it were, of some wild animal escaped. Down in that
garden a wild beast, sleek and lovely, had threatened her, had opened
its jaws to devour Sid Hurley's meek head and prosperous home. But it
was gone now. The garden lay empty, tossed by wind, while the Easter sun
at last shone down on it over the housetops, spattering its undergrowth
with dusty light--queer shifting spots and speckles, as if a beast
really moved there. . . . Ivy turned away.

"Hullo everybody, I'm all right."

"Betcher life you are."

The door had opened as she turned and Peach Grey had come in--a very
different Peach from the tall girl who trod indifferently in the
show-rooms of Madame Bertha. Her hair lay close under the shingle-cap in
which she slept. She wore a shabby but still colourful wrapper, and an
edge beneath it proclaimed the aristocracy of a lace-trimmed nightgown.
Nevertheless Peach was not exactly your idea of a successful
mannequin--even of a mannequin who is the only one employed by a small
Queen's Road establishment, and has to take on occasionally the role of
saleswoman, as pressure demands. Her voice was certainly different from
what you would expect from those disdainful lips, and different from the
voice in which she made occasional rare utterances while on duty. "This
little dress would be very becoming to Moddom." "A model straight from
our French house, Moddom." "The price is really quate ridiculous,
Moddom, when you look at the material."

"A cup o' tea, Miss Grey."

"I don't mind if I do."

Peach sat down, and produced a packet of Gold Flakes from somewhere
about her person.

"Have a fag, anybody?"

However, nobody smoked but Mr. Skedmore, who preferred his pipe. There
was a subtle social distinction of which all were conscious between
Peach and the others in the room. Her wages were in point of fact no
more than Ivy's, but she worked in elegance for elegance, instead of in
squalor for appetite, and the difference was appreciated. She sat with
her kimono pulled modestly over her crossed knees, while Mrs. Skedmore
poured her out a cup of tea, which Ivy brought to her.

"Well, Ivy, you were up fine and early this morning?"

"How d'you mean?" blurted Ivy, taken unawares.

"Well I heard you go out, and it wasn't more'n half-past seven, for the
church bells hadn't finished."

"How do you know? You were asleep."

"I heard you go out, I say, and I heard the bells too."

"I tell you I didn't go out--not till after eight. I didn't come in here
till after eight, did I, Ma?"

"No, you didn't, dear. Mrs. Housego had been sitting with us a quarter
of an hour before you came."

"There's bells at eight too," continued Ivy desperately. "What should I
get up earlier for on a Sunday?"

"Oh, well, you didn't then," said Peach airily. She felt quite sure that
Ivy had got up and gone out before half-past seven, but if she didn't
want it mentioned she certainly was not going to give her away.

"Did you go to the pictures, Peach, last night?"

"I did. We went to see Claudette Colbert at the Pavilion."

"What was she like?" asked Ivy wistfully.

"Ever so nice."

"Ivy will be able to go to the pictures any day she chooses now," said
Mrs. Skedmore. "The price of a seat won't be no object, and she loves
the pictures."

"Well, if ever you get the chance, Ivy," said Peach, "go and see
Claudette Colbert in 'Love Makes New.' It's ever such a beautiful
picture."

"What's it about?"

"Oh, about a girl in temptation. On one side there's a nice poor boy and
on the other side a rich old chap, and she has to choose between them."

Ivy wished she hadn't asked.

"Who does she choose?" asked Mrs. Housego.

"Why, the boy, of course. But not till the end of the picture. The old
chap brings her lovely pearls. I didn't half think I'd have married him
in her place."

"And jilted your Algy?" rallied Mrs. Skedmore.

"Oh, the boy in the picture wasn't near so nice as Algy."

Here again Peach outraged your convention of a mannequin, who is always
supposed to be superior and expensive in her love affairs, having been
engaged for the last four years to a young salesman at Harrods, who
might be able to afford to marry her in another four years' time.

"Well, I'm all for Romance," said Mrs. Housego. "Love in a cottage,
that's what I like on the pictures. I pity the girl who sells herself
for money."

"Lots of them do," said Mrs. Skedmore, shaking her head.

"But they always regrets it," said Mrs. Housego.

"And ends up old and grey, sitting in the empty nursery," said Mrs.
Skedmore with a catch in her voice.

Ivy hung down her head, and her hands quivered and locked together,
though she knew that her mother and Mrs. Housega were talking of another
life than this, the Life of the pictures in which things happen
differently from in this life, and therefore, a life into which it is
sometimes good to escape.


                                  VII

"Albie," said Mrs. Skedmore, "run down to Mrs. Spiller, and ask her
kindly what time it is."

The youngest Skedmore emerged from beneath a bed, and trotted off. He
came back with the alarming intelligence that it was a quarter-past ten.

"A quarter-past ten! Did you ever! And we haven't even begun to get
things straight. Come, girls, make a start, or Sid 'ull be here and none
of us ready."

"What time is he coming?"

"He said he'd be round with a keb at a quarter to twelve. Come, hustle,
girls. Bless me! You'd never think I'd spring-cleaned this room all over
yesterday."

"We can't do nothing, Ma, with the children here. Can't they go out for
a bit?"

"Of course they can--no, they can't, for they ain't dressed, and they
mustn't play in the street with their new clothes on."

"They can wear their old knickers and jerseys, just to run out. Mrs.
Housego's Gertie 'ull look after them and see as they come back in
time."

"I wan'er go to church," said Gertie.

"Did you ever!" cried her mother. "You'll have plenty of church later,
when you go to see Ivy married."

"But I won't get a pictcher. I get a pictcher if I go to church now."

"I wan'er pictcher--I wan'er pictcher," chimed in the other little
Housegos.

"I wan'er pictcher," echoed the little Skedmores.

"Oh, let them go, Ma," cried Ivy impatiently, "they'll be out of the
way, anyhow."

"The children's service begins at a quarter to ten," said Peach, "not
much good their going at a quarter past."

But such distinction was more hair-splitting to the Skedmore conception
of time. It being decided that the children were best out of the way,
that church was safer than the street, and that they were more likely to
return from it than from more thrilling and scattered pursuits, they
were accordingly dispatched there, to add their arrival to the confusion
at the end of the Children's Mass.

As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Housego and Mrs. Skedmore settled down
to what they called euphemistically a "good clean." The crockery of the
wedding feast was washed anew and would have to be washed again more
than once in the course of the meal if the glasses and plates were to go
round. A bunch of flowers, bought last night in Lunar Street Market, was
dispersed among Mrs. Skedmore's vases. Pictures and ornaments were
finally dusted, the hearth was cleaned, and the food spread out on the
newly-washed tablecloth. In the midst of it all Mr. Skedmore shaved,
with blasphemous interludes, and Ivy, in the next room, helped by Peach,
put on the rose-coloured dress with the detachable cape, the
nigger-brown straw hat, the silk stockings and suede shoes that formed
the chief splendours of her wedding.

"Coo, Ivy, but you look ever so nice. You pay for dressing up, you do. I
wish I had a chance with you at Madame's. I could make you look sweet.
But maybe you'll come some day. You'll be able to afford it, you know,
once and again. I bet lots of the women who come to us don't have as
much as eight pounds a week. But you're a lucky girl. I wish I had half
your luck," and she sighed.

Evidently she was not looking at Ivy from the moral viewpoint of the
pictures. She did not see her friend as "selling herself for money." And
yet she knew all about Bill. She also knew all about life, and that a
girl can't always afford to live up to the exalted moral standard set by
the cinema--that she must occasionally move on a lower level, simply in
order to avoid bad legs. . . . Ivy's chosen course suddenly appeared to
her as absolutely sordid and humdrum. Not thus would Claudette Colbert
or Katherine Hepburn or Grace Moore have chosen. The tears began to roll
down her cheeks.

"Wotever's the matter, Ive?"

"I feel so bad about it all, Peach."

"Bad about wot?"

"Marrying Sid when I oughter be marrying Bill."

"Now, don't start all that nonsense over again. Why ever should you be
marrying Bill? He's not got a penny and never will have."

"I could go on with my job."

"Yes, you could--till the kids came. And, what then? No, you forget it,
Ive. It's no good. I wouldn't say that if he was like Algy, but he
isn't. My own opinion is that he's not straight. Anyhow, I wouldn't
trust him. Now there's nothing really exciting about Sid, but he's as
straight as they're made. He won't let you down. He's good stuff."

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course I think so, and so do you. You've only got the jim-jams at
the last minute, the way most girls do."

Ivy wondered. Had she really only got the jim-jams? Or was this
Conscience Roused At Last. The words seemed to flicker before her eyes,
as if thrown on a screen. She went to the window and looked out--down at
the garden where the sun-dappled shadows moved like some spotted beast.
Suddenly she saw two figures come arm-in-arm round the corner of the
Square. It was Bill and an unknown female, whom he led past the house.
She was smartly dressed in green, with a hat to match, and her skirts
displayed much silken leg. Bill's hand lay tenderly over the one he had
pulled through his arm. He was bending towards her and talking eagerly,
but as he passed the house, he looked up.

"Cad," shouted Ivy and brought Peach, who was kneeling to button a shoe,
startled to her feet.

"What is it? Who? Oh!"

She looked out and saw Bill turning at the Square corner, to lead his
lady back past the window that he wished to mock.

"Why, it's Bill. Who in the Lord's name has he got hold of now?"

"He's brought her to jeer at me. He's a cad. He's a ----"

"Shut up, Ivy. You don't want everyone to hear. Don't be a fool and give
him his chance like that. Get away from the window," and she pulled her
back into the room with such violence that she fell across the bed that
filled up most of it.

"There, what did I say?" continued Peach. "I told you he wasn't
straight. He's a rotten sort of chap. You're well rid of him."

Ivy sobbed, stifling, into her pillow.

"Now, don't do that, or you'll spoil your face. Come and let me brush
your dress."

"Has he gone?"

"Yes--now you're not looking out any more. He's cleared off," and Peach
made an unladylike gesture of farewell. "Come, Ivy, and don't be a damn
fool. You'll get yourself all crumpled. Sit up. That's right. Now, let
me give you just a dust over with my powder. Yes, you must. You can't
let everyone see you with a red nose and red eyes like that. They'll
think you've been crying, and you've nothing to cry for. You're a lucky
girl."

"If you say that again," said Ivy suddenly, "I shall scream."

"Well, then, I won't say it, but I'll think it all the same----"

A sudden clamour broke out in the next room.

"Girls! Girls!" shrieked Mrs. Skedmore. "Sid's come."

Doors flew open, footsteps thudded, voices questioned and screamed.

"Sid's come . . . the keb's here . . . the children ain't back. Wherever
can they be? They've got to be dressed and Nellie to put on her
bridesmaid's clothes and all."

In the midst of the uproar, Sid Hurley's step came quietly up the
stairs.

"Hello, what's the matter? Where's Ivy?"

"Here I am, Sid."

"Don't sound so sad, little girl. What's she been doing, Mrs. Skedmore?
Is she tired?"

"No, but what am _I_ to do, Sid? There's all the children out, heaven
knows where."

"Well, if they can't be found, the wedding must go on without them. It's
a quarter to twelve."

"But Nellie's to be bridesmaid. Oh, what shall we do? Ivy, you're
dressed. Run down to the corner and----"

"No, no, Mrs. Skedmore, Ivy mustn't do any more running about this
morning. Why, she's tired already, poor little girl," and he gently
tucked back a piece of hair that had flown loose under her hat.

"Well, I'll go to the corner, dear, if you like," said Mrs. Housego. "I
can call them, but heaven knows I can't chase after them, being the size
I am."

"Stay where you are, ma'am," said Sid. "I'll see if I can find 'em, and
if I find 'em, I bet I bring 'em too."

"There!" cried Mrs. Skedmore, "that's a man, dearie."

Peach too thought that it was. She nudged Ivy in the ribs.

"Wot price Clark Gable?" she whispered.

Meanwhile the finishing touches were put to Mr. Skedmore's tie and Mrs.
Skedmore's toque. Mrs. Housego went downstairs to her own room, to put
on the redeemed hat and await such of her family as the bridegroom
should recover in the short time allowed him. His chief efforts were to
be centered on Nellie Skedmore, but it was more than likely that the
children had kept together.

So it proved. Just as the more trustworthy clocks in the Square pointed
to twelve, Sid Hurley reappeared with a string of grubs. It appears that
finding themselves too late at church to receive the coveted pictures,
they had gone on in hope to the Salvation Army School, where they had
each been rewarded with a coloured text about the size of a postage
stamp. Thus refreshed they had endured a certain amount of instruction,
agreed that they had found the Lord, and started off home, stopping on
the way to join in a game of house on the steps of the Parish Hall. This
was not house as played in the nursery, but as played in the British
Army; none of the players having any money, stakes were put up in the
way of buttons, marbles, match boxes and similar treasures. The little
Skedmores staked their texts and lost them, and it was in the midst of
the ensuing battle that Sid Hurley arrived and dragged them away.

It was decided to concentrate entirely on Nellie, the others having no
prominent part in the coming ceremony might scramble as they chose into
the new jerseys and knickers laid out for them. But Nellie must be
washed, combed, brushed and clothed in white frock with a blue sash,
white stockings and shoes, with a wreath of daisies round her rag-curled
hair. Nellie, though next in age to Ivy, was not yet twelve. She
represented the other side of a gap which had been filled with a variety
of births and deaths, as little Skedmores came into the world and left
it in rapid succession. Three had not survived their birth more than a
few weeks, one had died sensationally in a smallpox epidemic much
written of in the newspapers, another, as if to show the utter contempt
of Providence for the efforts of the Skedmores, had died of a "bad arm"
caused by septic conditions after vaccination.

While Nellie was being dressed, Ivy and her bridegroom sat together by
the window, their conversation screened by the general uproar.

"Sure you're not tired, darling?"

She shook her head.

"I believe you are a bit."

"Why should I be? I've done nothing to-day."

"But it's all been exciting and trying for you. I'll be ever so glad
when I've got you away all quiet by the seaside."

Ivy shuddered.

"What is it, dear?"

"Nothing."

"Ivy, you're not unhappy, are you? You're not feeling--oh, my dear, tell
me that you're glad."

"I am glad," said Ivy.

She suddenly knew that she was glad.

"I've only got the jim-jams at the last moment the way most girls have,"
she repeated firmly.

She suddenly knew that she had only got the jim-jams. That was what it
was--what every girl had on her wedding day. There was nothing else--no
regrets, no flight, no sorrow, no wild beasts in the garden. . . .


                                  VIII

"There now!" said her mother. "She looks a pictcher."

"Boo hoo!" sobbed Nellie. "There's a pin sticking into me."

"There ain't. I tell you there's no pin. Now you behave. If it wasn't
Ivy's wedding day you'd have been well tanned by your dad for the dance
you've led us."

"We only went to the Salvations."

"Well, it wasn't the Salvations who rolled you in the dirt and spoiled
your only decent pair of drawers. Now don't you move till we all go out
together. Albie, Georgie. . . . Oh, thank you, Peach. Now, is everybody
ready? Ivy! We can't get far without you nor Sid either. You'll have
plenty of time for spooning later. Now everybody go out. Dad, got the
key? That's right. Lock the door after us. Now, Albie, if you start
running. . . ."

Somehow or other they all got downstairs and were not too hopelessly
involved with the emerging Housegos. There stood the cab, and somehow or
other they all got into it. As they drove across the Square, before the
windows became too fogged over to see out, Ivy looked her last into the
garden. Nobody was there, neither a spotted beast nor a maddening,
jeering boy, parading his new love to mock the old. She felt quite quiet
now--quiet and not unhappy. The past was over and done with, and the
future looked brighter than it had looked before the sun was up. It
looked bright as well as comfortable . . . She glanced across at Sid,
and remembered with a little creep of pride that Peach had compared him
to Clark Gable. Not that he was really very like him, but he was
certainly strong and kind . . . and Peach had also said he was "good
stuff."

The cab stopped outside the church. They were not so very late after
all, for though it was a quarter-past twelve, the Easter morning service
was not yet over. The verger came out and told them to stay in the porch
till it was finished. Looking in, Ivy could see dim figures and dim
lights, and sniff the soft blue haze that reminded her of her
childhood's Sundays. Church-going was either for the very old or for the
very young--the middle years were too crowded and too hard, and Saturday
night ate up too much of Sunday morning. But perhaps she would go again
now, for there would be leisure in her home, such as there had never
been in her mother's, and as there would not be in Peach's when she
married.

How smart Peach looked! Smarter than any of the brides. For Ivy's was
not the only glory of that wedding day. No less than ten other brides
were crowding with their retinues into that narrow porch, while their
friends and neighbours covered the pavement outside.

"Bang! Crash! Bang! Terrumpry!"

The service was over and the organ had begun to play the congregation
out. The various wedding parties made a rush for the entrance, but the
verger and churchwardens held them back.

"Let the people out first."

Out the congregation came, dribbling a thin line through the brides and
bridegrooms. In the vestry a tired clergyman was taking off his
vestments and scrambling into a surplice for the approaching orgy.

"I wish you'd let me take them," said the new curate, who had not begun
his day's work at five.

"My dear chap, you couldn't start with eleven couples at a time. You'd
get 'em mixed. I'll polish them off in twenty minutes, and then thank
the Lord for food, hot coffee, rest."

He disappeared into the church, where the verger had by this time
marshalled the different couples and arranged them in a long row in
front of the chancel. Those who had no bridesmaids stood in front of the
pews, those who had the longest tail stood in the aisle. Ivy stood a
little way to the right, with Sid on one side and her father on the
other, and Nell behind her, wedged against a pew and still complaining
of a pin. She had time to look round her while they waited for the
vicar. There stood the gipsies right at the end--her hat was full of
feathers like a donah. Rose Chown actually had a white veil. There was
swank for you! Especially after what people said--and Hilda Jimson . . .
she didn't know Hilda was getting married. The other couples were
strangers--two of them were quite middle-aged . . . getting married
again . . . then it couldn't be so bad the first time. . . . She looked
round shyly at Sid. Her jim-jams were all gone now--she supposed it had
been just that, just like what every girl has before her wedding . . .
no mistaking Peach for a bride now--she was right behind in one of the
pews.

A great shuffle went through the lines. The clergyman had come in. He
stood before them, turning over the pages of his book, eyeing meanwhile
one of the bridegrooms who was a little drunk. Then he began to read:

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God. . . ."



                                  VII

                       _Mrs. Dengate in the News_

                                   I

Prospect Cottages, denying their own name, huddled obscurely off the
Cackle Street of Warninghurst. The Cackle Street itself was a quiet
offshoot of the neat, lively little High Street, where stood the Church
and the School and the two shops and the four public houses. Prospect
Cottages were obscure indeed, and number five was the last and obscurest
of the row, with a yew tree growing against the windows and blotting it
into a perpetual twilight.

The two newspaper men had some difficulty in finding it, and when at
last they stood on its humble doorstep, they were both hot and
thirsty--the 'bus which had brought them to Warninghurst from Poldham
Station having set them down at the _Grapes_, from which they had walked
an interminable dusty mile.

"Whew!" said Turner, representing the Agglomerated Press.

"Do you think she'll let us have a drink?" asked Ellam of the Combined
County Newspapers.

"We ought to have had one at the _Grapes_. But I hadn't this thirst on
me then. She seems a long time answering the door. I'd better knock
again."

"Perhaps she's out."

"Well, let's try."

He rapped more thunderously with his stick. This time there was a
creaking sound on the stairs, and footsteps were heard coming down. Then
the door opened an inch or two, and a woman's face looked round it.

"Eh?"

She was about sixty years old, pale and vague-featured, with a man's cap
askew on her wispy hair. The two newspaper men lifted their hats.

"Mrs. Dengate?"

"That's me."

"May we come in for a moment? We represent important newspapers, and
we've been sent to ask you for a special interview."

Mr. Turner presented his card, which she held up close to her eyes and
read out slowly.

"Is that you, sir?"

"Yes, that's me. And this is Mr. Ellam of the Combined County
Newspapers--_Sussex Mercury_, you know."

Mr. Ellam's card was duly inspected.

"Do you want these tickets back?"

"No, no. They're just to tell you who we are. Won't you let us come in
and have a chat?"

Turner spoke brightly, as if humouring a child. He had begun to wonder
if she was "all there." In which case he might have some difficulty in
getting the story. But Mrs. Dengate was merely wondering why two such
fine gentlemen had come to see her, and whether it would be safe to let
them in.

"I'm afraid the place is a bit in dishable. I never woke up at the
proper time this morning--Mr. Dengate not being there, I suppose."

"That's it. We want to talk to you about Mr. Dengate. Perhaps you could
spare us just a few minutes?"

Turner always felt a certain bashfulness in introducing the name of the
corpse. But in this case the widow had obligingly done it herself, and
without any apparent struggle.

"Do you want to know anything about Mr. Dengate?" she asked.

"Well, if you wouldn't mind giving us just a few particulars--telling us
a bit about him."

She had opened the door, and they had walked straight into her dark and
hot and untidy little kitchen. The wooden chairs looked more secure than
the basket chair she offered, so they put her into it, settling their
greater weight more uncomfortably on deal seats.

"This is Mr. Dengate's chair," she remarked; "he always sat here of an
evening when his work was done."

The two young men looked sympathetically interested, but they must not
let her linger over preliminaries and irrelevances, for their time was
short, and their thirst was great.

"Have you a photograph of Mr. Dengate?" asked Ellam.

"Surelye. There was one he had took down at Brighton only three years
ago. I can find it in a minute--I've got it by me."

She rummaged in a work-box overflowing with strange possessions, and
brought out a sticky-back of a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves, posed
against a capstan with an indefinite-looking lady.

"Is that you with him?" asked Turner.

"Oh no, sir. He never took me to Brighton. I don't know rightly who that
is. She hasn't come out very well, has she?"

"We could cut her out of the picture, and I think he'll reproduce all
right. Can you let us have it?"

"What for, sir?"

"To put in the newspaper. And have you got one of yourself, Mrs.
Dengate?"

"Me! I've got one Mrs. Peel took of me, just for fun like, only last
week. But you'd never want that, would you, sir?"

"Show it to us, and if it's at all good, I'd certainly like to have it.
The public is interested in you, Mrs. Dengate."

"In me, sir?"

"Yes, haven't you seen the newspapers?"

"I don't often see no papers, sir, and never at all since Mr. Dengate
was took--or took himself maybe I should ought to say. Sometimes he'd
give me a squint of his, but not often, for I ain't much of a scholar."

"Well, the papers this morning all had an account of Mr. Dengate's
er--er--Mr. Dengate's sensational decease, and we understand you were a
witness."

"I dunno about that, sir. But I found the body right enough. You know
our back garden? Well, we've got some fowls at the end, and some rabbits
in the wood shed, and I was going down to take 'em their food, and when
I got near the wood shed, I heard a horrible sort of sound, a sort of
groaning, and I says that can't be the rabbits. . . ."

A loud knock at the door broke up the conversation, which had suddenly
become animated. Mrs. Dengate's faded blue eye had kindled, and her
speech had hurried out of its lifeless drawl, but the knock might have
been a summons back into the old manner. She crept stealthily to the
window, and peeped out between the geranium pots.

"It's the ladies," she murmured dejectedly, and went to the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dengate. May we come in for a few moments?"

The voice sounded at once commanding and commiserating. The newspaper
men stood up as two women of the village ruling-class entered the room.
They were both on the younger slopes of middle age, wore tweed clothes,
and had kindly domineering faces. One of them set down a covered basket
on the table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company, Mrs. Dengate."

She looked, not very amiably, at the newspapermen.

"They're gentlemen from the newspapers, ma'am--come to ask about Mr.
Dengate."

"What do they want to know about him?"

Mrs. Dengate hesitated.

"All about him, ma'am."

"Well then," said the lady whom Turner in his heart called the Squiress,
having decided that the other, whose clothes were cheaper, was the
parson's wife. "Well then, we've arrived just in time. I really think,"
she swung round terrifyingly on Ellam, "you might have spared this poor
old thing."

Ellam muttered something about not having found Mrs. Dengate unwilling
to give him the story. But his remarks were swept aside in the spate of
her indignation.

"It's just what my husband says--the modern press is really getting past
even ordinary decency. How would you like to have strangers come and pry
into your misery--taking photographs of your private sorrows?" With a
devouring glance at their cameras: "And then see it all served up in the
papers the next morning? I really can't let this poor old lady be
victimized like this, and I will ask you kindly to take your leave at
once."

"I beg your pardon," said Turner, standing his ground, "but we have been
sent by our papers to get hold of the story, and Mrs. Dengate hasn't so
far hinted that she finds our visit unwelcome."

"Poor old thing, how can she? What do you expect? Thank goodness Mrs.
Peel and I came along when we did. Will you please go at once?"

"We will go when Mrs. Dengate has answered just one or two more
questions we have to ask."

"I can't allow even one. You've already worried her too much."

Turner was angry.

"Excuse me, madam, but I really can't take my dismissal from you. If
Mrs. Dengate finds our presence unwelcome she has only to say so. But up
till now she hasn't even hinted anything of the kind."

"Well, if you can't tell by her manner, poor old soul. . . . Then she
shall ask you to go," turning to the victim of publicity. "You tell
them, dear. You want them to go--don't you?"

Mrs. Dengate lifted her head without speaking. She looked at the ladies,
she looked at the two young men, and then at the covered basket.

"Yes, ma'am," she said in a crushed voice.

"You don't want to give them the 'story,' as they call it? You don't
want to have everybody reading about you and poor Mr. Dengate in the
paper to-morrow morning?"

"No, ma'am."

"There! You hear her. She's not afraid to speak for herself now she's
got somebody to stand up for her. Are you convinced at last that she
doesn't want to tell you any more?"

Turner looked at Ellam, who nodded.

"Very well, then. I think I can write up the stuff from what I've got.
You must realize, ladies, that this is a job like any other that has to
be done."

"Oh, I daresay. But really I do feel that certain things ought to be
sacred--a widow's grief. . . ."

They picked up their hats and she followed them to the door. Having
gained her point, she now seemed anxious that they should part
amicably--possibly fearing vaguely some vengeance of the printed word.

"It's only that I'm sorry for the poor old thing. She's been through a
perfectly appalling time, and I want to spare her all I can. I managed
to keep the papers away from her this morning, but of course I can't go
on doing that . . . and I simply can't bear the thought of your dragging
an account of this horror from her. Tell me, how much are you going to
publish?"

"I've no idea. It all depends on space and the sub-editor."

"I don't see why it shouldn't depend on decency"--and thinking it well
to close the conversation on what she felt was an epigram, she hurriedly
backed into the cottage and shut the door.

"Whew!" said Ellam.

"I shouldn't have gone," said Turner, "if I hadn't feared the old girl
might be made to pay for it. It would have been a pity to put her on the
wrong side of those two. And after all, we've got a photograph and
something that we can write up--maybe with the help of a little gossip
at the pub."

"It's only a back-page story, anyway," said Ellam, "from what I can
gather so far, I don't see this in front."

"Well, I shall take a view of the cottage--the whole row, for it's too
dark under this tree. Then thank heaven we can beat it for the _Grapes_.
At present I'm not a man, but a thirst."


                                   II

An hour later the world looked brighter. Ellam and Turner sat outside
the _Grapes_, enjoying an after-luncheon smoke. The street lay quiet in
the sunshine. Warninghurst was at its dinner, and the little houses
seemed asleep. Now and then a low chuckling of fowls would come from
some backyard, or a pigeon would start cooing on the russet slant of the
tavern roof. But these sounds only served to emphasize the stillness,
which had nothing oppressive or sinister about it, but seemed, on the
contrary, to be part of the noonday drench of sunshine on the street.

"Lord!" sighed Turner, "this is peace."

"How much longer have we got?" asked Ellam.

"Oh, the 'bus doesn't go for another hour."

They sat a few minutes more in comfortable silence. Then Ellam spoke
again.

"Do you think we ought to go back?"

"Back where?"

"To see the old girl. Those females will have cleared off by now."

"Possibly. But I don't think it's worth while our going back all that
way in all this heat. We've got quite a lot of stuff from the people at
this pub--more than we could ever have got out of her. After all, there
are limits as to what one can ask a widow about her husband."

"He seems to have been a choice specimen."

"Highly choice--and highly sensational, both in his way of life and his
way of leaving it."

"It'll be a good riddance for her."

"So one would think--but one never knows. It's curious what things can
become habits and be missed when they're gone."

"But my own impression is that when those confounded women came in and
stopped us she was just beginning to enjoy her first taste of
publicity."

"Well, by all showing it would be a change. Apparently she's scarcely
been out of her cottage for the last five years. . . . But do my eyes
deceive me, or have we really encouraged her so much that she's
venturing out to-day?"

He pointed into the long distances of the street, where a single small
figure showed black against the dust.

"By Jove! That's herself all right," said Ellam. "I wonder what she's
after."

"No need to ask," said Turner, as the small figure vanished under the
sign of the _Red Lion_.

"Huh! She's beginning to taste her freedom."

But the next minute Mrs. Dengate was back in the street, and hobbling
swiftly towards them.

"I believe she's come after us."

"Why on earth should she?"

But so indeed she had. Directly she caught sight of the two young men at
their table outside the _Grapes_, she came straight up to them, a little
anxious figure, breathless with her long unaccustomed walk in the sun.

Turner pulled forward a chair.

"Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Good afternoon, sir. You'll excuse me coming after you like this, but I
made sure as you'd have gone somewhere to take refreshment, seeing as
the 'bus doesn't go till three. So I called in at the _Red Lion_, which
was Mr. Dengate's pub, but they told me you'd gone to the _Grapes_."

"Well, what can we do for you?"

"Oh, nothing, sir, thank you kindly. I was only wondering if you'd heard
all you wanted about Mr. Dengate?"

"It's extremely good of you to trouble about that. As it happens we've
got practically all the information we need from the people at this
inn."

Mrs. Dengate's face fell.

"And there ain't no more you want me to tell you?"

She looked so disappointed, that Turner said hastily:

"Of course there is, and we'll be glad to hear it. I felt somehow that
you didn't really want us to go this morning."

"Oh no, sir. Surelye I didn't, but I couldn't speak different, seeing as
the ladies was there. They're kind ladies, and goodness knows what I'd
do without them and the stuff they bring, and I git half-a-day's charing
a week out of Mrs. Tracey. But they don't understand, sir. They've got
ideas of their own, and they don't understand mine. So I just did wot
they said, and when they'd gone I sarched around, and I found two more
likenesses of Mr. Dengate--one when he was a choir boy wud the
Wesleyans, and another of him driving off wud the Buffaloes for a day at
Plumpton Races."

She pulled two yellowing photographs out of her apron pocket.

"But I can't find that snap of me that Mrs. Peel took, though I hunted
around everywheres. I'm unaccountable sorry, because you wanted it, sir,
and besides I'm not saying it wouldn't be good thing for me to have my
likeness in the newsypapers at my time of life--not having been in
before, as you might say--not even mentioned with the Band of Hope."

"Well, that needn't worry you. We have our cameras, and we can take one
of you here."

Mrs. Dengate smiled rather wistfully.

"Yes, sir, I see as you have your cameras. But reckon it's like this.
I'm not fit to be took in this old gown, and my hair all in dishable. I
wonder if it would be troubling you very much just to step back wud me
to the cottage? Then I could change into my best dress and hat, and you
could take a likeness of me outside the wood shed--me opening the wood
shed door, like, just before I found Mr. Dengate. I'd like that to be in
the papers, me wearing my best hat and dress too. Not that I was wearing
'em when I found Mr. Dengate, but you could never take me as I was then.
I'd a piece of sacking tied over me, as often I git mucked wud the
chicken meal, and even an old gown's worth saving when you ain't got no
other."

The two newspaper men exchanged glances and shook their heads.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dengate," said Turner, "it's very good of you to make
the offer and be willing to take such trouble on our behalf, but we
really haven't time. The 'bus goes at three. We can take one or two
splendid portraits of you in the inn garden, and it really doesn't
matter in the least about your old gown."

"But there'd be plenty of time, sir. It wouldn't take you more than ten
minutes just to walk back wud me--and I'll have changed my things in no
time, and I'd unaccountable like to have that picture took of me, sir."

To their consternation, they saw that her lip was actually quivering,
and her dull grey eyes had grown suddenly bright with tears. Turner's
ideas underwent a sudden revulsion.

"Very well, then. I'll come with you anyhow."

But Ellam too was on his feet.

"We can just do it," he said.

"Thank you kindly, sir. Thank you kindly, gentlemen, both of you. I've
my heart set on having that picture took. And reckon I can tell you a
lot of things you want to know about Mr. Dengate--things that nobody
else can have told you, seeing as they didn't find the body. It comforts
me to talk about it all. The ladies don't understand. If I sit thinking
about it I git all faint-hearted. But it comforts me to talk, and then
afterwards I'll have the comfort of reading the words you've written
about Mr. Dengate and me and looking at the pictures you've taken. To
say nothing of being in the newsypapers for all folks to see--me who
never got mentioned before, even when I went out wud the Band of Hope."


                                  III

Mrs. Peel was gardening when the hearty sounding of her name made her
look up and run to the gate.

"Hullo! Good morning, Mrs. Tracey."

"Good morning. I say, have you seen this?"

She unfolded a newspaper. "Would you have believed it possible?"

Mrs. Peel slipped off her gardening gloves, and took into her hands the
_Picture Post_--chief organ of the Agglomerated Press. She gave it one
look, and cried:

"The brutes!"

"That's what I say--the brutes. I never saw such a piece of heartless
indecency. There's the poor old thing, actually dressed up in her Sunday
best, standing outside the wood shed door. Read what it says--'Mrs.
Dengate at the door of the wood shed, where she found her husband's
body.' How ever could they have made her do it?"

"They can't have any human feelings."

The two women bent their heads together over the page scanning and
skimming.


                           A VILLAGE TRAGEDY
                        FARM LABOURER'S SUICIDE
                          Sensational details
                    _From our Special Correspondent_


Mrs. Tracey suddenly crushed the _Post_ into a ball, ignoring the fact
that Mrs. Peel had not quite finished reading it.

"We must go round at once and see her. Someone may have shown her a
copy. We must prepare her, or at least try and cheer her up a bit."

They set off for Prospect Cottages, where they found Mrs. Dengate
hanging out her washing, and brooding over the newly-realized fact that
Mr. Dengate's death would about halve her weekly labours at the wash-tub
and clothes-line.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dengate. We just came round in case you've seen the
papers. Has anybody shown you a copy of the _Picture Post_?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, then, if they do, don't you look at it."

"No, ma'am."

"But you probably know they've put in something about you after all?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"I suppose they came back after we'd gone?"

"Y-y-yes, ma'am."

"Well, I'm most dreadfully sorry. If I'd had any sense I'd have made you
come up with me to the Hall. I ought to have known those men would stop
at nothing. But it can't be helped now. You must try and forget all
about it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Dengate held her head low, fearing lest these ladies might read
upon her face her joy in those six copies of the _Picture Post_, sent
her direct from the offices of the Agglomerated Press, and now lying
hidden and precious, wrapped in a clean towel under her mattress.



                                  VIII

                     _The Man Whom the Rocks Hated_

It was the first year since he was a boy that  Paul Cockett had not
spent his summer holiday at Brighton. He had gone regularly to Brighton
ever since 1910, when Gell had taken him there--old Gell who talked of
"London by the sea." Now Gell had died in the spring of 1937--the last
wave of the ebbing influenza epidemic had caught him--and Cockett said
that he "couldn't fancy Brighton alone." He anxiously questioned the
other men at the office--what did they recommend? Their inspirations
ranged from Eastbourne to Hastings--they were old fellows. Then young
Somervell had burst in--the man who had come back last year so
brown--and suggested the Channel Islands.

"I was over there last summer--first Guernsey and then Jersey and then
Sark. Sark's the finest, but I expect you'd enjoy Guernsey better," and
he looked at Cockett's widening girth.

The Channel Islands did not appeal to Cockett. They lay outside the
radius of his experience, almost of his imagination, but he was dimly
aware that they involved a long sea journey, and he hated the sea except
as a convenient and picturesque boundary to a well-laid-out parade.
However, young Somervell persisted with his recommendations, and Cockett
was flattered. He liked to group himself with the young men, now, when
all of him was on the increase except his teeth and his hair--he would
rather be hailed as one of them in Guernsey than exchange dignified
salutes with the seniors on the front at Hastings. He felt vaguely that
if he followed Somervell's advice he would be linking himself with the
younger men at Duff's, whereas if he refused it he was irrevocably
grouped with the old stagers.

So an early morning in August saw him land in Guernsey, feeling sick but
very thankful, and after breakfast he had revived enough to devote
himself to the sacred rite of planning his fourteen days.

His zeal as a camp-follower of youth had led him into rashness. He had
actually committed himself to a week in Sark. Somervell had gone there
direct, with two other men. He spoke to them of Cockett as "an old
sport" but was careful to take a room for him at the Dixcart Hotel,
while he himself stopped at the Bel-Air.

"We don't want too much of him," he said, "but it'll be fun showing him
round."

Somervell belonged to that not inconsiderable number of people who are
place-mad. He would enthusiastically have shown his worst bore round any
place that had touched his maniacal spot, so it was not such a rousing
compliment as Cockett took it to be when he found him awaiting the
Guernsey boat at the Creux harbour.

"I thought if I came down we'd have time to go somewhere before lunch,"
said Somervell cheerfully; "you can have your things sent straight to
the hotel, and we've just time to go to Derrible and back. You ought to
see the Creux Derrible. Or we might go to Les Laches."

Cockett was ready for either. He had enjoyed his passage in the little
tourist-crowded steamer, which reminded him pleasantly of Brighton.

So his luggage was handed over to the Dixcart porter, and he set off
beside Somervell's swinging tread.

"Whew, I didn't like that," he remarked, as they came out of the tunnel
that connects the Creux harbour with the Creux road.

"Like what?" asked Somervell.

"I dunno--that place; like a vault--like caves . . . it's the rocks, I
think."

Somervell laughed, and then realized the other was mopping his forehead.

"Good heavens, man!--if you're going to feel like that about the tunnel
. . . wait till you've seen the Creux Derrible, that's all."

With which threat he swung the pace up the road and across by La Forge
to the high downs.

The blue sky bore the white streaks of a racing wind, and the same white
streaks flashed and broke in the still deeper blue of the sea, against
which the rocks showed pink and almost lucent with the sun. Cockett
wondered how they were to get down into the bay, but he followed
Somervell obediently, first through the heather and then over the rough
hot rocks, dropping and swinging down from slab to slab.

Just at the bottom there was a wilderness of piled rocks grown over with
seaweed. These not only betrayed the feet, but seemed to Cockett
peculiarly horrible by reason of their shape. Their tops were mostly
round, and seaweed grew from the centre and fell down the sides like
hair--they were round and brown and slimy, and with the hairy seaweed
made Cockett think of the heads of drowned people. The fear that he
experienced as he climbed over them was not only the fear of missing his
foothold on their slipperiness--it seemed to be in some way a fear of
themselves.

"Whew!" He gave his usual explanation of relief when he found himself on
the sand. The tide was coming in, and Somervell said they must hurry if
they wanted to see the Creux Derrible. Cockett did not particularly want
to see it, but he hurried nevertheless and was properly amazed at its
height and its solemn gape to the sky. Though so much more obviously
terrific, it did not give him the same uncomfortable feeling as the
rocks.

"I think we'll just have time to look at the other caves," said
Somervell with a glance at the sea. "The tide comes up jolly quickly
here--that's what makes it so exciting--but I don't suppose you'd mind
getting your feet wet, would you?"

They accordingly went into the cave next to the Creux, a curious
V-shaped cavern, consisting of two passages, one with a double entrance.
The walls were slippery and black as an Ethiopian's skin, and underfoot
were shallow, purplish pools.

"I hear they've got some fine caves at Hastings," panted Cockett as he
slithered along against the wall, for in spite of Somervell's happy
surmise he had a real objection to wetting his feet.

His companion's snort of contempt found so many echoes that it seemed
much more than Somervell who expressed an entirely low opinion of the
Hastings caves.

"Used by smugglers and early Christians and the like," said Cockett.
"Now you couldn't do much with smugglers and early Christians here. I
guess the tide comes right in, judging by the wet."

"Guess it does--right up to the roof--and we'll be having it on us in a
minute if you're not spry. Egad! I'd no idea it was so close, but it's
always like that here."

They had come to the double entrance of the farther passage, and outside
it was a wave, which suddenly dashed itself in two against the dividing
rock, and plunged into the cavern in two separate, then mingling,
streams of heavy green water that seemed to fill the whole cave with a
cold, choking spindrift.

Cockett emitted a feeble squawk. He was carried right up against the
wall, and then, as the wave ebbed, staggered forward into a snare of
rocks and hissing, flowing channels.

"Hi! hurry out!" was Somervell's unnecessary advice. Cockett hurried
desperately, but his feet were not accustomed to such casual going; he
did nothing but flounder, and before he could get out another wave
caught him. From a ledge outside the door Somervell saw it go in and
swirl him round--then it drew out, and in the wake of it came Cockett,
staggering and stumbling over the round, drowned heads of the rocks.

Somervell laughed heartily till he caught sight of the elder man's face,
with its purple cheeks and bulging eyes.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry. I'm afraid you've got wet."

"Take me out of this--take me out of this, I say."

"All right, come along--we shan't get another ducking. I hope that's an
old suit."

Cockett could not speak as he sprinted across the small strip of sand
remaining, and with Somervell's help scaled the rocks and the cliff and
was up at last on the Derrible down among the blue scabious and the
heather.

Then his face looked a degree less drawn, and he waved an arm tragically
towards the bay where the waves were tumbling.

"Whew!" he said.

Somervell thought him rather ridiculous.

"I've had closer shaves than out. Even ten minutes later we could have
got out."

"It was the feeling," said Cockett, "the feeling--the feeling that it
was _wanting_ to drown you."

"What was wanting to drown you?"

"I dunno--but I'd a sort of feeling as that place I was in was wanting
to get me . . . it was trying for me . . . I can't bear those rocks."

"That's your first whiff of the Sark atmosphere. It's horribly
sinister," said Somervell proudly and cheerfully. "It's what you call
Malign--just that part of the island between tides, the forty feet or so
where the seaweed is."

"Yes, it's where the seaweed is."

"Oh, other people have noticed it besides you--I feel it
myself--appallingly. But I'm used to it now. Come along to the
hotel--you'll be wanting to change your things."

Cockett not only wanted to change them but to pack them up and go home
again. However, he was ashamed of his desires and said nothing about
them. That evening he watched rather regretfully the steamer start back
for Guernsey.

He tried to whip up his enthusiasm for the island by studying the
guide-book. Usually guide-books inspired and excited him--on holiday
they were his staple literature. But this guide to Sark only stirred up
his fears more darkly. He disliked the place-names, they were foreign
and unfriendly--Pegane Bay, les Autelets, Moie Fano. But most
unfriendly, almost terrible, he found the names of the rocks: "Demies,
or rocks that uncover at half-tide," "Baveuse, or slobberer--a rock on
which the sea is constantly breaking," "Dents, or teeth; dangerous
reefs," "Moie, a steep rocky promontory, or detached islet," "Saignie,
blood-red," "Grune, a name frequently given to rocks that are rather
flat on top." The word Grune filled him for some reason with especial
horror. All night long the names of these rocks, as the pirates of long
ago had named them, jostled in his dreams with the experiences of the
day--the horrible masses of seaweed that the rocks wore in Derrible Bay,
the cave of the double entrance where the waves had drenched him, and
the rocks had laid snares for his feet.

However, the next morning the sunlight came spilling into his room with
all the reckless glory of Channel Island fine weather. His breakfast was
good and substantial--the butter was yellow as gorse and fresh as
falling rain. When Somervell's voice called to him outside the window he
responded almost joyfully, and as they walked in the green sun-freckled
shadows of the Dixcart valley, the terror seemed far away.

"By George!" said Cockett, "what flowers!"

Somervell assented cheerfully, and held forth at great length on the
seasons as Sark celebrated them with primroses and gorse and bluebells
and thrift and foxgloves and heather. But he had not taken Cockett out
to pick flowers. He bore him off to the Orgeries, so that he could see
what the waves could do in Sark. Cockett they raged and roared and tore
at the rocks below, and watched them respectfully from the top of the
cliff, as slobbered and lathered over the great Baveuse out beyond the
Petites Ctes. He felt rather as a man feels looking down into a den of
bears, which cannot reach him, but would very much like to.

"We'll go to the Goulliot caves this evening," said Somervell, "the
tide'll be right then, though you'll have to do a bit of wading."

It was extraordinary, he afterwards remarked to his two friends Smith
and Mackintosh, what bad luck the old merchant seemed to have. The very
first day he arrived he had got a nasty wetting and scare in Derrible,
and then on the next day he had nearly skidded off the top of that rock
in the Goulliot passage.

"If you chaps hadn't been with me, he'd have gone."

"He said his feet suddenly went from under him."

"So they well might--there was a lot of seaweed about; but he had
rope--soled shoes--I told him to get 'em."

"He said he stubbed his toe against something, and began to slide."

"He said some mighty queer things altogether--he said he felt as if the
rock was wanting to push him off."

Smith and Mackintosh laughed immoderately, but Somervell launched out on
the subject of the Spirit of Sark, using the words "malign" and
"sinister" a great many times.

As for poor Cockett, he felt a broken man. He lay awake that night
repeating and enlarging on his desire to take the Guernsey boat next
day, till finally it became a resolution and was communicated to
Somervell the next morning.

"Don't be an ass," said the younger man. "Excuse me, Cockett, but really
you'd be a fool if you left Sark before your week is up. Even a week
isn't nearly time enough to see the island properly. It would be a shame
to go back to a stuffy, sandy hole like Guernsey just because you've had
a couple of small adventures--I tell you that sort of thing's always
happening here, bound to, considering the nature of the place, and
nobody minds."

"It isn't the things happening that I mind so much," said Cockett, "it's
the way they happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've a feeling--I know it sounds silly, but I can't help it--I've
a feeling as if the rocks _'ated_ me."

Cockett had not dropped an aitch for twenty-five years.

"We all feel that," said Somervell, "it's the spirit of the place--sort
of malign, you know--it was inhabited by pirates once, and you bet they
did some horrid things."

"It isn't pirates I'm feeling, it's rocks."

"It's all the same thing. My ghost! You should go to some of the places
here--I'd like to take you into Three Brothers Bay, or the Caverne des
Lamentes . . . and the tide would be right for the Pot this afternoon;
if you went down there. . . ."

But Cockett was so frantic in his protestations that Somervell saw that
any insistence would mean his decamping. So for a day he gave in to the
old fellow, and took him for a walk on the cliffs.

Cockett liked the Grve de la Ville; its gentle slopes appealed to him,
with the soft lap of dark green waters. The next morning when, to his
relief, Somervell went out fishing in a boat mercifully too small to
hold any addition to his party, the older man took a magazine and sat in
one of the soft green elbows of the path that led down to the bay in
comfortable curves. Cockett had brought his lunch, and he ate it in the
simmering quiet and heat, and afterwards he had a bit of a doze--such as
he used to have after dinner every day at Brighton.

He woke feeling refreshed and at peace with the world, though he was
vaguely conscious of the memories of bad dreams, such as nearly always
troubled his sleep in Sark. He stretched himself luxuriously in the
warmth--what about a bit of exercise? He felt he needed it after sitting
still for so long. He might toddle down and have a look at the bay.

The gentle slope of the green path invited him--this was not as other
bays in Sark, of fierce and precipitous descent. Below in the curve of
the shore he saw a haze of white shingle in the sun. Little puffs and
bolsters of fog were now afloat between sky and sea, and their downy
softness pleased him as he watched it against the fierce blues and pinks
and greens of sea and rocks and sky. The last few yards of the track,
when it became rubbed out in a desert of slabbing rock, brought back a
little of his old alarm. But it vanished when he found himself on the
shingle, looking towards a high, arched rock at the southern end of the
bay.

That must be the Gulls' Chapel. He had read about it in the
guide-book--the name attracted him, and he felt he would like to have a
look. It would be easy enough to reach--though he knew nothing about
tides, and was indeed ignorant to the point of not knowing whether this
one was coming in or going out. He set off round the bay and then
stopped, for in front of him was a mass of those head-like rocks,
drowned heads with their draggled hair close-packed together, and
bringing him that indefinite yet violent sense of fear and evil. . . .
He drew back, then suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He was a fool to be
upset like this by a set of rocks; after all there were rocks at
Brighton. He wanted to see the Gulls' Chapel, and he would never see
anything in Sark if he was afraid of rocks. So he went forward, climbing
slowly and carefully over the drowned heads. But he was not wearing his
rope-soled shoes, and his feet slipped dangerously on the seaweed; also
he soon realized that the tide was right up between him and the Gulls'
Chapel--he could never get there. He had better go back. He turned about
and then saw to his horror that one of those floating bolsters of fog
had crept up behind him and had completely shrouded his retreat to the
path and safety. Meanwhile he felt the horror grow, at once vague and
fierce, spiritual yet vilely animal, something altogether strange and
terrible to his experience. Then a ghastly thing happened--the sea ran
suddenly in among the rocks in a long, bubbling slide of water, and all
the seaweed on them lifted and floated round them . . . they seemed to
be coming alive. . . .

With a loud yell of undisguised animal fear, Cockett turned and ran to
his only visible safety. The shingle and the path were cut off by fog,
and it never once occurred to him to try to pierce that barrier--he knew
instinctively that if he did so the rocks would get him. So he made
straight for the cliff, where some winter watercourse had ploughed a
funnel-shaped descent. He went sprawling and staggering over the rocks,
till at last he had laid hold of the mixed earth and granite of the
cliff, and was pulling himself up by toe-holds and finger-holds to the
first tuft of green.

No one who knew anything of Sark would have attempted such an ascent.
But Cockett was ignorant, and mortal fear was in him.

He reached the top of the cliff breathless, his clothes torn, his face
purple, his eyes starting out of his head. But all physical pain and
discomfort was swallowed up in one thought--he must leave Sark at once,
this very day. If he stopped a day longer the rocks would get him--they
had nearly got him then, and next time he would be unable to cheat them.
Even the serene and comfortable Grve de la Ville had turned traitor. He
could not bear any more of it--he must go.

He told as much, incoherently, to Somervell, Smith and Mackintosh at the
Bel-Air. He went straight to their hotel, without changing or brushing
his clothes, and tumbled out his story. They heard it with a mixture of
impatience and delight and incredulity.

"The Grve de la Ville!" said Smith, "why, it's as safe as Margate
sands."

"But I tell you it 'ates me--the rocks 'ate me--nothing's safe for me
here."

"It's the Spirit of Sark," said Somervell awefully.

"I'm going home--I'm going back to Guernsey, anyhow, to-night."

"You can't do that--the steamer left an hour ago."

"But I can hire a boat--you said there was a motorboat I could hire."

"Not to-night--no one will take you over to-night. There's a fog coming
up, for one thing."

"To-morrow morning, then. I'll go the first thing tomorrow."

"Don't be an ass," said Somervell; "you'll regret it all your life if
you don't stay a week. To-morrow I'm going to take you to Rouge Terrier,
and the tide will be right, in the afternoon, for the Gorey Souffleur."

Cockett saw then that he would get no help from them, and driven by
despair into cunning, he feinted. His defence collapsed, and the
expedition to Rouge Terrier and the Gorey Souffleur was settled as to
time and meeting-place. Then he set out dejectedly for his hotel. He
knew that only his own exertions could save him from the murderous hate
of the rocks.

At the Dixcart Hotel he made inquiries. They were afraid that Durand's
motor-boat was booked next day--indeed, they knew it. But he might try
Hamon.

So that evening Cockett walked up to La Collinette and then to La Ville,
to interview prospective boatmen. It was August and fine weather, and
booking was brisk. He could not find anyone to take him over. His
anxiety was pathetic, as having been sent from Hamon to Carre, from
Carre to Vibart, and from Vibart to de Carteret he still encountered
failure. It almost seemed as if he would have to stop in that damned
island till the Guernsey boat left in the evening--and that would give
the rocks time . . . de Carteret wondered whether the poor gentleman had
urgent business or a dying relative. That was what made him suggest
Brasseur--otherwise he would not have recommended Brasseur, who had only
just come out of one of his bad times, and had not yet taken up fishing
again. However, he could now be guaranteed sober for a fortnight, and de
Carteret had no real qualms in pointing out his corrugated iron roof to
the frenzied Cockett.

As Brasseur was usually drunk for half the month, his bookings were
scanty for the other half. He readily promised his boat for the next
morning. They had better start at eight--that would be right for the
tide. So Cockett went home happy.

But the next morning brought fresh trouble. The waiter told him at his
early breakfast that there was a lot of mist about, and that possibly
the boatmen would refuse to cross.

"They _must_ cross," said Cockett, "I _must_ get over"--and tipped the
waiter desperately, as if he thought that somehow his largess would
react on Brasseur.

At a quarter to eight he was down at the harbour. The sea was a queer
slate colour, with blue gaps to match the blue gaps in the sky. Long
puffs and rolls of mist obscured the dim violet line of France, and
trailed up towards the sun, streaking sky and sea impartially together.

"Eet is going to be very thick outside, saar," said Brasseur. "We will
not cross just yet?"

"I must cross," said Cockett, "I can't wait. And"--bluffing in his
desperation--"it's a beautiful morning. Only a little heat mist about."

"Eet will not do, saar," continued Brasseur, "that fog--that come along
when we get outside."

"Never mind"--Cockett was not afraid of fog or of sea.

"It cannot be done, saar."

Cockett turned furiously on him.

"I will pay you extra," he said. "I will pay you double, if you're
afraid."

The last word was a bad word to use to Brasseur. His face darkened.

"Very well, saar, if you go, we go."

Some conversation took place in incomprehensible French between him and
the other men. Then he beckoned to Cockett, who took up his portmanteau.
One of the fishermen spoke to him just as he was going to embark.

"You had better not go, saar," he said, but Cockett pretended not to
hear.

Half a dozen fishermen in blue jerseys stood on the harbour wall
watching Brasseur's little motor-boat, _l'Alouette_, go chugging out of
the basin into the open sea. Brasseur held the tiller, while a boy of
about fifteen sat by the engine. A race of little waves was tumbling
through the Goulet, as the _Alouette_ swung her nose north-east, but the
sea lay in calm streaks of slaty violet. There was no wind, and every
cleft and ledge in the rocks stood out clearly--it was a lovely morning,
Cockett told himself and Brasseur; he was too ignorant to miss the line
of the French coast, or to notice that something like a great
feather-bed lay where Jersey should have been.

It was only when he saw the toothed ridge of the Grande Moie
disappearing into a fleece that he realized the possibilities of the
weather. Brasseur swore as he navigated the channel between the Moie and
the coast; but the mist did not come any nearer. The Petite Moie was
clear of it, but it was floating in wisps and strands outside the Grve
de la Ville, veiling the tops of Noire Pierre and Dodon. Suddenly
Cockett became frightened. He saw a fresh chance for the enemy.

"Are there any rocks about here?" he asked, "that we might run into?"

"Oh, my Gar! plenty of rocks," said Brasseur spitefully, "but we are not
going to hit any."

Cockett gripped the handle of his portmanteau, and stared straight
ahead. A little rug of mist fell over them, then fluttered away. Then
suddenly a great curtain seemed to close, shutting out coast and sea and
moies in one palpable and brine-scented whiteness. Brasseur swore again,
as Guille, the boy, shut off the engine . . . the little boat
drifted--there was a great lap-lapping of water all round
them--Cockett's heart felt as cold and clammy as the fog. Then shapes
began to loom out of the whiteness--they glided under the lea of the
Noire Pierre, and at last the white darkness lifted, or rather passed
over in a flutter of rags, and Cockett could see all the rocky tail of
the Eperquerie hanging out behind the monster which was Sark.

Guille had restarted the engine, and the _Alouette_ rushed gaily
forward. The sun was shining on the sea, stroking with gold the tops of
the little waves in the race. Cockett would have liked to ask his
boatmen if they were out of danger now, but he knew that they were not
on speaking terms. He had both injured and insulted Brasseur, and he
could never explain his urgency.

Damn! There was that mist again. It was coming in a wall from the end of
the Eperquerie.

They were in it--Guille ought to stop the engine--no, let them get
through quickly. . . . Crash!--and a feeling as of vast treachery as the
solid things of the world disappeared . . . green . . . how strong to
attack, how weak to support . . . air--just one breath which was half
lost in spluttering . . . oh! how high they were flinging him, and
drowning him as they flung . . . but here was something solid, here was
the world once more. . . .

It was a very little world, just three feet by two and a half, but it
seemed enormous to Cockett as he clung to it. He drew himself up on to
it, so that even his feet were out of the water. He wanted to feel the
whole of himself on dry land. Dry land was a euphemism for the top of
the Moie Rouget. It was not dry, had never been dry. Nor was it land--it
was just a cushion of seaweed on the top of a small rock submerged at
all but very low tide. But for just that moment Cockett loved it more
than Columbus had loved the whole continent of America.

He crouched there looking round him. The fog was everywhere--he could
see nothing of Brasseur or the boat. They had vanished. Had both the men
been drowned? He had heard no cries. Now all was silence except for the
soft lap-lapping of the water against the rock. He clung to his rock as
to a beloved thing, his fingers knotted into its oozy hair. To it he
owed his life . . . if it had not been there. . . .

"Whew!" said Cockett.

A sudden great heave of green water over his feet. . . . There was no
foam, no breaking of the wave, just a huge green swell. Was the tide
rising? He knew nothing about such things, but as the top of the rock
was very wet and thickly grown with seaweed he gathered that it must be
submerged for the greater part of each tide. In that case he was
lost--he could not swim, and the thickness of the mist both veiled and
muffled him. The rocks had not turned friendly after all, they were
merely giving him a slow death instead of a quick one. His teeth began
to chatter. There was another great swell of water--it lifted itself
against the rock and with it lifted the seaweed, standing up straight
beneath it like a forest under the sea, no longer the draggled weed of
its waterless standing, but a thing alive, triumphant, mocking the thing
which was to die.

Another heave, and this time the wave broke. The rock must be a Baveuse,
or slobberer, patching the sea with a circle of white scum. Soon it
would have slobbered him off into those thick green waves smooth as oil
under the lee of the Bec du Nez. The tide was certainly rising, and the
rock, which had been as a dead, exhausted thing, began to revive and
come to life. The seaweed stood up and waved--he could see ranks and
ranks of it on the ledges under water, here and there a lump of
dull-coloured jelly became a glowing flower, little growths like
toadstools made country dells of the hollows, and then the rock seemed
to find a voice, it no longer just softly lapped with the sea;
"glug-glug," sang the waters in its crannies, "glug-glug." The song
became louder, it roared. "I've got you, Paul Cockett, I've got you. You
thought you could run away from me, and all you've done is to run into
me. Ha ha!--or rather, glug-glug!"

His hands were awash now, as he clung to its waving and heaving mane. He
had stopped his useless cries of help, and was praying--praying with all
his might--to the god of the Brighton Pier. That pier, with its smooth
dusty boards, its iron supports, its turnstile links with the solid
ground, had become a god and a heaven to him as he clung to the mocking
and vanishing Moie Rouget. Then suddenly, as if in answer to his prayer,
an idea came to him.

"I must let go," he said to himself, "there's no good hanging on--it
wants to drown me. I'd better trust to the sea; it's safer than this
blasted rock, for it doesn't mean any 'arm."

He had heard that by holding oneself rigid one could float for a few
minutes, indeed he had tried it in the safe shelter of a Brighton
breakwater. He might be carried ashore (his ignorance was bliss), anyhow
he wouldn't have to die on that rock, watching it come alive. . . .

With a fresh mutter of prayer he let go. He felt the seaweed clinging to
his ankles as if it would hold him back, but the next minute he was
floating off on a huge green swell, floating rigid on his back as he had
intended. Spray and fog caked his lips . . . and then suddenly the sun
was in his eyes, burning down out of a fiery blue sky. He twisted,
struggled, and was under, swallowing water. . . .


There were boards under his head, wet wooden boards. . . . He must be on
the Brighton Pier . . . in Heaven. No, it could not be Heaven, for the
angels wore yachting caps, nor yet the Brighton Pier, for there sat
Brasseur and the boy, drenched and chattering. He sighed deeply and
someone gave him a drink of brandy. He saw the words "Ste. Anne" painted
in big black letters . . . then he realized that he was on a motor-boat,
but not the _Alouette_. She was a big boat with a twin screw, and there
must be about twelve people on board.

After he had answered various inquiries as to how he felt, he had some
confused impression of explanations given. The _Ste. Anne_ was a
motor-boat from Jersey, which had strayed from her course to Guernsey in
the fog. She had picked up Brasseur and Guille clinging to a spar of the
smashed _Alouette_ and they had cruised round looking for the passenger.
They had almost given up the search when he floated out of the dense
pillow of fog which smothered the Moie Rouget. The weather seemed
clearer now to the north-west, and they ought to reach Guernsey in less
than an hour, but they would first put him and his boatmen ashore at the
Eperquerie landing.

The last remark alone stood clearly out of the hum in Cockett's head. He
became frantic and begged the skipper to take him on to Guernsey.

"If I stop--they'll get me--they'll get me for certain," he roared.

The master of the _Ste. Anne_ wondered what the Englishman had done to
have the Sark _conntables_ after him, but as he was not more inclined
than most men to take the side of the law in its conflict with the
individual, and as Cockett was now on his knees offering him all his
worldly possessions, Mr. St. Helier of Azette readily agreed to take him
over to St. Peter Port, after depositing a gibbering and frenzied
Brasseur among sympathetic souls at the Eperquerie.

At St. Peter Port, Cockett, without luggage and with his wet clothes
dried on him, took the Southampton boat. He spent the last of his
holiday in his own house at Lewisham, and when he went back to the
office there was a coolness between him and Somervell. Indeed, Somervell
made matters quite unpleasant by telling people that Cockett had run
away from Sark in the early morning without paying his hotel bill. It
was a great relief when, the following June, Somervell left Duff's for a
better berth at Easterby Mortlock's. Cockett now definitely belongs to
the "old fellows," but he does not go with them to Eastbourne or
Hastings. He always spends his summer holiday inland; he says that he
finds sea-air a little too bracing.




                                   IX

                        _Variations on a Theme_

                                  (1)

                                BARLINE

When Lucy Palmer was picked up after the accident and taken to St.
George's Hospital, her bag was found to contain elevenpence in cash, a
copy of _Old Moore's Almanac_ for 1922, a rosary, and a photograph. Lucy
Palmer herself was dead, and it fell on me as her only relation--though
not a very near one--to sort her little affairs. These did not involve
much beyond the payment of her week's rent and the arrangement of her
funeral. In a very short time her traces were gone, except for that
rather pathetic little handbag and its contents.

One or two people said it was strange that a sensible girl like Lucy
should have carried about _Old Moore's_ _Almanac_, but I gathered that
it was only another instance of her weakness for the undeserving
poor--those disreputable-looking old men and blear-eyed women who hawk
about such things as almanacs and scentless lavender, whom Lucy could
never resist, though we had told her again and again that she was
encouraging vice, and that it was people like her who were the bane of
real charity, etc. etc. She used to say she couldn't help it, because
they reminded her of her parents--which was incredible as well as
disrespectful, her father having been a smart Leamington physician (who
had merely failed to leave his daughter provided for at his unexpected
death).

The elevenpence--a sixpence and five coppers--I deplored, because when I
met her two days earlier she had assured me she had plenty of money, and
I was sorry to see her, not only encouraging untruthfulness in other
people, but practising it herself. The rosary was part of her religion.
A lot of things had been real to her which are rather vague to most
people. Like George Meredith, I approve of religion in women, and set
the seal of my approval on Lucy's by paying for a Mass to be said for
her in the little church among the garages at the back of Sloane
Square--St. Mary-of-the-Mews she used to call it--where she had been a
worshipper.

And now, last of all, for the photograph. This does not on the surface
provide the sentimental clue to her story, for it was not the photograph
of a person, but of a place. It was the photograph of a farmhouse, which
perhaps did not look its best so taken, being a stern Tudor building
with hard corners and sharp gables. There were no surroundings to soften
or distract--but I recognized it at once. It was Barline.

Two years ago--in a moment of confidence which had never since been
recaptured between us--Lucy had told me what had happened to her at
Barline; and, of course, I knew the place myself--I was rather friendly
with Howard Martin at one time. I never knew there was anything up
between him and Lucy--he was much too clever, and she much too quiet. I
was surprised at her telling me that day, but women sometimes have these
moments of expansion with men they don't love. I hadn't quite believed
then what she had told me--it sounded far-fetched, somehow. I haven't
got that place-feeling myself--give me flesh and blood, even if it is
liable to be knocked down and killed at Hyde Park Corner. But this
photograph made me almost believe--or why had she carried it about with
her like that in her bag, the place that had taken him from her?

Of course, if ever one could have hesitated between a person and a
place, that place would have been Barline. It lies in that corner of
England which to me, perhaps by accident of birth, has most true and
most ancient magic--that part of the south coast where Sussex and Kent
flow together in the marshes by the mouth of the Rother. Rye and
Winchelsea, the Ancient Towns, have been left behind, and all that
remains of England is that flat green land which was once under the sea.
Perhaps this is the secret of its appeal--it is new-born, not quite
adult country, not quite used to us men and our ways.

I know this sounds nonsense, but when you come to think that long after
the Normans were here those green miles between Rye and Broomhill were
still the sea's bed, still worn by the Channel tides, still with the
castled ships sailing over them, that Camber Sands, in fact, are some
hundreds of years younger than Cadborough cliffs-- There, I said I could
not understand that feeling for place, and you'll say I have it myself.
Of course, I have it in a degree. What I can't understand is a woman
having it--they're so much more concrete than we are; and yet perhaps it
wasn't so much that Lucy had it as that she understood Howard's having
it--and that's queer too.

Howard hadn't always lived at Barline, though it had belonged to his
people for years, and he had been born there. He had returned about five
years ago, and bought it back in a foolish and complicated manner. I
don't know how many mortgages deep it was. The immense, rambling manor
house had been long split up into cottages--he lived in one, and his
workpeople lived in the others. He did a lot to improve his own
place--stripped off the plaster, revealing the beautiful old beam-work,
dug out a couple of Tudor fireplaces, and took out the modern windows,
fitting casements with his own hands. You could see that he loved the
place, but I didn't know how much. Lucy did.

"It was almost human to him, I think, Willoughby," she said, on that one
occasion when I had her confidence. "He was always pottering around
doing little things for it--you might almost say waiting on it. Every
time I came there was something new--a shelf put up or a beam uncovered
indoors, or a bit of roofing or paving out of doors. All his childhood's
memories were mixed up in it--I think that had something to do with his
feeling--and then after the Great War--you know he bought it directly he
was demobilized--he told me he had thought of it all the time he was in
Flanders. He'd forgotten it somehow till then. But out in Flanders he
began to think of it again, till it became a sort of obsession. Then he
went and saw it when he had his leave, and after that--well, England
simply was Barline."

"I'm glad he's got it, then."

"So am I."

"Do you think he'll do much with it?"

"Oh, he will in time. At present he's terribly handicapped for want of
money. He can't even afford to live in it properly. Of course, he wants
to make it into the manor house it used to be, but now it's all sliced
up into cottages, and he and his labourers live together under one
roof."

"That's economical, anyhow."

"Yes, but he wants Barline to be what it used to be when it was a manor
of the Oxenbridges."

"How long d'you think it'll take him to do that?"

"He gave himself fifteen years, if he's clever; it's something to do
with mortgages falling in. I never could understand mortgages."

I thought she looked a little sad, and I began to wonder what had
happened during that March and April of a year ago, when she seemed to
have learnt so much of Howard's ambition. She had gone to Rye to make
sketches--a commission, I believe it was--and I had asked him to call on
her and show her Barline.

"I suppose you're not going to Rye again this year?" I fished, rather
clumsily.

"No; I've nothing to go for. I only went because of that order of
Bright's."

"But don't you want to see what Howard's made of Barline since last
spring?"

"Willoughby," said Lucy, very quietly, "don't!"

I was ashamed of myself, for I had certainly been fishing, and had
caught something which my cousin would have preferred should stay under
the water. I don't know why I had never before suspected anything
between her and Howard--perhaps because his references to her had always
been so detached (and he was an expansive person), while she had never
before spoken of him save as the amiable owner of a sketchable house,
whose attentions had relieved the blank of a lonely and unseasonable
visit to a dead-and-alive town. I was preparing to recapture my
_savoir-faire_ and cover my lapse, when she suddenly broke in upon me.

"I expect you've been wondering why I never married him?"

I hadn't--till the last five minutes; but I certainly had since then, so
I nodded.

"Well, I'll tell you, Willoughby--we've always been such friends, and I
think you ought to know. Besides, it'll do me good to tell
someone--though I don't suppose you'll understand."

This challenged me.

"Why shouldn't I understand?"

"Because I don't think I quite understand myself," she replied
disarmingly. "But I accept it--I see that he was right."

Then she told me her story.

It appears that Howard had called to see her very soon after her arrival
in Rye. He had not found the society of his neighbourhood exactly
stimulating, and was looking forward to the chance of meeting a young
woman who, on my assurance, had both brains and looks. I should not have
assured every man this, for Lucy's intellect and appearance were not of
that order which compels acknowledgment. She was pretty, with that kind
of quiet prettiness which you notice most at the second glance, and in
the same way she was clever, but not otherwise. However, I knew Howard's
tastes--his dislike of the striking and emphatic--so I recommended Lucy
to him with a certain amount of confidence.

I was right. He liked her at once, and showed his regard by offering her
his most signal favour--an invitation to Barline. He was usually
inclined to keep Barline in the background till he was quite sure if he
liked you, but he offered it to Lucy at once. She came, and passed
safely through the severe ordeal of her first visit. Howard was a
terrible chap, and subjected us all to merciless tests in relation to
Barline. You did not know you had failed till your invitations ceased.
His standard was a high one--men who tried to sell him things on the
strength of what they saw him without, and women who talked of
lady-dogs, equally fell short of it.

Lucy triumphed, and was asked again--and it was on that second occasion
that he told her that he loved her. It was quick work, but Howard's was
a quick temperament, and Lucy had done everything right from the start.
She continued to do right, too, even to the extent of falling in love
with him herself. Poor little Lucy! It was the first time, I think, that
she had fallen in love with a quiet, solid, non-intellectual chap like
Howard--artists at the _Good Intent_ had been more in her line up till
then, though she had never cared for the species, and her few affairs
had been disappointing. Now she had something much more
satisfactory--also Howard was the first man she had ever met who seemed
in a position to marry her. He was not rich, and had heavy burdens on
his back, but he had a home, he had roots, and, oh, how much she wanted
both, poor little Lucy!

There is something dangerous about the love of a woman over thirty. It
is dangerous because it is unadventurous. She no longer wants just
glamour and excitement, which are easy enough to give her; but peace and
quiet and settlement, which are very difficult. The "will to safety"
grows on women with their years, and Lucy's life had encouraged the
growth; alone from her teens, earning her living without much talent or
training in an overcrowded market, no wonder she wanted peace and
protection, however humble. I don't mean that she didn't love Howard
Martin (she spent nearly five minutes trying to tell me how much she
loved him), but that was the form her love took--marriage, and he never
spoke of marriage.

At first she thought it was understood. Here was a man with a home and a
secure, if small, income, who had told her he loved her--his love was
bound to mean marriage; he wasn't like those boys at the _Good Intent_.
But in a few days she saw that she must revise this idea. If he had
meant to marry her he would have talked of it--made plans--but all he
did was to see her every day and tell her that he loved her, in a voice
which was beginning to grow rather sad. Every day she came to Barline,
and either they sat in his study (with its ribbing of ship's timbers),
beside the Tudor hearth, watching the logs split and burn with a blue
flame--she said the fire at Barline always burnt with a curious humming
noise, as if there were a kettle on it--or else they walked together in
the orchard, which was just breaking into blossom, or down by the
Pannell Sewer among Howard's young lambs; and always he spoke love's
language of kisses and broken words, but never said quite what she
wanted to hear.

"Oh, don't think I'm mercenary, Willoughby! It isn't that I'm just out
for marriage, but love takes me all the way there now. Whenever I
thought of Howard I wanted to be with him always--wanted to do little,
menial things for him--wanted to see him sitting at the other end of the
breakfast-table, reading dull extracts from _The Times_--wanted to hear
him say 'my wife' when he was talking to other people--wanted all I felt
for him to be settled, established, acknowledged. Oh, I know it's dull,
but I don't think it's mercenary!"

As time went on she began to wonder what was keeping him back. He was
over thirty-five, he had enough money to support a wife, he had no
relations or others dependent on him, and he loved her. There must be
some obstacle. She made all sorts of conjectures, from the usual
entanglement down to an early, secret marriage.

"Then I began to get worried. I felt I couldn't let things go on like
this, leading nowhere. But I couldn't ask him. All I could do was to
wait, knowing that in time he'd have to speak and tell me why he was not
going to marry me. I didn't know how bad it would be when that time
came."

She hid her face in her hands for a moment, and I saw them trembling. I
felt my cheeks growing hot with my indignation against Howard, and hoped
she would not look up till it was gone; for I wanted to hear the rest.
The next minute she dropped her hands, and evidently noticed nothing,
for she continued:

"It was at the beginning of April, about four o'clock in the afternoon,
and we were sitting in his study at Barline. The sun was pouring in, and
shining on the hearthstones, putting out the fire--oh, I know that's a
fallacy, you needn't interrupt, but it's a fallacy that always works, so
it might as well be true. We were sitting there, and he said:

"'Well, Luce, what are we going to do about it?'

"Of course, I knew what he meant, so I didn't pretend not to. I said:

"'You mean about ourselves?'

"And he said: 'Yes, ourselves. You know I can't marry you, dear.'

"I didn't know it; I had only guessed it, which isn't the same thing.
Knowing is much worse. For a moment I couldn't speak. I felt the tears
filling my eyes, and then to my horror I was crying; I couldn't help
myself; I was a fool.

"Of course, he was terribly upset--men always are when you cry. He was
very sweet, though. He took me in his arms and said: 'Don't cry, little
Luce, don't cry--I can't bear it. Oh, my dear, I thought you understood.
I've been trying to tell you for so long.'

"Then I made up my mind that at least I'd know the reason why. You'll
probably think me forward now, as well as mercenary, but I wiped away my
tears, and looked him in the face, and said:

"'Why can't you marry me, Howard?'

"He said nothing for a moment--I could hear the fire give a kind of
sigh, and one of the logs shifted. Then he said:

"'Barline.'

"That was the reason he couldn't marry me, Willoughby."

"But"--I broke in--"I don't call that any reason at all. You were the
very person for Barline--you loved it, you'd have been happy there.
Surely he didn't doubt that?"

"No, of course he didn't, but that wasn't the difficulty. You see, his
whole life was given to Barline and I could only come second. He'd made
up his mind that he would make it again what it once was--the chief
manor on the Rother Marshes. By degrees he'd get his workpeople out of
the dwelling, and turn it into a manor house again; he'd pay off the
mortgages, he'd buy back the land that had been sold to Crutch Farm and
Pannell Farm, he'd make it what it was when the Oxenbridges used to live
there. And if he married--oh, don't you see, it would do all that in
completely, unless he married a rich wife. Of course, he said then he
would never marry anyone as he couldn't marry me, but he'll change his
mind about that. I don't mean that he'll marry for money--but where
money is, like the man in Tennyson. Then he'll be able to buy back
Barline--buy it back from all the people who have got little bits of it,
make it the glorious place it used to be when King Edward the First gave
Hubert Oxenbridge the land that had just come out of the sea."

Her eyes were glowing--so were mine, but not with the same emotion.

"I never heard such nonsense," I exclaimed. "The chap could have married
and done that, too. But even if he couldn't, what's Barline compared to
ordinary human happiness? You'd be happier living with him in his slice
of the dwelling-house than you'll either of you be when he's got his
four hundred free acres and Tudor manor house with Miss Sadie Q.
Vanderbogg's dollars."

"You don't understand," said Lucy.

"No--I don't. I don't understand how you could ever give him up to such
an idea."

"I gave him up to Barline."

"That doesn't explain it."

"It does to me. Oh, Willoughby, directly I knew who my rival was, it was
almost easy for me to let him go."

"Why?"

"Because I loved her too."

"Lucy, you're very nearly ridiculous."

"Not nearly, but quite. I know I am, and I don't really expect you to
understand. But it's true--it's as I wrote to Howard: 'I can give you up
to lovely Barline, for it is giving you up to life itself'; and it's as
he wrote to me: 'People change and deceive us and fail us, but places
never do--they're always the same.'"

"Then did you never see him again, since you both 'wrote'?"

"No--not after that. It was better not. You see, he couldn't give me
what I wanted and I couldn't take what he offered. I've got my religion,
and of course I----" Lucy never could take up a superior attitude about
her religion; she used to explain its prohibitions almost apologetically
to us, whom I know she pitied for being without it. "Well, anyhow, it
wouldn't have been right or fair for me to go on seeing him. Besides, he
ought to marry some day--someone who'll be able to help him with
Barline. I'd get in the way of that if I stood by."

"Now," I said, "I think you are being mercenary."

"Because I want Howard to have what he wants?"

"How do you know Barline is what he wants? He'll probably change his
mind one day, and be bitterly sorry."

"If he were going to change he'd have changed before this--it happened
over a year ago. Besides, I've seen enough of Howard, listened to him
enough, to be quite sure that Barline is the big, lasting thing in his
life, and that other things only come next, and for a time."

"Would _you_ put a place before a person--before him?" I asked brutally.

"No--I wouldn't, but I can understand his doing it. In two months I had
come to know Barline well enough to imagine, to understand. Oh,
Willoughby, you can't think how dreadful it would have been if Howard
and I had married, and one day I had seen that I had come between him
and his place, and destroyed all his hopes for it. Oh, it's true what he
said: 'People change and fail us, but places never,' and if he'd failed
the place----"

"I think it would have been an excellent thing, except that the man's
too cold-blooded to deserve a wife. And you, Lucy, you're too sensitive,
too suggestible; you've simply brought yourself by your sympathy to
imagine that you understand what you don't--what no woman could, unless
she were so detached as to be almost disembodied, which you aren't, my
dear--so don't you think it."

I suppose it was my want of sympathy which checked her confidences.
Anyhow, she said little more on the subject that time, and never alluded
to it again. I made no attempt to revive it, for it made me furious to
think of that man who had the inestimable offering of her love and swept
it aside--for what? Four hundred acres of Sussex earth, so many tons of
tiles and wood and stones. It was preposterous. I was furious with
Howard, and furious with Lucy for saying she understood him.

That was two years ago--and Howard has not married his heiress, though I
don't for a minute imagine he has kept faithful to Lucy's memory. Why
should he? Lucy herself had at least one little affair since his--she
didn't believe in memory worship. After all, most of us bury our dead
more than once in a lifetime; indeed, most lives are like those pauper
graveyards where one coffin is put in close above the other and there is
no solid depth of earth.

But lovely Barline lives on still, unchanged through all these lives and
deaths. Perhaps Howard and Lucy were right. But I won't say it for
certain.



                                  (2)

                               PALEHOUSE

                                   I

Maddox looked at the long line of poplar trees and sighed. An infinite
relief was in his heart, and the day with its light clouds suddenly
seemed brighter, as if the veil would part and show him the sun. Here at
last was something he remembered, and the departed days began to flit
back to him, bearing memories of an old red house with many windows,
seen over a fence by a little boy who stood in an adventurous copse of
rustling chestnut. . . . He leaned forward in the car and asked the
driver to stop a moment. They halted at the end of the long avenue of
poplar trees, just where the broken gate swung with its legend:
"Palehouse."

This was it--here it was in the litter of his "orders to view."


"PALEHOUSE FARM. A fine old sixteenth-century house, perfectly restored
and modernized. Three reception rooms. Seven bedrooms. Bathroom. Kitchen
and offices. Charmingly laid out grounds, with tennis court and lily
pond. Commodious farm buildings. Two cottages. In all 200 acres, mostly
grass, but could be sold with less land. Five miles from town, shops and
post office. . . ."


He need not worry about that, about any of it, really; for all he wanted
was something he could remember--something of the past given back to
him, to build a future with.

He told the driver to go on, and the rattling Buick he had hired in
Ashford clanked up the avenue. Memory changed, or rather failed him--he
could not remember the poplar trees except as seen from the gate, nor
could he remember ever having viewed the house from the front like this.

A huge wistaria vine hung over it, dripping a purple shower that
obscured the windows. It was strange that he should never have seen it
except from the chestnut copse.

Surely, since Palehouse was set next to Townhurst in the pattern of the
Kentish weald, he would as a child have known the people there--his
parents would have known them, he would have been taken to see them, he
would not now, returning at forty-five to the countryside of his youth,
be approaching it from a new and unremembered angle.

He stared at it intently, convinced that memory was only sleeping and
would wake. But still it slept . . . only the sky awakened, suddenly
plunging itself in light, as the sun broke through the western clouds
and warmed the russet face of Palehouse into a deeper glow. Trees, grass
and flowers, the slanting crimson of barn-roofs, the flat, opal mirrors
of ponds woke into colour and life.

To Maddox, after his grey, gloomy day, it was a sudden revelation, a
gesture and a welcome. He no longer tried to remember the past, but
thrilled in the present moment and its conviction: "This is the place."

He alighted and rang the bell. A little girl opened it, dressed rather
pathetically as a maid in an outgrown black frock at least six inches
shorter than her apron, with a queer little lettuce of a cap poised
insecurely on her bobbed black hair.

"I have an order to view," said Maddox.

"Eh?" said the maiden.

"An order to view the house."

"I don't know anything about that."

"But it's for sale, isn't it?"

He had a sudden awful fear that the agents had been mistaken and that
the place was either not on the market or already sold. The girl did
nothing to dispel his fears. She stammered uncertainly:

"I dunno. I believe they've put it up."

"I've come from Messrs. Rich and Cleave. Here's my order to view."

At this juncture he became aware of a voice calling in an imperative
whisper, "Doris! Doris!" It seemed to come from a room leading out of
the little hall. "Doris! come here."

Doris took no notice, but continued to block the entrance. She seemed
equally unimpressed by the order to view; Maddox, feeling that something
further was required of him, put his hand in his pocket and drew out
half a crown.

"Here, take this and show me round--that's a good girl," he said.

Doris's features crumpled into a queer yokelish grin, that seemed to
register embarrassment rather than pleasure. She did not take the
half-crown, but, muttering something quite incoherent, vanished from the
door. At the same time the door of the adjoining room opened and a young
woman came out.

"Doris, where are you going? What is . . . oh, I beg your pardon. Do you
want anything?"

"I have an order to view."

"Oh, do come in. I'm so sorry you've been kept waiting like this. But my
maid is very inexperienced. I'm afraid she can't have understood what
you wanted."

Maddox gazed in some curiosity at the mistress of such a maid.

He had seen so little of Englishwomen that he found it difficult to
place her. In Tasmania she could well have been some farmer's or
tradesman's daughter, with her young pretty face, her not very new or
interesting clothes, her hair carefully dressed in a fashion that was
passing away. But such a woman out there would invariably have opened
the door herself--she would not have remained in the background,
ineffectually prompting an incapable intermediary.

This was another aspect of that English gentility which had so
exasperated him since his return to the old country--the spirit which
had refined the farms into country houses, purged the pubs into hotels,
and taken all the salt out of the Kentish speech he remembered rough and
savorous on the lips of farmer and yokel alike.

"Would you be so kind as to let me see this house?" he said rather
stiffly. "I know I've come rather late, but I've been wandering round
all day looking at places, and I have to be back in town to-morrow."

Just as he had been trying to place her, he saw that she was now trying
to place him. She looked at him rather anxiously, with wide puzzled eyes
that were attractively clear. It struck him that her gentility was
imposed from without by some iron code of custom rather than a natural
growth of her character. He warmed towards her a little.

"I am very sorry," he repeated.

"Oh, it's quite all right. I'll show you round. It's really more
convenient now than in the morning. Would you like to look in here?"

She opened the door of the sitting-room behind her. It was like the
others he had seen that day, crowded with characterless furniture,
falsely refined; but over its trivial contents the old beams sagged in
lovely age and grace, and between the curtains with their
Balham-modernist design an oak-framed window stood open to western
breezes and a shining row of willows beside a brook.

The rest of the house was the same--a cheap and shabby refinement
standing out transiently against an enduring background of venerable
beauty. He soon forgot the foreground and saw only the old beams, the
huge fireplaces, the richly coloured plaster, the wide views.

The place was just what he wanted--old, roomy, airy, sunny, squarely set
among tall trees and ancient meadows, next door to his old home, in the
very heart of the country that he loved.

The strange thing was that he could not in any way remember it--from no
room did he get any remembered view, either of a field or of a beam; and
yet, surely, living at the next farm, he must sometimes have been inside
it--his people must have known the people who were there, perhaps the
parents of the girl who stood beside him now.

"Tell me," he asked her, "have you lived here long?"

"All my life," she answered in an eager, friendly way, for they had
grown friendly during their inspection together. She seemed now to
belong more to the background, to the tiles and the plaster and the
beams, rather than to the furniture.

"I wonder if my parents knew yours, for I was born at Townhurst. My
name's Maddox."

"Maddox . . . I don't know--I can't remember."

"Oh, they must have died before you were born, and I've been out in
Tasmania ever since. But perhaps your father was here before you--in
which case . . . might I ask your name?"

"My name's Standen, and we've been here for a hundred years at least."

"Gosh!"--a hundred years seemed eternal to his Colonial measures--"then
my people must have known yours. And I've heard the name--yes, I'm sure
I've heard it; but I was only seven when I left, you know."

"That's a long way back to remember. I should think you had forgotten
most things."

"Forgotten! Not I! I tell you I've been living on my memories for nearly
forty years. I've been happy enough out there--when my parents died my
uncle and aunt took charge of me and gave me a fine time and a
first-class job--but I've always been determined that as soon as I got
the chance I'd come home. Directly I got it I took it, though I could
have made twice the money if I'd stayed out there another twenty years.
But as long as I've got enough to buy myself a good place here and make
it better--give the rest of my life to it, something more than the last
few years. . . ."

His eyes, glowing with delight, looked into hers and saw tears there. A
new and painful thought came suddenly to him.

"So after a hundred years you're selling the place."

"We're obliged to. My father died last autumn and if we sell everything
it'll only just pay the mortgage and his debts."

"Gosh! I'm sorry for that."

He looked so genuinely sorry that she lost the regret which had
immediately followed her words. She had at first thought she had
cheapened herself and the place by the avowal of her necessity, but in
that blue, friendly gaze she seemed to read a sympathy that gave an
added value to both.

"I'm sorry for that," he repeated, "though I'm the gainer. Do you know,
I never thought you were the owner of the place? I made sure your father
was somewhere about and you were just very kindly showing me round in
his absence."

"I'm only part owner. He left it to me and my sister Lois."

"Oh, I see."

"I think I've just heard her come in. I'll go and call her, if you don't
mind."

He minded a little; it seemed a pity to have a stranger in when they
were just beginning to be friendly. He supposed he would have to go
through all the formality and stiffness over again. He heard footsteps
in the passage, and the next moment the door swung open and Miss Standen
came in, followed by a girl whose wild beauty gave him a sense of
disturbance and unrest, almost as if it held a threat against him.

There was indeed something of the eagle in Lois Standen's face--an
aquilinity of expression rather than of feature, if you excepted the
piercing eyes. The other girl was pretty, in a wistful, elusive way; but
this girl was beautiful, with rich colouring and a dark flashing air,
which was all in herself and withdrew the eye from her cheap, shabby
clothes.

She looked hastily at Maddox before she spoke, and her glance seemed to
penetrate him and record him, making him feel that from now onwards he
must occupy a definite if inferior place in her mind.

He began to stammer something--back in all his old uneasiness--but she
swept his words aside.

"My sister tells me you've been looking over the place. It's in a simply
dreadful state--there hasn't been anything done to it for years--but, of
course, it wouldn't be going at such an absurdly low price it if was in
proper condition."

"Oh, yes, of course; and personally I'd much rather have something that
I can repair and improve myself . . . one has one's own fads, you know
. . . what I want is something really old and unspoilt. . . ."

"This place isn't unspoilt--you'll have to dig through feet of solid
wallpaper to get to some of the beams, and there are one or two old
fireplaces hidden behind hideous marbles; it'll cost you a lot of money
and time to get them out."

He felt almost affronted by her contemptuous indifference to the laws of
salesmanship, but the next moment he remembered that she and her sister
were selling against their will, and doubtless it was in her character
to be defiant where the other was resigned. Sympathy overcame annoyance.

"I understand that your family has been here for a great number of
years."

"I believe it has--but I'm not much interested in these things."

"I'm interested because once I used to live next door."

"Next door?"

"Yes, at Townhurst. I've been in Tasmania for the last thirty-eight
years, and now I've come back to settle near my old home, as I've always
planned to do."

"It's a pity Townhurst isn't for sale."

"I shall be happy enough here, I feel sure. This place seems just what I
want. But for some reasons I wish it was Townhurst. Your sister tells me
you will be sorry to leave here, and I don't wonder."

Her eyes contemptuously devoured his sympathy like dark, angry flames.

"Oh, Bella loves the place; I don't care about it--it's merely that it's
inconvenient to me to leave just now."

He felt snubbed, and the affront made him speak ironically for almost
the first time in his life.

"I'm sorry to put you to any inconvenience."

"If you don't, some one else will. Do you want to see the garden and the
outside at all? If so, Bella will show you round."

He had opened his mouth to decline, but when she offered him her
sister's company he changed his mind. Bella's quieter, kinder ways would
soothe a spirit that was becoming disturbed with a curious sense of
enmity--as if the antagonism of Lois Standen were something more than
the easy resentment of the moment, something charged with the bitterness
of an old feud, a quarrel that belonged to the place itself and still
lingered echoing in its ancient walls.


                                   II

He had, of course, made up his mind to buy and the next few days in town
were only a consolidation of his resolve, mixed with a strange
uneasiness. The uneasiness was due, he told himself, to his pity for the
sisters. For he pitied them both now; he forgave Lois her bitterness as
long ago he had forgiven Bella that little false air of refinement.

Lois's bitterness, he told himself, had no deeper root in her character
than Bella's gentility. Both had assumed a defensive armour against the
cruelty of life. In his Ashford inn, the night after his visit, he had
heard their story--a common story in these days of agricultural struggle
and waste.

Their grandfather--who must have owned the place when the Maddoxes were
at Townhurst--had made it fairly prosperous and raised it to the dignity
of a small manor house. Then things had gone badly--his son, the girls'
father, had not managed so well and had had more to contend with; and
now, soon after his death, the whole estate of two hundred acres must be
sold.

It was impossible for them to carry on, with mortgages and inland
revenue officials clamouring together for the old place's blood.
Besides, two girls can't run a farm--neither of them had been bred to
it; they had certainly better pack up and go. But the pity of it was--so
he learned in the bar--that the highest price they could possibly hope
to get for such a ramshackle place would only just pay off the debts and
the mortgage. They would have no surplus to live on or even to start
them in a new life.

In Ashford it was understood that they would have to live with relations
in the North; which was hard lines on both of them--on Bella, because
she loved the place and couldn't bear to leave it, on Lois because she
was engaged to a young fellow in Brewster and Cobb's office, who
wouldn't be able to marry her for another five years at least.

It was a sad story, and Maddox could not help feeling the villain of it,
though he knew all the time that such a feeling was unreasonable, and
that Lois had been perfectly right when she had said that if he didn't
buy Palehouse somebody else must, so it made no difference. But he could
not altogether rid himself of this feeling of guilt.

It was a feeling that had often troubled him before, for his reaction to
life was mainly sensitive and romantic. He had spent twenty-five years
on his uncle's sheep farm, working hard, secluded from the world,
dreaming of the past, but even in such a life similar occasions had
arisen, and he had often been able to soothe his conscience only by the
most extreme exertions in sacrificial philanthropy. Now in this new
case, he saw that some equal exertion was required if he were ever to
sleep peacefully in Palehouse, the place he loved.

He could not salve his tenderness by withdrawing from the bargain and
letting some other man have the onus of turning the girls out. He loved
the place too well to sacrifice it uselessly.

It alone, of all the various farms and estates he had inspected since
his return, seemed to hold both past and future, with other more dim,
tantalizing allurements. It was lovely, and he would make it
lovelier--he would spend all his wealth and intelligence on it, both the
house and the land should be reborn. And in that new birth he was
determined that those others who loved it should have a share. He would
plan for them as well as for it and for himself. In such thoughts his
conscience began to find peace.

As a result, he was in high, hopeful spirits when he called at Palehouse
five or six days later, and opened negotiations at once, in spite of
some forbidding coldness on the part of Lois.

He offered the full price they asked for house and land, though
doubtless they would have expected some bargaining, some exchange of
guineas for pounds--the house-agent had said as much. He was taking all
the land, but he did not mean to farm intensively; he had had enough of
farming--hops and sheep--and all he would aim at now was to keep the
fields and woods in good condition. This meant that he would not have to
keep a large staff, which led further to the probability that two of the
four cottages would be empty.

He would take the likeliest pair, knock them together and make one good
little dwelling-house out of them. He would let it to appreciative
tenants; now--beaming with hope and delight--would it be any
satisfaction to them to live there? Agreeable neighbours were more
important to him than any profit; they could pay what rent they
liked--and since they both wanted, for whatever reason, to stay in the
neighbourhood, it would be a kindness to him to justify his hobby by
consenting to live in the house when he had reconditioned it.

"I shall put in heating and electricity, of course, as I meant to do
here--add a bathroom . . . in fact, make it thoroughly comfortable while
keeping all its character and charm. It's what I've always planned to
do--away out there I've often thought of it--how I should love to
modernize and beautify a real old house; and two old houses will be
better than one."

He saw half the success of his plan in Bella's glowing eyes, but the
other half was more obscure. Lois broke into her sister's eager
exclamations of delight.

"It's very good of you, but we can't settle anything now. For one thing,
I must consult my fianc."

"He will surely want to keep you in the neighbourhood."

"There are other considerations besides that. And anyhow, you can be in
no hurry for a decision."

Rather to his surprise, Maddox found that he was--in a very great hurry.

"I can't press the offer, of course. But I do hope you will accept it."

"I'm sure we shall," said Bella; "it's only that there are one or two
things. . . ." She broke off lamely.

When Maddox was gone she turned to Lois.

"Why don't you want to stay?"

"I do, you fool. But I don't want to bind myself to anything yet.
Besides, what are we to live on?"

"He's paying the full price--though Rich and Cleave said we should never
get it; that will give us something to start with, and then we can keep
chickens or grow fruit----"

"And puddle on somehow till we're broke. I can see all that."

"I don't see that we need be broke, and, anyhow, it'll be better than
going to live at Guisborough."

"But perhaps we can think of something better still."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure yet. That's why I want to talk to Harry."


                                  III

That same evening Harry Spragge sat in the faded congestion of the
drawing-room at Palehouse, talking to Lois. They sat on two
narrow-waisted, short-legged chairs, pulled close before a small fire of
coal and wood, their hands locked together on her lap, their eyes hungry
and sad upon each other.

They had been engaged for nearly five years, since Lois left school at
seventeen and it looked as if another five might have to run before they
could be married. Spragge made barely enough in his subordinate position
to keep himself, and Lois had never had any hope from her father.

Poverty closed round them both and yet held them apart; their only hope
was the unlikely one that Spragge, on qualifying, might be taken into
the firm of Brewster and Cobb, small country-town solicitors, from whose
peddling practice in sales and agreements and county-court actions they
might hope for enough to keep them in a poverty that at least was
shared.

Last autumn the threat of parting had fallen upon them. When Palehouse
was sold the Standen girls would have to live with relations in
Yorkshire, dependent prisoners. Even the scarce meetings that had in
some way allayed the hunger of their love would be denied them
then--unless Lois and Bella took advantage of Maddox's offer to rent
them his reconditioned cottages.

"But of course you must," said Spragge. "There's nothing else to be
thought of. The man sounds pretty mad, so let's get all we can out of
his madness."

"Oh, I know he's sorry for us--if that's mad--and is trying to salve his
conscience by finding some way to keep us here. Bella is delighted. She
doesn't care where she lives or whose charity she accepts so long as she
stays somewhere near Palehouse."

"And what about you?"

"Oh, I want to stay, of course. But it's nothing to do with the place."

Their lips met sadly over their linked hands, and their shoulders leaned
together in the two little chairs.

"The trouble is," she continued, "that I don't know what we're to live
on if we do stay. He's paying the whole two thousand guineas, which no
one ever dreamed of our getting, and we shall clear everything for just
under two thousand pounds. That leaves us about a hundred pounds to go
on with. Bella suggests that we should keep chickens or bees or grow
fruit, but that won't bring in more than about tuppence. I don't suppose
he'd ever turn us out for not paying the rent, but we can't live on
air."

"It's a pity we can't get something on to the price."

"Oh, there's no chance of that. He knew what it was from the first, and
no doubt thinks he's mighty generous to pay the whole of it."

"Can't we think of something that isn't included?--something that he
wants, and then charge him pretty heavily for it in addition to the
cost."

"That sounds like your sort of job, Harry. That's what solicitors are
for, aren't they?"

"Well, I might do something. By the way, who's acting for him?"

"I don't know. He hasn't mentioned anybody."

"Then it mightn't be impossible to persuade him to let our firm act for
both sides. It's sometimes done, you know."

"I know; but of course he may have a solicitor all the time, though I
shouldn't think so. He seems rather a mutt in some ways."

"In many ways. He evidently parts easily."

"Yes, and he's got lots to part with I should say."

"A pity we can't have more of it."

"Perhaps we can if you're clever."

"I'll do my best, darling."

They looked into each other's eyes and laughed, and spoke of very
different things.


                                   IV

Maddox had no objection to Brewster and Cobb taking charge of his side
of the contract. It saved trouble and expense, and it put something in
the way, he gathered, of Lois's Harry. The young man, though his
position was officially subordinate, seemed to do most of the work of
that small, leather-smelling office in Ashford High Street, which the
senior partner, Mr. Samuel Brewster, visited only occasionally, while
his more active junior went round the district, arranging and
superintending sales and attending to the business of outlying villages
on market day.

The negotiations were not very swift. Spragge explained to Maddox that
the sale of old places was always attended with a certain difficulty.
Documents were ancient and titles obscure, and at present there was some
hitch in the matter of the deed of purchase executed by Amos Standen in
1811.

One very interesting fact transpired and that was that Maddoxes had
actually owned and occupied the house towards the end of the eighteenth
century. They had not held it very long, but a certain William Maddox
had lived there from 1782 to 1797, and his son had bought the adjoining
property of Townhurst and built the existing house.

To Maddox there now seemed something definitely "meant" and miraculous
in his purchase of Palehouse. He was actually about to occupy the home
of his ancestors, perhaps to revive an ancient name and heritage. He had
always vaguely planned to marry on his return, though he was shy with
women and unused to them, and now he saw how essential it was that there
should be Maddoxes at Palehouse--no mere fifteen years' occupancy or
even a hundred years', but a family revived and restored and rooted in
the land of its fathers.

His enthusiasm would not allow him to wait for the completion of the
agreement before beginning his improvements. He was all alight to occupy
the house in its new glory. He found that neither Lois nor Bella
objected to the arrival of a crowd of workmen who were to recondition
house and cottages as quickly as possible.

He took rooms at the Smarden inn and brought down a London architect to
superintend the changes. The whole house was to be put in thorough
repair--even a casual inspection had revealed serious flaws in the
structure, old age approaching decrepitude, a dying house. But he
considered that the small sum he was paying--two thousand guineas seemed
a ridiculous price to ask for a farmhouse and farmsteading and two
hundred acres--would justify him in spending largely on reconstruction.

The architect acknowledged that the house _could_ be restored if only
enough money were spent on it, and Maddox was determined that Palehouse
should rise out of its sickness and stand strong and beautiful for at
least another three hundred years.

Lois watched him with a certain angry contempt; his enthusiasm seemed to
her ludicrous, a schoolboy extravagance that mocked her difficulties.
But Bella was delighted and reverent. She had always wanted to save
Palehouse from decay and had sometimes in dreamland executed plans and
improvements which now seemed about to take place on earth. Maddox began
to wear some of the glamour of a fairy prince, waving his wand over a
dying house and broken barns and restoring them to health and integrity.

He appreciated her interest and soon found himself consulting her. She
loved the place and knew what it should be, which changes would be
improvements, which merely the spoiling of ancient beauties. Besides
putting the house in repair he was bringing the electricity over from
Smarden, sinking a semi-artesian well to increase the water-supply,
putting in central heating and two more bathrooms. At the same time,
stripped walls and torn-out fireplaces were revealing new treasures in
the way of old oak and ancient hearths.

Palehouse would one day be a very different sort of home from the
uncomfortable, draughty, shabby-genteel, collapsing place that had
sheltered the dreams of Bella and the despairs of Lois for so many
years.

"And I think it so charming of him to do just the same for the cottage,"
said Bella, "even though he's not going to live there himself."

"My dear girl," said her sister, "don't you worry. He'll get his money
back."

"Not from us--he's asking only thirty pounds a year."

"And at the end of a year, mark my words, it'll all be up for sale
again--the cottage for two thousand, the farm for ten."

"Lois!"

"Well, why not? He wants to make money like everyone else, I suppose."

"But he's not bought this place to make money. He means to live here."

"I'll never believe that a man like him--a bachelor of forty-five
without apparently a single relative in the world--is going to live by
himself in the wilds for the rest of his life, no matter how comfortable
and beautiful he makes his house. He may think he is at the moment, but
I tell you he isn't."

"But he was born here--he loves the place, and has always meant to come
back."

"I daresay, and now, of course, everything's lovely, but I expect in a
few months he'll be bored to death. He's just the sort of impulsive,
expansive man who hates living alone."

"He may marry," said Bella.

"He's sure to if you ask me; but no one here--who's he to marry here?"

"He might find someone."

"Who?--the neighbourhood's a desert. You know we have no friends. I
shouldn't want to stay here another month if it wasn't for Harry. No, I
give Maddox a year at Palehouse and us a year at the cottage."

"He'd never turn us out--even if he goes himself. He's the last man to
play us a trick like that, and I don't see why you should say such a
thing."

"I don't take quite such a rosy view of him as you do. He's a
sentimentalist, and they're never to be trusted. I'd sooner trust the
hard-headed, calculating sort who won't move a step without signing
first on the dotted line."

"There's sure to be some sort of an agreement about our tenancy. Perhaps
you'll trust that if you won't trust Mr. Maddox."

"Agreement! Why should there be an agreement? What does he care about
agreements? Look at him now--rushing on before anything is signed,
because he's too impatient to wait to do things properly. He deserves
there to be some sort of hitch--something that'll prevent him ever
having Palehouse at all, if there could be such a thing. And I tell you
he's just the very man who'll change his mind; especially when he finds
how much he could get for the place."

"I don't suppose he could get more than he's spent."

"Oh, yes, he could, with the boom there is in old houses at the present
time. If we could have afforded to make the house look really
ancient--take out all the modern windows and fireplaces, strip off the
wallpaper and uncover all the beams--we could have got three times what
we're getting now, even without putting it in repair. Hullo! What's that
coming to the door?"

"It sounds like Harry's motor-bike."

"Harry! . . . No, it can't be Harry. Why should he come here now? He'd
never come in business hours."

But as she spoke Harry walked into the room.

Both girls saw at once that something extraordinary must have happened.


                                   V

"What is it, Harry?" asked Lois as he kissed her. "You don't usually
come here during business hours."

"I've come on business."

"Oh, have you got the agreement?"

"Agreement be hanged! We're miles from that--if there ever is one, which
there won't be as far as I can see."

"What do you mean?" cried Bella.

"Have you found out he's insolvent?" asked Lois.

"Insolvent? Not he--he's rolling, as far as I can judge. I could hardly
get up to the door for the workmen."

"Then why can't there be an agreement? What's happened? What's going to
happen? Don't make a mystery of it, darling."

"I'm not making the mystery--it's there. Or rather it's more dramatic
than mysterious. I'll give you the facts at once. As you know, I've been
going through every available deed and document relating to this place,
and this morning I unearthed a lot of stuff of your grandfather's,
including the will he made in 1872. He left everything to your father,
on one condition--that the place was never to be sold to any descendant
of William Maddox of Townhurst; because--I've made a copy of this part,
and I'll read it to you--because . . .


'the said William Maddox has put forward an unjust claim to this estate,
which claim was duly disallowed by the courts, and will, I know, use
every effort to acquire the property by purchase at my death, having
failed to acquire it during my lifetime by litigation. I therefore
bequeath it to my son Henry Standen on the understanding that should he
or his heirs ever wish to dispose of it they shall not sell either to
the said William Maddox or to any of his descendants.'


I left out some of the legal elaborations, but that's the plain sense of
it, and washes out our friend."

"What relation is he to William Maddox?"

"Grandson, of course. His father was Benjamin Maddox, who had Townhurst
after William, and died somewhere about 1896. You remember that we found
out there had been Maddoxes at Palehouse towards the end of the
eighteenth century. Well, apparently they thought they still had a claim
to it when the Standens came in, and William Maddox actually went to the
courts about it--and lost. No doubt there was a pretty good battle
between him and your grandfather; hence the vindictiveness."

"Well, it sounds extraordinary," said Bella. "Not like real life,
somehow."

She covered her face with her hands, trying to think clearly. She
suddenly knew that if Maddox did not have Palehouse it would be a
terrible thing.

"What can be done about it?" she asked. "Is the sale invalid?"

"Sale! There's been no sale. You'll have to give him his deposit money
back, of course--he's paid that."

"And what about all this mess?" said Lois, looking round her. "He's
practically gutted the place by this time. This is the only room they
haven't been into yet."

"He's an absolute fool to have started before he'd signed the contract,"
said Harry, "but, of course, he never imagined there could be such a
hitch. Legally I suppose, he'll have to put everything back as it was,
unless we come to some sort of an agreement with him."

"I certainly don't want anything 'put back,'" said Lois. "I don't want
the old beams and fireplaces covered up, or the hot-water system taken
out, or all that shoring and pointing work undone. He must already have
added about a thousand pounds to the value of the house."

"But that's his money," said Bella. "I expect he can claim that."

"Indeed he can't, my dear girl," said Harry. "If a man's such a fool as
to spend a thousand pounds on someone else's property he must expect to
lose it, that's all."

"It seems very unjust."

"Not unjust at all," said Lois, "except to us. He's got to lose his
money, but we've got to be left with all this mess, with everything
begun and nothing finished. Even though he may have added to the value
of the house, we can't possibly sell it as it is. We shall have somehow
to put it in order and that'll cost us all the extra money we're likely
to make."

"Couldn't Vidler and Boorman tinker it somehow?"

"I don't see how they can--with central heating half in, a bathroom half
built and all that sort of thing. They could smooth the walls and lay
the floors again, but they're only farm men and have no real knowledge
of building, let alone plumbing and engineering. No, I think that after
all he had better put everything back as it was. It'll cost him almost
as much as it would to finish, and he deserves it."

"Why not let him finish?" said Harry Spragge.

"He'll never do that--now he can't have the place. I don't suppose even
he's fool enough for that."

"You haven't quite got my meaning, dear. I was not suggesting that we
should take him into our confidence and throw ourselves on his
generosity; but that we should let him--just go on."

"And not say a word about the will?"

"Not till things are in a more satisfactory condition. Then we can
unearth it as a new discovery. No one at the office has seen it yet--old
Brewster's away and Cobb's so busy with the spring fairs that he's been
leaving everything to me."

"But surely the will was drawn up by someone in the firm--someone must
know about it!"

"Why? It was made in 1872--even old Brewster wasn't in the business
then. I expect his father drew it up; and I don't suppose it's been seen
by anyone since your grandfather's death. When was that?--'75. No, I
tell you, if this sale hadn't come along the whole thing would never
have been heard of; and as it is, it's been heard of only by us three.
We can let it stand by for as long as we like--till Maddox starts
worrying over his contract, which isn't likely to be soon by the look of
him."

"But we can't let him go on--spending money on the house when it can
never be his," cried Bella indignantly.

"It sounds bad when you put it like that," said Harry, "but it isn't
quite outside the law by starting all this work before he'd signed the
contract. He's put you and Lois to the greatest inconvenience by digging
you up like this--it was extremely good-natured of you to let him begin
before you'd sold the place and cleared out.

"But he doesn't want us to clear out--that's the whole point. He wants
us to go and live in the Pond cottages when he's made a decent little
house of them. It's his kindness to us that's made him hurry so."

"He needn't have started the house till he'd finished the cottages,"
said Lois coolly. "No, my dear; he's done all this because he's in a
blamed hurry and he must pay for his hurry, that's all."

"He must have known he took a certain risk by beginning at once," said
Spragge. "If he didn't know, I've no patience with him."

Bella found that she was fighting with tears. She prayed for steadiness,
conscious of Lois's appraising eyes upon her.

"I know he's been rash--reckless . . . but it's because he loves the
place. After all, it's the home of his ancestors as much as it is of
ours . . . and he was born here--at Townhurst . . . he's watched this
house day after day from Townhurst Wood--he's told me . . . how he used
to stare at it when he was a little boy and wonder what it was like
inside. Naturally he was in a hurry to come and live here--to make it
everything he wants it to be."

"All that's very fine," said Lois, "but it doesn't make me want to be
left with a half-gutted house and cottages."

"Of course I see that he must pay for what he's done----"

"And he must also pay for putting it back to what it was before, or else
for going on with it. One will cost him as much as the other, and I'd
much rather he went on."

"If this place is made really decent," said Spragge, "it ought to fetch
five or six thousand pounds instead of two."

There was an eager little silence, full of thoughts.

And then you and Lois can get married, thought Bella. Aloud she said:
"If he should ever find out what you've done he could prosecute you."

"Why should he ever find out?" said Lois. "We're not going to do
anything silly. We're not going to wait till the last lick of paint's on
and then produce the will. We'll only let things get a little
forrader--that's all; just so far that it'll cost more to go back than
to go on. We'll offer to make some sort of gentlemanly arrangement with
him, too--we aren't meaning to be crude about it. But we are going to
take our chance--now he's given it to us. If he's as good-natured and
charming as you make out, he'll be glad that we're going to make
something out of his mistake."

"I daresay that if we went to him now and told him," said Harry, "he'd
agree to go on--to make up for having been such a fool and put you and
Lois to such inconvenience, to say nothing of your disappointment about
the cottage."

"Then why don't you go to him now?"

"Because we're not wild and woolly Tasmanians, taking everything for
granted."

"Oh, do stop arguing, Bella," said Lois. "Don't you see that there's
nothing else to be done? The man's a fool, and I don't see why he
shouldn't pay for his folly. He's rich, and he can afford to pay. He's
generous, and he won't mind paying. So why make such a fuss?" She stood
up. "Come on, Harry, let's go outside. I can't hear myself think indoors
with all this hammering."

She took his arm and they went out together. Left alone, Bella heard
herself think desperately that she would have to choose between her
sister and Maddox; but she had scarcely time to think before she knew
whom she would choose.

She could appreciate, almost painfully, Lois's temptation--her point of
view. Here she was, after years of denial and anxiety and recent months
of sorrow, failure and hopelessness, suddenly confronted with a chance
of ending all her troubles. Palehouse, restored to the full commercial
value both of ancientness and of modernity--equipped impartially with
sagging beams and bathrooms, open fireplaces and constant hot water, oak
casements and electric light--would be a really valuable property,
capable of bringing her in the thousands required for her marriage and
establishment in life instead of the mere hundreds required for the
payment of her father's debts.

All this had suddenly come her way through what she considered the
reckless folly of a total stranger. Why should she hold her hand and
refuse to let him pay for his mistake, when his payment would mean to
her all the difference between poverty and riches, misery and happiness?

It is true that she proposed to hold her hand a little longer than the
law allowed, but here again she had her excuses, being in complicity
with the law itself. For a moment Bella wondered if, had she been in
Lois's situation, she could have acted differently. She had the grace to
see that it was the difference in their situations which made the
difference in their reactions--that gave her indignation where Lois had
hope, sympathy where Lois had contempt, that made her sensitive where
Lois was unscrupulous and anxious where she was bold.

If she had loved Harry Spragge instead of George Maddox. . . . That, she
knew, was at the bottom of her indignation, rather than any sense of
honesty or fair play. If anyone else had made the blunder, she would not
in the least have minded seeing him pay for it--even in excess of what
the law required.

But she could not bear the thought of Maddox being made to pay for the
very recklessness of his love for Palehouse--the place where their
hearts met. They were united in the place, their love for it had brought
them together, and it seemed wicked and cruel that they must suffer for
a love which was only just not their love of each other.

A sob crept up her throat. Whatever happened now, they would have to
part. He could never live at Palehouse, and she and Lois would never
live at the cottage. At whatever price, someone else would buy the place
and she and her sister would have to leave it.

What could she do? Nothing--except put herself right with Maddox, and
Maddox right with Palehouse. She saw now that she simply could not let
this monstrous deception go forward. He must be warned before he had
spent any more money on the place, at all risks before he saw how
beautiful and perfect it could be.

She felt a certain uneasiness in working against Lois--a lifetime's
associations made that appear treachery even though it was her sister's
treachery that she worked against--but if it came to choosing between
Lois and Maddox. . . .

She saw now how deeply she loved him, since for his sake she could turn
against Palehouse, for Lois was Palehouse, and all their childhood
there. But once she had made up her mind she did not hesitate. Her
sister would never speak to her again--well, no matter, for after this
their ways parted certainly. And Lois would marry--whatever happened
that would be, she would contrive something out of this chaos of a
property left on her hands.

Perhaps if they had all been honest Maddox would have finished the work,
in reparation of his folly--he might even finish it now, since she need
not reveal the full dishonesty that had been plotted against him. . . .
She would do what she could for Lois and Harry, because her heart's
necessity had made her understand theirs. But she would not strain at
more. Maddox was first with her and must come first. She wondered where
she came with him; for much--for all--depended upon that.


                                   VI

She found him in the little wood at the corner of the pond below the
cottages. It was thickly planted with chestnut, and from among the long,
glossy leaves he could gaze at Palehouse in much the same way as he used
to gaze at it from Townhurst. He started as she came up to him, feeling
that she caught him playing a childish game.

But her face made him forget his own concerns. It was set in a mask of
sorrow that seemed to give it some of the aquiline beauty of Lois's; and
to warm and melt that beauty into the simplicity he had come to look for
and rest in there were two tears rolling down from the corners of her
eyes.

"What is it? . . . What has happened?"

She told him. That is, she told him enough to show him that Palehouse
could never be his. At first he could hardly believe her.

"But how . . . how could such a thing possibly have happened? Why didn't
anyone know before? Where's Spragge? I must find him."

"Wait . . . don't go to him now."

"But there must be some mistake, and he only can explain----"

"He doesn't want you to know."

"Not want me to know! What do you mean?"

She tried to tell him though she could scarcely find the fumbling words
to do so. But she must have been clearer than she thought, for at last
he said: "I see."

Gazing at him, at first she noticed no change in his face; then she saw
by his eyes how terribly he was hurt--there was a hurt look in them,
such as she had sometimes seen in the eyes of a dog. Her pity rose and
choked her. She burst into tears.

"My dear! my dear! don't cry--I--I quite understand."

But she was so grief-stricken that she could not even feel comforted
when his arms came round her. She could only sob out her misery and
shame:

"I feel so wretched--so ashamed--that this should have happened--that
they should have treated you in such a way after the way you've treated
them. . . ."

"But they haven't treated me in any way yet, Spragge has only just
discovered----"

"I know--but they mean to . . . it--it isn't Lois's fault--she wants the
money. She--she wants to get married."

"I can understand that."

She felt his arms suddenly hold her more closely, and for the first time
a faint sense of comfort crept into her misery.

"You're very good."

"It's you who are good. It's good of you to have warned me, and I can't
think why you should have done so when it means so much to you as well
as to Lois that things should go on."

"I couldn't bear that you should be treated so--so unfairly . . . your
kindness. . . ."

Sobs broke up her voice again, and as he held her to him he knew that no
abstract sense of justice and gratitude could have moved her to this.

"So you care for me more than for your sister?"

She did not answer, and he repeated: "Is that it?"

He thought he heard her murmur something; it was not very clear, but he
thought it sounded like "So much more."

"Then nothing else matters."

It was not till some time later that they found out that it did.

Wandering among the chestnut bushes, looking only into each other's eyes
and hearts, nothing had seemed to matter but the growth of their love
during that last month, unseen and unspoken, from that first moment of
ease and friendship to this moment of stress and revelation. It was all
wonderful enough to keep their thoughts even from Palehouse and its
crisis. But after a while he said:

"I shall look for another place near here. There must be some farm or
cottage that we can take and improve upon. We neither of us want to
leave this neighbourhood."

"Not after the way it has treated you?"

"It has treated me very well," he said firmly. "It has given me a wife."

Bella's thoughts moved away a little.

"Lois will never forgive me," she said.

"Why not? We're not going to quarrel over this. I shall put the house in
order and let her have it to do what she likes with. I was a fool to
have started all this work without waiting for the contract to be
signed, and the least I can do is to finish it. Of course it'll mean I
shall have to be careful with the other place--not spend much on it--but
I shan't mind about that now I know it will be your home as well as
mine."

"Palehouse is partly mine," said Bella thoughtfully.

"That's one reason why I want to make a good job of it."

Bella was silent for a moment, then she said:

"I've thought of a better job than that."

"What is it?"

"Well, Palehouse is half mine and half Lois's. I love it, and want to
live in it--she doesn't. All she wants is the money. If she had that she
wouldn't care about anything--she'd be quite glad for it all to belong
to me."

"You're suggesting that we should buy her out?"

"It wouldn't cost very much more than finishing the house for her to
sell and buying a new one for ourselves. All she wants is enough money
to get married on . . . and then--don't you see?--when the house is mine
there's nothing to prevent my husband living in it."

"My sweet! My clever sweet! But will the law, this will of your
grandfather's, allow me to do that? Remember that my name's Maddox and
so will yours be in a short time."

"That won't make any difference. The will only forbids the house to be
sold to any descendant of William Maddox. As long as you don't mind it
nominally belonging to me . . . there's nothing to prevent a Maddox
living in it."

"Two Maddoxes living in it."

"Quite so."

"Or a Maddox inheriting it at some future date--through his mother.
Bella, how clever you've been!"

"Let's go and tell Lois," said Bella. "I want to get that over."

"But you've said you don't think she'll mind."

"She won't mind my having the house as long as she has the money--but
she'll probably be angry with me for having told you."

"Poor Lois! I think I know now why she's always disliked me."

"She never disliked you."

But he was not speaking so much of any personal dislike as of that
strange enmity which had flashed between them when they first met, as if
Standen had recognized Maddox before a word was spoken. That enmity had
been a part of the place itself, an old contempt which now was purged.
He did not think Lois would be angry long.



                                  (3)

                                NINEVEH

                                   I

You could tell that Myra Pollitt was a self-sacrificing woman by the
look of her eyes. They were large, wistful--pathetic and yet brave.
Sometimes the bravery died out of them, and they brimmed with tears.
Then her sympathetic friends would murmur of a stricken deer; others
were less sympathetic. . . .

She had married a very simple man. He came of yeoman-farmer stock,
though he had been born in London and educated at Harrow; he grew very
straight out of the parent root, which once was deep in Kentish soil,
and a certain part of his childhood had been spent at an uncle's farm
near Benenden, where he had strong attachments.

Goodness knows how he came to marry Myra. She was a great deal younger
than he was, and you would not have expected him to attract a woman of
her subtleties and tastes. She "painted a little" and had a studio in
South Kensington, where he would go and sit for hours, and stare at her,
and slowly crack his fingers in a way that would have maddened most
girls. Doubtless it maddened Myra, for when he forgot himself, as he
still occasionally did after marriage, that troubled, beseeching look
would come into her eyes, and she would murmur--"Oh, Stephen . . ." in a
gentle voice that made him start like a frightened animal, drop anything
he was holding or upset anything that happened to be near.

The general opinion was that she made him an excellent wife. She managed
so well. Their income was not large, for he had only a subordinate
position in a firm of brokers, but she made it go as far as many a
larger in less capable hands. Their home, a flat near Kensington
Gardens, was completely charming. Myra's artistic tastes were combined
with an appreciation of solid comfort. She was a good housekeeper and
not in the least Bohemian, though she loved to entertain her friends and
have them round her. She gave frequent delightful little dinners, less
frequent cocktail parties, and every evening one or two friends would
drop in for a chat and a drink.

Secretly they may have gone for her food and wine and cocktails, for her
armchairs and fires, for her little heart-shaped face with its two great
eyes that seemed to grow larger as time charged them with more pathos.
But ostensibly they went because "Myra needed brightening"; Pollitt was
such a dull dog, with nothing to say, not an idea in his head. Sometimes
he would fall asleep in his chair after dinner--"had a hard day in the
city," was his murmur of excuse; but he might have kept awake for the
poor little woman's sake.

The poor little woman . . . that was Myra Pollitt on a man's tongue. The
women were not so sorry for her, and she did not take them so much into
her confidence. There was a young architect who almost adored her--he
would come to see her between tea and dinner, between others' going and
coming, and she would tell him how hard her life had been, how she had
had to struggle, how she was struggling still. But mostly her friends
were young married couples--young husbands who delighted in her
hospitality, young wives who spied out and copied her ways. She liked
people who "did things"--who wrote, or painted, or designed, or
composed, and though she had not succeeded in attaching even
occasionally many celebrities, there was a sparkle about her table and
round her electric fire which made poor old Pollitt often look a bigger
fool than he was.

He had his own friends, of course--she always made a point of inviting
them--but they were a dull lot, mostly of country origins and commercial
occupations, awkward and ill at ease amongst so much brilliance. You
could always tell Pollitt's friends from hers by their frumpy, huddled
appearance--like a little knot of sheep, who know that they ought to be
doing something that they are not, but have only a vague idea what it
is.

Then suddenly the news spread round the Pollitt circle that they had
been left some money--a lot of money. An uncle--not the one who used to
own the farm near Benenden, but one who had gone out to the States--was
dead, and had left everything to Stephen. "How glorious for them"--"I'm
so glad"--"Poor little woman, she really deserves a bit of luck. She's
been so brave and managed so splendidly."

But when the Swaynes called on the Pollitts, and found Myra alone, it
appeared that her good fortune was not wholly untempered.

"Yes, it's quite true. We shan't be poor any longer. The lawyers say
there's thirty thousand pounds, at least. . . . But, my dears, a
dreadful thing has happened. Nineveh is for sale."

"Nineveh?"

The Swaynes stared, politely baffled.

"Little Nineveh, you know, near Benenden in Kent, where Stephen used to
stay when he was a boy. It really is a most unfortunate coincidence that
it should be for sale just at this moment."

"You mean that Stephen wants to buy it?"

"Yes, of course, he does. He adores the place, and he's behaving in the
most extraordinary way about it. You'd think something religious had
happened--its being up for sale now when he's got the money. He says he
must have it, and we're going down this week-end to look at it."

"But why should he want to buy it?"

"He wants to live there."

"Myra, you'll never let him!"

Her eyes grew larger, distending with an appeal of unshed tears.

"How can I stop him if he wants to?"

"You know you can. Stephen will never do anything that you don't like."

"Perhaps. . . . But how can I stand in his way over this? It's the thing
he wants most in the world. He's been talking about it for days. He
means to set up a model farm there. Apparently it's in a very bad
condition now, but he says it only needs money spent on it . . . our
money. . . ."

Her voice faltered.

"But, my dear, it's impossible. You can't go away and live in the
country. You know you'd hate it."

"Yes, I should."

"Then you mustn't let him. Really, Myra, you would be mad to sacrifice
yourself in this way--living in the depths of the country--a farmer's
wife--_you!_" It was Ronald Swayne who spoke.

"Stephen will soon stop wanting it--they do," said Helen Swayne.

Myra shook her head and smiled bravely.


                                   II

A few days later she and Stephen set out for Benenden. Leaving the main
line at Robertsbridge, they embarked on the rural innocencies of the
Rother Valley Railway. A little single line ran them through endless
hop-gardens, past farms with crumpled red roofs and white-capped
oast-houses, over a dim spread of marshes, where the distances were blue
and the foreground golden, till at last they came to Wittersham Road
station--a lonely little platform on the edge of a marsh. Outside, a car
was waiting to take them the remaining five miles to Benenden.

"Not very convenient for London," said Myra, wistfully.

"We shall have a car," said Stephen, "that will make it quite easy--we
can drive to the junction. Myra dear, I promise you that if we come here
you shall have everything you need--everything you want."

His eyes were glowing with an almost romantic rapture. It was twelve
years since he had been home--as he still called this country in his
secret heart. He looked for changes, and thankfully saw that they were
few.

"Look, Myra--there's the millhouse, just as it used to be. Oh, my dear,
isn't it all beautiful!"

"Yes," said Myra, "it's certainly very pretty country."

She spoke sedately, for while he was coming to life, warming and
expanding into a personality that would have surprised and perplexed the
visitors to Cromwell Mansions, she was slowly shrivelling and dying into
something equally unrecognizable. She seldom spoke, and when she did it
was in a lustreless voice; her body sagged in the rough, jolting little
country car. Only her eyes maintained their quality; they stared ahead
of her, yearning and brave.

At last Nineveh appeared, suddenly in the valley below them, sheltered
to the north and east by gently rising woods, open to the south in a
view that spread away to the marshes, with Sussex beyond them. It was a
marvellous position for a house. If only the house itself had been
presentable, instead of a long, low, rambling place, red-and-black,
dwarfed under an enormous roof that swept almost to the ground behind
it. There was only a tiny flower garden, and the farm
buildings--oast-houses and barns--stood right up close to the
dwelling-house, flaunting its farmhood which might otherwise have been
disguised.

Stephen became almost delirious as they approached it.

"Look at it, Myra. Isn't it a splendid place? I see they've tiled the
thatched barn . . . well, that's really better. Do you see that window
in the roof behind? That's where I used to sleep--looking out on the
trees."

"Dear old Stephen," said Myra gently.

The house was empty, so they were able to go about it as they pleased.
On the ground floor a narrow passage led straight from the front door,
but it was easy to see that the walls were only partitions; the door had
led originally into the main kitchen. This had an enormous beamed
fireplace, and Myra suspected more beams behind the dingily florescent
wallpaper. The parlour wallpaper was also uneven with mounds beneath,
but the fireplace was a Victorian atrocity in grey marble.

"Stephen," said Myra. "I believe there's a lot of old oak in this
house."

"Oh, yes, I'm pretty sure there is, darling. The main part of the
building is at least three hundred years old, some of it older."

Myra went over to the atrocious fireplace and inspected it more closely.

"I should think there was probably a genuine old hearth behind this."

"Most likely--though this has been here as long as I remember."

"If we came here, would you let me put it back to what it used to be?
Take off the wallpaper and dig out the old fireplace?"

"Why, yes, my darling, of course I should. I love it as it is--for
that's how it was when I came here as a kid--but you shall do everything
you want and have everything you want."

"Dear old Steve," said Myra. "Let's go upstairs."

They went up and found the rest of the house very much the
same--deplorable wallpapers, wood and marble mixed with or covering
ancient, priceless stuff. There was a number of rambling bedrooms with
sagging, beamed ceilings. They stood in Stephen's little attic and gazed
out at the wood.

"There's no bathroom," said Myra.

"No, dear, we don't go in for such luxuries down here. For one thing,
water's rather scarce and precious. But I'll tell you--if we come, you
shall have a bathroom; we'll have one put in. There!"

Myra's eyes grew larger, until it seemed as if they must flow together
like two convergent pools.

After inspecting the place thoroughly, inside and out, the Pollitts went
off to luncheon at the _Bull Inn_, at Benenden. Neither of them talked
much. They were both thinking. Stephen was thinking: Lord, how I love
that place. It hasn't changed a bit! I believe I could make a good thing
out of it. I've got capital to spend. If I spent a couple of thousand on
the place--gates, hedges, buildings--and gave it a thorough good start,
I would make it pay in a year or two. It's been let go to pieces, but
the land is good land. I've always wanted a farm, and to be farming
Nineveh sounds almost too good to be true. But there's Myra . . . what
about her? If she doesn't want to come here, I've no right to make her.
She's so unselfish that I've no right to put upon her. Oh, I do hope she
wants to come! I'm sure I could make her happy here. She'd soon find she
had lots of interests, and I should see that she led a proper civilized
life . . . a car and a bathroom . . . but I'm sure we'd both be better
out of London. I hate that crowd--always coming to see what they can get
out of us, and full of all sorts of idiotic talk and notions. Myra would
be better without them. Those Swaynes . . . that Lake. . . .

Myra was thinking: the place is abominable now, but it has marvellous
possibilities. If only it was thoroughly restored--all the old oak and
old fireplaces dug out and exposed--it would be a real show place. And
now we've got that money we can afford to buy some really good old
furniture for it. . . . And we could enlarge the garden--take in the
field in front of the house and that orchard piece; and we could put
down a dancing floor in one of the barns. There's plenty of room for
guests; we could have some jolly week-end parties--nowadays one need not
be cut off if one lives within a reasonable distance of London. It might
all be rather fun . . . and it would be nice to get away from the noise
and the fogs. . . . I should like to knock the parlour and the
dining-room together and make one huge room--and, of course, the passage
wall must be taken down and the kitchen made into an entrance lounge. . . .

"Well, old girl," said Stephen, "what do you think about it?"

"It's a bit out of the way, Stephen."

"I know, dear, but if we had a car. . . ."

"You wouldn't mind if I did up the house?"

"No, no, of course--you shall have everything you want. If you make this
sacrifice for me--and I know it must be a sacrifice in many ways--I've
no right to prevent you doing anything that's necessary for your comfort
and happiness."

Myra smiled away the word happiness.

"Dear Stephen, all your life you've been pining to come back here, and I
mustn't spoil your chance now you've got it. I don't matter. I've been
very happy in our little London home, and I'd hoped that some time we
might travel a bit--perhaps I've wanted to travel as much as you have
wanted to come here. But, my dear"--smiling bravely--"it's your turn
now. You must have what you want. You shall have it--my dear old
Stephen."

"Does that mean you'll be happy?"

"My sweet, there's something more in life than happiness."

"But I don't like. . . ."

"You must like. I tell you, we're coming here. And--I promise you," she
said, looking very brave, "that--I--will--be--happy."

Stephen looked as if, had they been alone, he would have fallen on his
knees and kissed her feet.


                                  III

A few days later she said to him:

"Ferdie Lake's coming round after dinner to-night, to discuss Nineveh."

"Lake!" mumbled Stephen, who did not like him; "why should he discuss
Nineveh?"

"He's an architect, you know."

"But surely you don't need an architect for Nineveh?"

"My dear, of course we do. We can't just make the alterations
haphazardly."

"There won't be so very much to alter. It'll be a fairly simple matter
to strip the paper and plaster off the beams; and the little end room
will easily make a bathroom--an ordinary contractor's job."

"Stephen, we'll ruin the whole thing if we don't have an architect to
supervise it. Besides, it isn't really as simple as all that. At
present, all the bedrooms lead out of one another--we shall have to make
a passage or something."

"M'yes."

"And the kitchen premises will want a lot of improvement if we're to
have good servants. The servant problem is a very real one in the
country, and I'm not used to doing my own housework."

"No, darling, of course not, and I shouldn't ask you."

He told himself that she must have her way in this, since she was
sacrificing it in everything else. But it was a pity to engage Lake
. . . he did not like Lake, and in his heart he knew that one of the
reasons he felt so glad they were leaving town was that he would no
longer find that elegant lounging figure in his drawing-room every
evening or two, when he came home from the city.

"Wouldn't it be better to have someone who wasn't a personal friend?
. . . makes things awkward sometimes, you know."

"Oh, it won't with Ferdie--and, of course, he's perfect with old houses.
He restored Lady Palling's place near Winchelsea, and made a magnificent
job of it. There was an article in one of the papers about it."

Stephen grunted, and a nameless fear pricked into him. Nineveh . . . the
dear old place, with its tarred weather-boarding and huge, red sprawl of
a roof, with its sweet-smelling, untidy garden, with its dark, low rooms
and garish wallpaper--the marble mantelpiece where Aunt Emma's
photographs used to stand, and the shiny aspidistra on the little table
before the window, peeping out between the lace flowers of the curtains.
. . . Of course, he knew that it wasn't right--the mantelpiece and
aspidistra part of it; but they belonged somehow, they were Nineveh as
he had known it. He knew that they must go--it was just stupid
sentiment, wanting to keep things as they used to be. Myra must uncover
the old oak, and knock down the passage walls. But she must not change
the place too much--make it smart and different. That would spoil it.
And he did not trust Lake.

He trusted him still less when the evening's talk was over, ending in a
plan to go down, all three, to Benenden, for the architect to make a
survey.

"It sounds gorgeous, Myra. I believe you've found a gem."

"I didn't find it, Ferdie. It was Stephen's old home."

"Well, anyway, you've had the vision and intuition to see it as I bet
Stephen never saw it."

No, Stephen never had seen it in the least as Myra saw it. She stared at
Ferdinand Lake, sprawling on her divan, as if she saw reflected in his
eyes the house that he would make for her one day--full of old oak
beams, king-posts, queen-posts, sailors, solignum, all sorts of things
that Stephen knew nothing about, but of which they had talked animatedly
the whole evening.


                                   IV

For the next few weeks they talked of nothing else. The visit to
Benenden, though Stephen found it in many ways a trial, was productive
in Lake of endless raptures.

"My dear Myra, it's a perfect peach of a house. I shall simply love
restoring it for you. We've only to strip those walls to find treasures.
And did you know that all the beams in the kitchen ceiling have
chamfered ends? . . . And I tell you what we must do--we must take down
the upstairs ceilings and let the rooms go right into the roof. It will
be splendid."

Stephen's heart sank, but he felt restored by the new glow in Myra's
eyes as she listened to Lake. After all, she was sacrificing a great
deal to come with him to Nineveh, and he must not grudge her such
compensations as she could find in this restoration of the house. Most
of his objections were sentimental, stupid attachments to bad old ways.
He could not--and should not--expect her to share them. The
reconstruction would make her parting from London and her friends
easier, and it would not cost him more than he could afford at present.

But he changed his mind about this when finally he saw Lake's
plans--triumphantly produced in the midst of one of Myra's parties. At
first he could make nothing of them.

"Why, what's all this?" he stammered. "The house hasn't got a timbered
front."

"That's just what it has got, my dear fellow," said Lake. "I made sure
of that when I was down there. But it's been covered up all these years
with that filthy weather-boarding."

That filthy weather-boarding . . . and he remembered the little black
house with white eyes that had stared at him down the valley as he came
up towards it from Skullsgate Wood. It had gleamed black and white and
red in the sunset, and as he drew nearer he had seen in the frame of
that white casement Ruth Pennell looking out at him and smiling. One
evening he had gone straight to the pane and put his face against it,
just where hers was leaning, and he had kissed the cold glass through
which her lips showed like the petals of a flower under water. He had
never come nearer to them than that . . . known anything more than that
cold kiss of glass dividing them. . . .

"Specially made steel casements . . ." Lake was saying.

There was no good thinking about Ruth. She was dead and best forgotten.
Tear off the front of the house, if it made him think of her, and reveal
timber and plaster unknown to both of them.

"But won't it spoil the walls to expose them like this after having been
covered so long? I expect they were covered because they were beginning
to rot with the weather."

"Oh no; of course, they'll be all right. I shall paint the beams with
solignum; but that plaster really must be shown. I believe there's
pargeting in places."

Besides the pargeting the new house would present other remarkable
features. Stephen saw that Lake had put in no fewer than three
bathrooms.

"What do we want three for?" he asked.

"Oh, my dear," said Myra, "we simply must have three--one for ourselves,
one for the servants--or we shan't be able to get anyone decent--and one
for the visitors."

"Can't the visitors share ours?"

"Not very well, as we have four guest rooms. . . . Oh, Helen, oh,
Ronald, oh, Ferdie, Lionel, all you dears, what gorgeous parties we
shall have! I shall simply live for the week-ends!"

"But there isn't enough water. It's a dry part of the country. Even with
one bathroom we should have to be economical."

"Of course you will sink an artesian well," said Lake.

Stephen opened his mouth to say, "Of course I shall do no such thing,"
but thought better of it and desisted. The feeling of the party was
against him. He would have to discuss things quietly with Myra when they
were alone.

Meanwhile, he finished his inspection of the plans, which transformed
Nineveh from a farm into a country house, containing no fewer than seven
bedrooms, four reception rooms, three bathrooms, and ample quarters for
the staff. One of the outbuildings had been incorporated to make the
extra accommodation. "But I can't afford to lose that barn."

"My dear," said Myra, "we simply must have it--we've no large room for
dancing or badminton on wet Sundays."


                                   V

That night, when everyone was gone, he spoke to her seriously.

"These plans are really no good at all. Lake must have lost his head."

"Oh, Stephen. . . ."

She gazed at him imploringly.

"They involve tearing Nineveh to pieces and spending thousands of
pounds."

"Well, we've got thousands of pounds."

"But I can't possibly spend everything on the house. There's the barns
and the land. If we turn the house into a thing that size, then it'll
cost us a precious lot to live in."

"More than we can afford?"

"Certainly--if I am to farm the land as I intended."

"But I thought the lawyers said we should have thirty thousand pounds."

"Well, so we shall, but if we spend four or five thousand on the house,
that leaves us only twenty-five, and the income on twenty-five thousand,
that is about twelve hundred a year, won't be enough to keep up a place
of that size and magnificence, to say nothing of the farm."

"Won't the farm pay for itself?"

"Not for several years perhaps, and it never will unless I spend a
thumping lot on it at the start. I'd meant to lay out two thousand at
least."

"Stephen, how could anyone spend two thousand pounds on a farm?"

"Well, I shall have to stock it--buy new beasts and new
implements--there's precious little there at present that's any use. And
the cottages are in a shocking state. I shall have to repair them, to
say nothing of the hedges and the gates and the soil. And I'd hoped to
put up some model farm buildings, and keep a really good strain of
cattle. . . . Oh, Myra, you've no idea of the things I'd planned for
that place!"

"I see!"

"It's always been a sort of dream of mine . . . to go back there, and
live there, and farm it really well."

"And exactly how much do you want me to give up so that you may realize
your dream?"

"I don't want you to give up anything--you've given up too much already.
But I don't think you quite understand. . . . Do you really want Nineveh
to be like this? I know it needs doing up and all that; but you're
changing it entirely."

"I'm only making it fit to live in. You must remember that I'm not used
to living in the country. After all, we're not planning to do more than
put in a few common necessities."

"Do you call three bathrooms a common necessity?"

"Yes, I do, if we're to have guests--and servants. I tell you, people
won't come to us as either, unless we make them comfortable. The
country's very difficult. . . ."

"Oh, my darling, it really isn't."

She bowed her head like a lovely flower upon its stalk. It hung for a
moment, then she lifted it bravely.

"Very well, Stephen. I won't insist any more. We'll tell Lake the plans
are no good, since they're taking too much money from the farm. He must
think of something else--much simpler. One bathroom will do quite well
if we have only one spare room . . . and then it won't be so important
to have good servants. I expect I can always get somebody to come in
from the village . . . and we shan't need anywhere to dance, or so much
sitting room. Oh yes, it will be better like that. Your dream must come
true. I haven't any dreams--not now--so yours must come true."

"Oh, Myra, it couldn't if you weren't happy."

The house as she described it now sounded much more attractive to him
than the house on Lake's plans; but he knew by her voice and by the
brave effort of her smile that it was not attractive to her. She would
hate it, and he had no right to make her live in it.

"Look here," he said, "we'll give up the whole thing."

"What do you mean?"

"My dearest, I don't think I quite realized till now the sacrifice you
are making. I can't allow it. It wouldn't be right. If you can't live in
the country without turning it into the town . . . I mean . . . I
shouldn't care for. . . . Oh, no, how can I put it? But we'd much better
give up the whole idea. I haven't completed the purchase yet. We can
have a house in town."

"Stephen, I should be miserable. You really mustn't make all this fuss
about my little sacrifice. It's my duty as a wife to follow you wherever
you go, and you want to go to Nineveh. You would be happy nowhere else,
and therefore, my darling, it's true to say that I should be happy
nowhere else. We are going to Nineveh."

"Then you must have it as you want it--you mustn't sacrifice anything
more."

"If I've made one sacrifice, I can make another, dear."

"No, you can't. I couldn't let you."

The argument continued this changed course for another five minutes or
so, at the end of which Myra was forced to agree that Lake's plans
should be accepted.

"It will be a lovely place, darling," said the husband, "and in the end
I know I shall like it."

"And what about the farm?"

"Oh, I shall have to draw in my horns a bit, and then do more later. But
we've the rest of our lives before us. And perhaps the house won't be as
expensive as it looks."


                                   VI

The house was a great deal more expensive than it looked even on Lake's
plans. By the time the weather-boarding had been removed, the beams and
plaster treated and repaired, the wallpaper stripped from the inside,
the ceilings demolished, partitions torn down, defective beams and posts
replaced with their genuine equivalents in old oak, fireplaces dug out,
new oak floors laid--where philistine farmers had put in deal--oak
cupboards fitted, real old steel casements put in place of the
white-rimmed glass, to say nothing of the three bathrooms, and the
artesian well, and the new garden and the dancing floor in the barn
. . . by the time all these things had been done, there was not much
left out of six thousand pounds, and if they were to be able to afford
to live at Nineveh at all in the style its new manifestation required,
it was vain to think of spending more than a hundred or two on the
farm--repair a few fences and the more flagrant dilapidations of the
farm buildings and cottages, buy a few cheap beasts and tools. It was
not what he had hoped. But after all, it was something to live at
Nineveh. He must concentrate his thankfulness on that.

It was some time before he was able so to concentrate it, for Lake's and
Myra's plans were slow in materializing. They involved many delays while
some special piece of old timber was searched for over the country. "We
must have everything absolutely right," said Myra. "It would be a shame
to spoil the place for want of a little care." And off she went with
Lake to Rye, hunting for suitable oak; they made many of these
expeditions together, and that vague jealousy which for so long had
unworthily fretted Stephen, now smouldered almost into a flame.

Meanwhile she and her friends talked unceasingly about the house and all
that was being done there. Of an evening nothing could be heard but the
mysterious cant of their infatuation--"king-post . . . queen-post . . .
solignum . . . sailor . . . chamfer . . . solignum . . . pargeting . . .
dogs . . . solignum . . . solignum . . . solignum. . . ."

Listening in silence, only half understanding, Stephen almost hated
Nineveh.


                                  VII

On the night before they left to live there, Myra gave her last party in
the flat. The room was crowded; everybody talked and laughed and
screamed. Young Swayne stood behind an improvised bar and shook
cocktails, an accomplishment which Stephen had never been able to learn.
There were glasses and cigarette-ends everywhere. The air was
insufferably close and hot, and altogether it was a mercy that they were
going where this could never happen again.

"Here's to you, Myra! Bless you!" "Darling, it will be ghastly here
without you." "Oh, how can you go and leave us? We shall miss you so
terribly"--"and you will miss us and everything, my poor sweet. What a
life for you!" "I really think you ought to be stopped by law. People
like you shouldn't be allowed to live in the country"--"Myra
buried"--"Myra lost."

Myra smiled bravely. She squeezed hands and turned away. She lifted her
glass in silence, first to this dear friend and then to that. She
smiled, and blinked, and smiled.

"Isn't Myra marvellous?" said Helen Swayne; "one never could guess how
terribly she minds going."

"It really is rather a shame . . ." Stephen overheard Lionel Webber say.

Then as each at last came to say good-bye, there was a further chorus of
how-we-shall-miss-you's, and however-shall-we-live-without-you's, and
Myra's eyes had quite brimmed over when the last was gone.


They need not have made quite such a fuss, thought Stephen gloomily a
fortnight later, when Nineveh was full for the house-warming party. As
far as he could see exactly the same company was assembled. Lake, the
Swaynes, the Webbers, and some undistinguished young man occupied the
four spare-rooms, and the rest of the mob was parked at the Bull in
Benenden and the Swan in Iden Green. It did not look as if Myra's
separation from her friends was to be either long or complete. The
low-ceilinged room with its heavy solignum-stained beams and tiny
diamond-paned windows was choked with people. Everybody talked and
laughed and screamed. Young Swayne stood behind an improvised bar and
shook cocktails. There were glasses and cigarette-ends everywhere. The
air was insufferably close and hot.

Of course, one or two of Stephen's friends were there; the Hems from
Palster, the Jenners from Crit Hall, the Boormans from Skullsgate, and
some others. They all looked even more terrified than his London friends
used to look, herded together like sheep.

"Stephen, old man, you've changed this place for certain," said Peter
Hem; "I really never should have known it."

"We're standing in the kitchen passage, aren't we?" said Mrs. Boorman.
"You've taken down the walls."

"I'd no idea it was such an old place," said Sam Jenner.

"It looks older than it is," said Stephen with a sudden bitterness. "It
looks older than Adam and Eve."

"But how about that weather-boarding?" asked Boorman. "Were you
altogether wise to take that down?"

"Well, the architect seemed to think it was all right, and Myra wanted
it"--he had recovered himself. "You see," he continued, "she didn't
really want to come here at all. She doesn't like the country. But for
my sake she came, and I felt I had to do a little to make things easier
for her. I couldn't let her sacrifice herself entirely."

"Oh, no, of course not," said Mrs. Boorman, "and I'm sure you've made it
a very pretty place. But I never should have known it. What are you
doing about the farm?"

"I'm only patching that up till better times. All this has cost a lot."

"I bet it has," said Boorman. "It's a pity," he added tactlessly.

Myra fluttered up to him.

"Now do come into the next room and have some supper," she cried,
overflowing in this happy hour with kindness towards her husband's
stupid friends. Stephen, as he looked at her, felt rewarded and
comforted. For her eyes had, for the moment, lost their appealing look.
They looked smaller than he had ever seen them--for once they were
unremarkable in her face, which seemed all satisfied mouth.



                                   X

                     _The Old Farmhouse--New Style_

                                   I

Before her marriage, Mrs. Robert Relph lived at Shermanreed Farm, in the
village of Notlye. Every traveller by road from London to Eastbourne
knows Notlye, for it stands about half-way down the journey, where the
road running out of the shadows of Wych Cross sweeps over the brown bare
spread of Ashdown Forest.

But probably the traveller has never seen Shermanreed, for it stands
below the road, in the Underhill village. Most of the villages on
Ashdown Forest have their Underhills--groups of cottages and a farm or
two, sheltering in the hollow below the road, and reached by a little
steep lane. Sometimes it looks as if part of the village had slipped off
the hill and lain tumble-down in the valley. From the road you scarcely
would see it, save for the tall blue pillars of wood smoke that rise
from its chimneys.


So Mrs. Relph had had dimmed for her the traffic of the Eastbourne road,
where all day the lorries go thundering to the sea, and the small cars
whisk past with a buzzing noise, and the big cars murmur and slide, and
at night the glare of headlights flows suddenly over sleepers in their
beds and scares them with dreams. But she was as modern as anything on
the Eastbourne road, and could drive her own second-hand Morris car, or
her father's Ford lorry, though what she loved better was a stronger
hand to hold the wheel, so that she could lean her shoulder against a
stronger shoulder. Best of all she loved her humble place in the
side-car of Relph's motorcycle that summer when he came to Notlye and
won her heart.

She was Margaret Vine in those days, and known in all the district for
that same easy heart--so easily caught, so easily escaping. But Relph
both caught her and held her differently. She was serious about him,
almost stern. When he came she dropped her friendships with other
boys--she cleaved to him only. At first the neighbours laughed, then
they said it was time Mag Vine settled down, for she must be getting on
now--nearly twenty-eight--and it wasn't every man who would take her,
knowing the stories that went about. She was lucky to have found a good
substantial chap like Relph, who was manager of a garage at Uckfield,
just opened by a firm of motor engineers.

She met him at a friend's house soon after he first came, and not much
later invited him, at his own request, to spend an evening at
Shermanreed. She did not often bring her boys home. She would rather
keep her friendships free of even so much supervision as her parents
dared offer. But every now and then a young man would appear and eat his
supper in the shadow of the ferns on the dining-room table, and then sit
listening to the gramophone or the radio in the gaily furnished parlour,
before his motorcycle carried him off to ravish the stillness of the
midnight lanes.

Though Shermanreed farmhouse was old in years, old in the fabric of its
walls, old in its timbers taken from ships, old in the great red sprawl
of its roof to the southwest, it was exceedingly new and modern in its
ways. It was lit by electricity, and water was laid on from Uckfield,
superseding the old well; meals were generally eaten in the dining-room
instead of in the kitchen, and there was "jazz" cretonne on all the
parlour chairs; there was also a wireless set and a gramophone. Thomas
Vine's roots and hay travelled in lorries instead of in waggons, though
he still used horses for ploughing on account of the smallness and
steepness of the fields. Mrs. Vine belonged to a club in London, and
often lunched there proudly when she took advantage of the cheap day
trip from Uckfield for her shopping. Of the young folk, May worked at a
bookseller's in Eastbourne, catching the 'bus daily at Thorney Island,
Lettice was away in town, model and saleswoman at a big store, Margaret
stayed at home, kept her father's accounts, and sometimes drove his
lorries. There were no sons.

The only person in the house who was not modern and up to date was
Grandmother Alce. She was Mrs. Vine's mother, so was entitled to the
shelter of Shermanreed for her last years. Margaret always felt a
certain awkwardness when she introduced her young men to Grannie and
that was one of the reasons she seldom brought them home. Grannie did
not fit in with the life of Shermanreed--that noisy, anxious, hustled,
hard-working life that they all led, from the farmer down to the chicken
girl. She belonged rather to the old life of Shermanreed, which the farm
knew long ago, when the London road had twisted past it down the
hillside, and then up again by Old Forge, instead of running above it on
the ridge in the Straight Mile; when there had been no houses at Mount
Pleasant or Puddingcake, no buses to Uckfield or Eastbourne, when the
farm hands had lived under their master's roof, or in the cottages at
his gate, instead of bicycling every morning from Piltdown and Hungry
Hatch while the cottages sheltered the rural eccentricities of
week-enders. In those old days the walls of Shermanreed had stood much
as they stand now; it was only the interior that had changed--flashed
and lightened, become suddenly bright and urban and restless like those
who lived in it.

Mrs. Alce lived mostly in the kitchen, which had changed least, which
still had its carpetless brick floor and white-washed walls, though the
big open fireplace had been filled up with a modern range. She still
used the old broad speech, and many strange words. The master's speech
was broad, but his words were just the few hundred that are used all
over England, while his children's voices had been educated into a
queer, high-pitched refinement.

When Mrs. Alce saw her grand-daughter's new lover, she said:

"Good evenun to you. You've come a gurt way from Uckfield."

"Five minutes," said the young man proudly; "that isn't bad for three
miles."

It was one of Grannie's drawbacks that she never could understand how
little time it took nowadays to go from place to place. She still
thought of journeys in terms of her youth. Three miles meant an hour's
walk, or at best half an hour in the gig, and on a wet moonless night
was certain adventure.

Nevertheless young Relph liked her. Margaret need not have been afraid.
He found her queer, of course, but he was one of those rare young men
who like old people and her "talk" amused him. The family soon found
that it wasn't necessary to shut her up when she started on one of her
long, rambling stories. Relph was genuinely entertained, and his
sometimes flippant comments did not seem to reach her. He would lead her
on to tell her favourites over and over again--and though the Vines
might be bored by their repetition, they were compensatingly amused by
the secret nudges, winks, and whispers with which he listened.

"Dat was de saum young woman I wur telling you of --her wot married Mus'
Penfold over at Fairwarp. Misfortun' wur on her, fur 'tis a misfortun'
to see the Pharisees dance. . . ."

"Then I ought to be lucky. I've seen a good few Pharisees in my day, but
they weren't dancing folk. Chapel more their line. Ha ha!"

"She seed 'em at Thorney Island. 'Tis a bad place."

"We'd better let the 'bus know it ain't safe to stop there."

"No, it unt safe. Dey took a child wunst--her I'm telling you of.
Hannah Penfold's. She wur a fool to bring it dere. But she'd bin over to
Duddleswell and her shoes wur all cut to pieces--maybe 'twur Pharisee's
work--and she sat down to take off her shoes, and when she looked
araound de child wur gone."

"Smart work that."

"She come hollering trough de town, and all de folkses wur up wud
lanterns sarching on de forest, but de Pharisees had gotten de child
hid, and she couldn't do nun till she'd bin to de well."

"That's the wishing well," put in Margaret, pleased that her young man
was appreciating the story; "it's just off the bottom of the drive, down
by Nightingale Pit."

"Well, you can show it to me as we go out," he grinned at her meaningly.
"Go on with your story, ma'am. Tell us about the wishing well. Is it
good for anything besides wishing, and is it any good at that?"

"Surelye, 'tis good fur wishing--'tis a wishing well. But you must wish
praper."

"No one 'ud never wish anything improper, I hope, and I don't think. But
how do you wish proper, ma'am?"

"Wud pins, surelye."

"Pins!"

For a moment young Relph was taken aback and the Vines waited in vain
for any facetious remark on pins.

"Wud pins praperly bent and dropped in de water."

"And what on earth is that for?"

Mrs. Alce suddenly grew reluctant--she hesitated.

"Fur de old gentleman."

"What old gentleman?"

"Wot lives down de well."

"An old gentleman lives down the well, does he? That's interesting. And
what does he do down at the bottom of the well, may I ask?"

"I dunno."

"Is he a Pharisee gentleman?"

"Oh no."

"Who is he, then?"

"I dunno."

"It must be deuced uncomfortable living at the bottom of a well. What
does he want the pins for?"

She shook her head. Her mouth straightened with a mysterious knowledge.

"Why must you bend 'em, anyway?" he pressed.

"So as no one else can use 'em. Dey're his."

"A present?"

"Surelye. You give him wot no one but he can use--you spile it, so as no
one else can use it."

"And then he does what you ask him? He grants your wish?"

She nodded.

"Well, I call all that mighty interesting, and cheap at the price. A
packet of pins, and I might wish for a hundred pounds and get it. Come
on, Margaret my dear, you said you'd show me the spot, and it's time I
was going."


                                   II

Down in the Nightingale Pit, Grannie's words were forgotten. On the way
there Margaret had carelessly remarked that they "were all nonsense,"
and when they came to the Pit, which is the local name for a wooded
hollow, they saw nothing but the welcome darkness under the trees. The
gleam of the well went unnoticed, and the Old Gentleman down at the
bottom of it went untroubled by human wishes.

Nevertheless Margaret had her wish. For there in the Nightingale Pit,
Relph asked her to be his wife, and the next day the news of her
engagement was all over Notlye and away to Uckfield. One or two young
men swore, and one or two laughed, and one--a silly one--cried. The
women mostly smiled. Nearly everyone said they wished her well, and only
some added that she didn't deserve it. For days she went flying about in
the side-car of his motor-cycle, showing him proudly to her friends. Her
manner was changed--so definitely that all noticed it, so subtly that
none could describe it; she was softened, sweeter, and yet more gay,
more lively, more ready to laugh and to cry--and sometimes she seemed
afraid, as if her happiness was too great to bear.

Relph had no parents to whom he could show her, and his friends were
scattered up and down the country. But he had a brother and his wife
living at Coulsdon, and he wanted them to meet Margaret Vine. As
Coulsdon was a south-western suburb, and Sidney Relph had a car, it
seemed a good idea that they should all meet for dinner one night at
East Grinstead.

"It'll be a nice run-out for Erna and me," wrote Sid, "we'd ask you
here, but we're without a maid at present."

This sounded very grand, and Margaret was impressed. She dressed
carefully for the meeting, in her white silk evening gown, which showed
to advantage her lovely golden skin and hair. She was all white and
golden as she stood there in a drift of sunlight under the rafters of
Shermanreed, before wrapping herself in a rather seedy old fur coat, and
pulling down a leather cap over her short, curling hair.

They went in the Morris, Relph driving, so as to shelter her evening
finery. It really seemed ridiculous to be wearing evening dress, for at
seven o'clock in June the sun was still bright, raking the forest from
the high west. The air was soft and gracious, full of scents of wild
rose, springing fern and budding heather. Margaret knew that it would
not be long before Robert backed the car off the road, and took her away
to some hollow on the far slope, where they might snatch a few kisses
from an evening of public restraint.

Neither had spoken of it, nevertheless it was agreed between them. He
found a likely refuge on the hill below Wych Cross. She saw him smile as
he ran the car on the grass, and switched off the engine. Soon he was
holding her arm, to guide her feet, uncertain in their high, tottering
heels, over the clumps and pits of the heather.

They crouched down in a little hollow sheltered by some screening firs.
They could still hear the ceaseless racket of the road behind
them--charabancs, lorries, two-seaters, tourers, limousines,
motor-cycles, all on their noisy way to and fro between London and the
sea. Before them the forest sloped purple and golden into a pool of fog,
beyond which rose the Downs, like the shores of a distant land, while
just at their feet was a little ring of short, untrodden grass,
sprinkled with toadstools. Robert noticed it almost as soon as their
first kiss was over.

"Look at that, now. Ain't it queer?"

Margaret suddenly drew back her feet from the edge.

"That's a fairy ring."

"What! Your Grannie's old friends! I'd like to see 'em."

"I shouldn't."

He noticed that she had spoken strangely. She was staring out over the
forest, and then down at her feet.

"You don't believe in all that nonsense, do you, dear?"

"No, of course I don't."

She rose indignantly.

"Let's go and sit somewhere else."

He followed her with a grin, and they sat down in the heather about
thirty yards away. She was frightened, he could see it, as she crept
within the warmth and shelter of his arm. But when he would have teased
her out of her mood, she turned angrily upon him and told him to hold
his tongue.

As it happened, Margaret was angry with herself rather than with him.
She couldn't make herself out at all. What had come over her, that she
should suddenly feel afraid like this?--terribly, horribly afraid of the
forest and its power. Even in their new refuge she could scarcely feel
at ease. She strained her ears for the roar of civilization on the road;
but instead she heard the creep of hidden creatures in the bracken, the
sough among the firs of a wind that blew nowhere else, and brooding
queerly over all a terrible silence, which seemed to hold all these
sounds--even the sounds upon the road--within itself, and yet remain
unbroken.

"Let's go on," she said suddenly. "We ought to get to the Hotel before
the others."

"We've plenty of time for that still," said Robert. "Let's stay here a
bit longer. We've only just come."

"No, I want to go, I don't want to stay here. I'm frightened."

"Frightened? What are you frightened of, my lovely girl?"

His arm drew her closer, but she struggled away.

"Oh, I dunno. I dunno. Only I don't like this place. It's so big and
lonesome."

He laughed, for his ears were thudding with the traffic on the road. But
he realized that she was really frightened and unhappy, and his love was
too deep for further ridicule.

"Very well then. Come away. Don't be frightened, my precious one. Maybe
we can have a little time together at the inn."

"Oh yes, yes--that'll be much better."

She was plunging through the heather in her high-heeled shoes, caring
for nothing but to reach the car and the roadside. He followed her,
perplexed and tender. Then he thought: "She's her Grannie's
grand-daughter." He was not angry, and only a little contemptuous. He
liked a woman to have a few fears, though these, by gosh! were silly
ones.

The sun was still shining when they came to East Grinstead, though only
in a low flood between the houses. They stopped at the _Foresters'
Arms_, and found their friends already waiting there, having made the
run in less time than they had expected. Sid Relph was boasting the
prowess of his car--"fairly eats the road, she does--eats it up, the
little beauty!" To Margaret he was very much the brother-in-law to-be,
holding her hand and patting it, only just not venturing on a kiss. Mrs.
Sid was more aloof, conscious no doubt of the superiority of her black
London gown over Margaret's country white one. The two women eyed each
other up and down, vaguely antagonistic. Margaret forgot all about her
strange fears on the forest. She wondered only where Mrs. Sid had got
her pearls--at Woolworth's, she supposed.

They all sat in the bar and had cocktails, becoming exceedingly
light-hearted. The prowess, speed, economy and comfort of Sid's car
increased through numerous anecdotes. Mrs. Sid described the horrors of
a servantless household. Margaret's antagonism began to melt, and in the
end they entered the coffee room arm in arm.

A table near the window had been reserved for them, and soon they were
deep in study of the menu and the wine list. The _Foresters' Arms_ had
learned that the glory of a dinner is in proportion to the number of its
courses. "Grape fruit, crme Celestin, sole Cardinal, vol-au-vents,
roast duck, coupe tooty-frooty, Scotch woodcock, kaffee," read out Sid
in the raftered dining-room where an earlier generation had sat down to
sirloin of beef and apple pie. "They do you proud here, don't
they?--eight courses. And remember the drinks are on me."

To drink they had sparkling Saumur, sweet and yellow. It made them all
happier still. Margaret Vine's dark mood had passed away. She was
herself again--modern, pushful, proud and merry. She was almost what she
used to be before she met Robert. She laughed and talked a great deal,
and felt quite warmly towards Mrs. Sid, who asked to be called Erna.

"You must come with me when you want to buy your clothes--I know a
wholesale place in the city. I got this little frock there. Don't you
think it's rather sweet?"

"I think it's lovely."

"Yes, it really is. And I only paid three guineas . . . it 'ud have been
five at any of the big stores. And these pearls of mine--I really must
tell you. They come from Woolworth's--would you ever have thought it?"

"No--not for a moment."

"And I got some Channel joolry there too--pink brooch and necklace. . . ."

Her voice trailed out of Margaret's ears. She was staring ahead of her,
through the wide, uncurtained window. Outside the sunset had faded, only
a great fiery scar burned in the sky where it had been, and against it
lumped the forest, heavy and dark, sinister, ragged with trees. She had
never before seen it from East Grinstead, her concerns having hitherto
been in the street, where the houses hid it from view. But here, through
the wide western window of the _Foresters' Arms_, it seemed to threaten
her, scowling and lowering. Her surroundings of chatter and light and
good company faded away, and she was alone--a lost thing--lost on the
forest, running blindly through a great living darkness, that both
smothered and pursued her. . . .

"What are you staring at, Mag?"

It was Robert's voice that called her out of her waking nightmare. A
queer new inhibition made her hide her fears.

"Oh nothing--just the view."

"It's a nice view, isn't it?" said Mrs. Sid. "A sort of moor, that
looks."

"That's Ashdown Forest."

"It 'ud look nice with snow on it. Does it get covered with snow in
winter?"

"I've never seen it."

"That's a pity. It 'ud look ever so nice with snow, and some blue sky
behind it. You get a good view of it from here."

"Do you mind, though, if we have the curtains drawn? I never like an
uncurtained window after it's dark."

"Nor do I--makes you feel unhomely. Let's have the curtains drawn, Sid."

So the curtains were drawn, and the great black mass of the forest no
longer haunted Margaret's eyes. But she could not quite forget it, even
after her second glass of wine, or the glass of crme-de-menthe she
drank with her coffee. She knew that it was out there waiting for her,
and that she would have to go out to it that very night, and cross it in
the darkness before she could find light and cosiness again. It was
queer that it should disturb her so, though now, when she came to think
of it, she could remember other occasions when she had felt afraid. Was
she getting a bit like Grannie? Had she always been a little bit like
Grannie? She scorned the idea--Grannie was a queer, old-fashioned,
out-of-date old thing, belonging to silly, dead old times, when farm
people wore smocks and sunbonnets, and drove about in gigs, and went
wishing to wishing wells. . . .

"Let's go and powder our noses."

They were rising from table and Mrs. Sid slipped her arm through
Margaret's.

"We'll have to be getting home after this--it never does Sid any good to
be up late; he has to be at the office by nine, you know."

They went upstairs to the little cloakroom on the first floor. Mrs. Sid
produced powder and lipstick from her handbag, and for some time they
chattered and compared. Coulsdon spread its tail and swaggered before
Notlye. Margaret was both impressed, and emulous. At her request names
and prices were written down, and soon the angry summons of waiting
males could be heard coming from the hall.

"Hi! you girls--are you going to keep us here all night?"

"There they are, as usual," said Erna, "never knew a man who could wait
half the time it takes a girl to make her face up. I think they're
jealous--after all, it must be dull never doing anything to your face
except shave it."

With shouts of "Coming!--keep your hair on!" they left the room. The
passage was in darkness; that was why, perhaps, they took the wrong
turning, and instead of finding themselves at the lighted stairhead,
suddenly stopped confronted with a glass door flung open on a balcony.
It was a sort of roof-garden, above the dining-room, and the dark soft
air blew in on them, heavy with pine scents. The sky had faded to a
pale, star-pricked grey, and against it the forest lay inert,
featureless, almost shapeless, like a beast taking rest.

Margaret stood back with a faint scream; then, nearly upsetting Erna,
she turned and rushed past her to the stairs.


                                  III

On the way home, at a treacherous bend of the climbing road, between
Forest Row and Wych Cross, the Morris collided head-on with a returning
Croydon bus. Margaret was thrown out, escaping sensationally with
bruises and shock, but Relph was caught by the steering wheel and
terribly injured. When at last they got him out, they thought he was
dead, but he just breathed, though consciousness was gone. A passing car
took him back to hospital at East Grinstead, while another bore poor
frantic, sobbing Margaret over the forest down to Notlye and the refuge
of Shermanreed.

Here the doctor was called and she was put to bed with a sleeping
tablet. But outside the gates of sleep the cruel world was waiting, and
late the next morning she had to pass through them and enter it. Bruised
and aching as she was, she insisted on going out to the post office and
telephoning herself to East Grinstead for news of Robert. They told her
that he was just the same. Would he get better? The far-off voice
hesitated--"it hoped so." "But do you think he will?" "Well, he's strong
and healthy--but he's been very badly hurt." "Is there a chance?" "Oh
yes, of course there's a chance."

This was all the comfort she could get, and it had to last her for many
days. She rang up again in the evening, but the news was just the same;
the next day she was well enough to be driven over to East Grinstead,
though her body still ached and her nerve was almost gone. At the
hospital she was not allowed to see Robert, she was told he was still
unconscious, and authority refused to make any pronouncement as to his
recovery. One of the doctors, however, touched by her despair and not
unaffected by her beauty, described to her all that was being done for
the injured man. It seemed as if such skill and science must save him,
and on the surface of her being Margaret was comforted by the doctor's
words. But below the surface she was quite unimpressed; in her heart she
believed neither in science nor in skill, but in dread powers of light
and darkness, chance and fate and all sorts of supernatural
interferences. . . . She had never been so aware of this before, because
her heart had never been deeply touched before she met Robert Relph. Her
mind had accepted the conventions of her day, had believed in a world of
science and machinery, had forgotten the old beliefs of her people,
whose world had been less self-sufficient, more deeply involved with
other unknown worlds. But now her mind, with all its half-baked,
half-assimilated ideas, seemed not to count at all. All that counted was
her heart-anguished, loving, fearing, and following a science of its
own.

Her heart held only one idea, one image--her lover. Even her love for
him was not separate, but a part of that image, just as her fear was a
part, and her longing, and the torment that had once been hope. To those
who saw her she seemed heavy, mazed and stupid, and they still spoke of
"shock." They were all very kind. The whole village was full of sympathy
and offers of help. Gladys Gates, the girl at the post office, told her
that she could arrange for the hospital to call her up at any hour of
the day or night, and Gladys would run down to Shermanreed with the
message.

Days passed, with conditions unchanged. Then one evening when a rainy
twilight hung above Notlye, and the smoke of the Underhill chimneys
drifted low over the forest, Gladys Gates appeared breathless with the
news that East Grinstead wanted Margaret Vine on the telephone. She had
not waited to find out whether it was life or death, and poor Margaret
suffered as she ran a dread so great that by the time she held the
receiver to her ear it seemed the only organ that she had--she could
neither speak nor see nor feel, she could only listen to the voice that
held her doom.

The voice did not actually pass sentence of death, but it told her that
"things," never very good, had taken a turn for the worse, and that the
doctors were going to operate at once. The operation was an exceedingly
grave one, but it was his only chance.

Margaret found that she had a tongue.

"Was it a good chance?"

The voice--a nurse's voice, brisk and kindly--hesitated.

"Not a very good chance--still, a chance."

There was a meaningless spate of explanation flowing past dead ears.
. . . Margaret Vine, in her neat modern clothes, with her shingled head
and the telephone-receiver in her hand, was mentally on the level of
some far-back grandmother who in her desperation sought spells against
the Pharisees. She was aware, instinctively rather than by any
assimilated words, that the nurse would ring her up when it was all
over. Till then. . . .

She faltered away from the telephone, taking no notice of Gladys Gates
and her inquiries. The post office at Notlye is not also the village
shop, so Margaret had to cross the road to get what she wanted.
Mercifully there was a lull in the passing stream of cars, or she would
certainly have been knocked over, for she was blind. Blindly she entered
the general shop, and put a penny on the counter.

"A packet of pins. . . ."


                                   IV

The twilight was nearly gone, lingering only in pale streaks of sky
where the clouds had lifted from the forest horizons. A thin rain
slanted from the west, making ghostly patterings on the trees that hung
over the little lane. Margaret was not following the accustomed Farm
drive back to Shermanreed; instead, she had taken the hollow way that
goes down to the Nightingale Pit. The ground was muddy, and there was an
ominous sucking round her steps . . . pattering and sucking--feet and
mouths . . . innumerable small forms of life seemed to be round her,
terrifying her in the dark. But she plodded on, her mind set only on one
idea--propitiation.

A turn of the lane brought her into the last failing light. Ahead of her
a pale gleam hung under a cloud, above the forest, which lay swart and
dark and threatening, muttering at her with a thousand small voices. The
light and what it revealed were more terrifying than the darkness of ten
yards back. She felt her legs bow under her, while her skin crept . . .
but the blind urge drove her forward, would not let her sink. She must
make her one great bid for Robert's life--nothing else was any good,
could ever have been any good. His destiny and hers did not lie with
science and skill, with doctors and nurses and instruments and
ansthetics, but with an Old Gentleman at the bottom of a well.

". . . A wishing well. But you must wish praper --wud pins . . .
praperly bent and dropped in de water. . . ."

Grannie's voice seemed to come to her above all the muttering small
voices of the leaves and the rain. When she had first heard it speak
those words she had mocked, and now They were offended, and had
persecuted her, and would do Robert to death if she did not humble
herself before Them and offer Them what They asked.

It was so dark as she entered the Nightingale Pit, that she nearly fell
over a stone. But luckily she was wearing low-heeled shoes and just
managed to keep her balance. For a moment she groped blindly, moving her
hands along the damp bark of trees. Then as her eyes grew more
accustomed to the darkness she was able to distinguish the hood of the
well rising above a bit of ruined wall. With an occasional bump and
stumble she reached it, and knelt down.

At first she could see nothing, and her hand swept round vainly for the
rim. Suppose she dropped the pins into some wrong place. . . . Her teeth
were chattering, and she could feel the wet grass through the knees of
her stockings. Then suddenly, far down, she caught the glimmer of water,
shining with some reflection of the sky above the trees. She had found
the well--all she had to do was to throw in the pins, bend them and
throw them in.

Her fingers fumbled madly in the dark. Every minute was precious, for
Robert's journey between life and death could now be measured in
minutes, and even now as he lay in the operating theatre They were
leading him along it, nearer to the edge. . . . A sudden wild,
despairing cry went through the Nightingale Pit. Margaret started to her
feet and nearly dropped her precious pins. The cry drooled on and died,
while another voice seemed to be uttering shrill queries from the hedge.
The next minute she realized the actors in the tragedy--a rabbit, a
weasel, and a suddenly-wakened bird, but already her heart was nearly
suffocating her with its leaps. It was as if she had heard her lover's
despairing cry as They pushed him over. . . .

The packet was open, the pins were in her hand. She was bending them
hurriedly with numb, wet fingers. Every now and then some fell with a
thin little sound on the stones round the well. Praperly wud bent pins
. . . she cast them down on the pale glimmer that was the reflected sky,
and saw eddies on the water, receiving them.

"Old Gentleman," she murmured, "Old Gentleman down in the well. Don't
let Robert die. Grant my wish. Make him live. Look what I'm sending you.
Make him live."

She had dropped in her last pin, praperly bent, and suddenly a great
peace fell upon her, a sense of security. Her sacrifice was
accepted--not merely the ritual offering of the pins, but the underlying
reality of her humble and repentant heart. The Old Gentleman had
forgiven her blaspheming, and They--the Unnamed People--had forgiven her
and would stay Their vengeance. From that minute she knew that Robert
would get well.

The night was blacker than ever in the Nightingale Pit, but her way
seemed full of light as she rose from the well, and found her way back
to the lane. The tiny feet and tiny mouths were still there, pattering
and sucking, and ahead of her the forest lay under the last gleam. But
there was no longer that threat, that sense of enmity. The wind was
friendly with promises, the rain was refreshment to her hot face, the
wet earth softness to her tired feet. The woods were full of happy life,
secure in sleep, the fields were full of hope, while the trees sighed
comfort to her from above, and all the forest whispered with a tenderer
voice.



                                   XI

                       _Joanna Godden's Joy Ride_

The _King George the Fourth_ at New Romney was a goodish sort of
Farmers' Ordinary, but knew its own value and made no immodest attempts
to rival the _New Inn_, where the cream of the market crowd ate their
boiled beef and carrots on Tuesdays.

It was therefore something in the nature of a public humiliation to
Joanna Godden to find on entering the statelier coffee-room that every
table was occupied, huddled over with the broad shoulders of Vines,
Furneses, Southlands, Cobbs and her other rivals on the marsh.

True, she was late--she had had a delicate business to transact with the
farmer of Old Honey-child concerning a ram that had strayed from his
innings into her fields at Ansdore and fathered some unauthorized lambs.
She had emerged from it defeated, hot and flustered, conscious that her
hat had been pushed on one side in the dramatic urgencies of
conversation, and that she badly wanted her dinner.

Now, though her hat was straight and some of the colour on her cheeks
had died down, she felt her defeat consummated by the crowded
dining-room, and those ungallant diners, not one of whom would rise to
offer her his seat, though some nodded to her over their napkins, and
some winked at each other, as if to say, "Here's Joanna Godden, who sets
up to be master of a farm, same as if she was a man, being treated like
a man and left standing."

For a moment she stood glaring at the ignoble company. Then she tossed
head and hat at them, turned her back and walked out.

Where should she go?--for she must have her dinner. There was only the
_George_, standing humble and withdrawn behind a row of copped or
pollard beeches. It had a rustical look that she despised, but she
walked in, having left word at the _New Inn_ stables that Old Stuppenny
was to call for her there when he brought round the trap for her
homeward journey.

The modest dining-room had only one table at which sat a low couple of
tenant farmers, Boorman of Abbots Court and Luck of Birdskitchen. Unlike
their yeoman brethren at the _New_, they rose and bowed with a
respectful "Good day, ma'am," at her entrance; but their homage could
not wipe out their betters' indifference, and, with a careless nod,
Joanna sat down.

She was late, and the principal dish--roast shoulder of lamb and onion
sauce--was "off," which seemed to add to the tale of her humiliations.
She accepted the substitute of cold beef, and ordered a glass of ale.

There she sat, at a table with tenant farmers, eating yesterday's dinner
. . . it was the kernel of the morning's bitterness.

The next moment she realized that a vague chugging sound which had
vibrated in the back-ground of her life for the last few minutes had
suddenly swelled to deafening proportions, a series of loud bangs
bursting the dinner-time silence of New Romney's street. Both Boorman
and Luck were on their feet rushing to the window.

"It must be one of them new ortymobbles."

Joanna, rising, could see over their shoulders a cloud of smoke, in the
midst of which showed dimly the outline of a horseless carriage, shaking
and jigging with interior convulsions. It was the first time Joanna had
ever seen a motor-car, and the sight for a moment broke down the social
barrier between her and her companions.

"Well, if that thing don't deserve what it gets from Providence!" she
cried hotly.

The outlines of the car, so suggestive of a pair of sleek horses ahead,
and then stopping short at a shaftless, smoking gulf, seemed to her
impious. She could not share her neighbours' interest as to "how it was
got to go."

"It isn't got to go at all--that's the whole trouble of it. Look,
there's two men underneath it, trying to make it work."

For a few moments more all three of them stared in silence; then the two
farmers, who had finished their dinner, decided to view the portent from
a closer range, and walked out. Joanna remained within, partly to finish
her meal, partly because she felt her honour would be still further
compromised if she associated herself with tenant farmery on such an
expedition.

But she kept her eye on the window, none the less, and presently saw the
smoke clear, while the banging and chugging abated into a silence that
seemed by contrast to speak like doom.

Then two men emerged from under the car, and even in their state of
grime she could recognize that they were master and servant. The master,
indeed, was, in her opinion, a smart, well-turned-out young man,
evidently a townsman, to judge by his suit of elaborate country clothes,
such as are never worn in the country.

He disappeared into the inn, while his servant got to final grips with
the now silent car.

Joanna wondered if he would come into the dining-room, though it was
certainly beneath the contempt of such as he; but as time passed and he
did not appear she gave up hope, which was suddenly restored by his
entrance, cleaned and spruced and debonair, ushered by Mr. Nicols, the
landlord.

"I'm afraid the joint is 'off' sir. It's market-day, and we've had quite
a lot of people in. But there's some prime cold beef. . . ."

"I don't mind what I have as long as it doesn't take any time to
prepare. I've got to be in Rye by three o'clock."

"You'll never be that, sir. It's gone two o'clock now, and Rye's twelve
miles away."

"My motor-car will do twenty miles an hour on these flat roads."

"You don't say so, sir. Well, it's justabout wunnerful the marvels we
get these days. I'd never believe that anything 'ud go faster than my
old hoss Charley, and we'd have to allow an hour and a half for his
getting to Rye."

He took the stranger's order and left the room. The stranger glanced
round, and saw that he must be seated at the table where Joanna Godden
was gravely plying her knife and fork. He did not look sorry.

"You'll excuse me, won't you?" he said as he sat down; "but, as there's
no other table, I'm afraid I must come here."

Joanna bowed in a stately fashion. She wanted to be impressive.

"Do you mind if I light a cigarette?"

"Do anything you like and pray don't think of me," she said graciously.

But the stranger did think of her, rather a lot. He viewed her, too,
unobtrusively, while he smoked. She was in his idiom a damn fine woman,
and there was a light and a fire about her, too, which was more than he
usually associated with her type. There seemed to be, somehow, a warmth
coming from her ruddy skin, and the hair that curled and flew from under
her hat was like the flying anthers of the sun.

She was comfortable to watch after his long, jolting, stinking, dusty
drive from Folkestone. He felt a kind of healing of his mind even before
his beef and ale were set before him.

"Is this the only inn in this town?"

He could not have asked a question more favourable to his wish to make
her talk.

"Lord sakes! indeed it's not. The best inn here--and the only one fit to
go to--is the _New Inn_. You'd have found it further up the street if
your motor hadn't broke down."

"But I shouldn't have found you in it."

There was, unknown to him, a challenge in this statement which made
Joanna ignore its gallantry.

"You wouldn't to-day for the only time there's been or I trust there's
likely to be. I'd never have come to this place if the other hadn't been
crowded out, thanks to my having been kept arguing. . . . Every single
market-day but this I've been there, sitting along with yeoman farmers.
This is a tenant-farmer place."

The stranger seemed determined to expose his ignorance.

"Are tenant farmers inferior to yeoman farmers?"

"Surelye! You'd never think a tenant of a place in the same class with a
man who owns it."

"I see . . . and I take it that you are the wife, or the daughter, of a
yeoman farmer."

"I'm nobody's wife, and certainly my father was as fine a yeoman as any
on the Marsh. But I don't have to look back at him for where I stand.
I'm a yeoman myself, and own my own farm of Little Ansdore, on Walland
Marsh, between Brodnyx and Pedlinge. If you're going to Rye you'll pass
the gate."

"Really. . . ."

The stranger was interested. At first he had been attracted, then
amused; now he was something a little more than either.

"Yes, indeed, and it's a finer place than when first I took it on. Folk
said I'd never make anything of it, and I've had my ups and downs, but I
reckon all my troubles are over now. I've a first-rate looker and some
first-class sheep, and if there's fools as lets their rams come straying
into my flock and then won't take the blame of it, well I can't help
that and I don't care."

"And do you live quite alone?"

"No; I've my little sister with me--little Ellen. She's thirteen years
younger than me, and more of a child to me than a sister."

She was ready enough to talk, feeling in sympathy with this stranger. He
was not exactly handsome, though he had a decided air about him--a town
air, which she half-despised, half-reverenced.

From her place she could see heads outside the window, watching the
chauffeur working at the repair of his car. No doubt it was the first
car that had ever been seen in New Romney, and folk were excited and
curious and a little scared.

And all the time they were looking on in awe and wonder, the owner, the
god of the car, was sitting at dinner with Joanna Godden, talking to
her, asking her questions, telling her about himself.

His name was Leonard Parsons, and he was head of a big engineering firm,
and, doubtless, thought Joanna, enormously rich. He lived in London, but
had been spending the week-end in Folkestone, trying out his new De Dion
Bouton.

Had she ever been driven in a motor-car? No, and indeed she hadn't.
Would she like to? Yes, and indeed she would.

She forgot that she disapproved of motoring and regarded a horseless
carriage as an affront to Providence; she could only think how wonderful
it would be to sit beside this stranger, dashing at twenty miles an hour
along roads where others crawled on foot or trundled on
wheels--conjuring up for herself an audience of Vines, Furneses,
Southlands and all the yeomanry of the _New Inn_.

"Well, it appears that I'm going your way--I pass your gate. So why
shouldn't I take you home? The car sounds as if she was running smoothly
now."

"Reckon I've my own trap waiting, but----"

"Have you a driver?"

"Surelye; there's old Stuppenny. I've made him my groom now he's good
for nothing else and bought him a fine purple coat to wear, as is
seemly."

"Well, he can drive after you. You come along with me--I'll swear you'll
enjoy it."

Joanna suddenly hesitated. Her first doubt had occurred.

"What about my clothes? I've got my best hat on, and though this gown
ain't my best--seeing it was only made by that gal at Slinches, who
don't really know French styles--it's a pretty good one, and I'd be
sorry to have it spoiled."

"Then you must let me lend you a coat. I've a spare one in my grip. And
we can fix a silk handkerchief over your hat."

She had pictured herself in the car with all her feathers flying, her
hat burning like a torch on the top of her head to signal her glorious
progress. But she would have to abandon this idea if she wished to
preserve its brave integrity of flame-coloured ostrich-tips and bronze
chrysanthemums. After all, it had a way of getting rather suddenly and
easily on one side. . . .

So she thanked him for his kind offer, and let him go out and fetch her
a wide, silk handkerchief and long dust-coat. She arrayed herself in
these, pleased to find that, after all, the former did not eclipse the
glory of her hat entirely. As she adjusted it before the mirror over the
mantelpiece she could see the crowd that had assembled outside the inn
to gaze at the wonder.

The _New Inn_ had emptied its dining company now, and on their way to
the market-place they had been held up to stare at this astonishing
sight--something shaped rather like a dog-cart, with a groom's seat
behind, all thrumming and shaking with the mysterious power that was to
take it horseless to Rye in less than an hour.

The engine was running smoothly now, or as smoothly as engines ever ran
in 1899. Parsons hurried in.

"Are you ready, Miss Godden? We ought to be off."

"Yes, thank you. I'm fixed--and I've paid my bill."

The landlord hovered behind them as they walked out side by side like
bride and bridegroom. Indeed, Joanna's feelings were not unlike those of
a bride coming out of the door of a church in white satin and veil,
walking beside the bridegroom who is the envy of all her friends and
enemies.

For a moment she paused on the step and surveyed the crowd. There they
stood--Southlands, Vines, Pricketts and Furneses, all the yeomanry of
the Marsh, who an hour ago had thrown her patronizing nods, now too
astonished for any salutation. They were all goggling with open mouth
and eyes, watching her being handed into the automobile, the rug being
tucked round her by the dashing stranger, who the next minute took his
seat at the wheel, the chauffeur, in his smart green uniform and peaked
cap, jumping up behind them.

Crash! Bang! They were off in a petrol-reeking cloud that rolled behind
them and made the spectators choke and stagger back.

For a moment Joanna felt she must fall out; for another moment that she
would certainly be sick. But both terrors passed, leaving her thrilling
and triumphant, clutching her hat as they bumped down New Romney's
street towards the cross-roads.

Dogs and fowls seemed to be scattering in all directions--they passed
red-faced farmers clutching at the heads of their plunging, kicking
horses. The Marsh with the dykes and the willows went past in a scud of
green through a whirl of dust. There was dust, dust everywhere. She felt
it salty on her tongue, gritty in her teeth, smarting in her eyes.

It was impossible to talk and difficult to think. Not till they had gone
as far as Brenzett cross-roads did she realize that she had entirely
ignored old Stuppenny, who had waited with her trap outside the
_George_, only to see his mistress rapt away from him like Elijah in a
chariot and a cloud.

However, she reflected, he would in time have sense enough to come after
her and, anyway, she couldn't bother about him now.

All her thinking and being were given up to the ecstasy of the ride, to
the sense of speed and power, and the still more glorious sense of being
exalted above her neighbours, of having attained a degree of honour and
felicity hitherto unknown by anyone on the Marsh.

No one would be able to look down on her any more after this; she would
always be able to talk of what it was like to ride in a motor-car, or
how the Marsh looked from a motor-car, or exactly how long it took to
motor from New Romney to Ansdore.

The red and yellow roofs of Ansdore swam into sight through the dust,
and she touched her companion's arm.

Spine, stomach and lungs, eyes, nose, ears and mouth were all a little
weary of their new experience. But the glory would remain when her feet
were once more on the ground. . . . Oh, how she hoped someone of Ansdore
would be there to see her arrive--Mrs. Tolhurst or Milly Pump. . . .

She need not have troubled. When they were still nearly a mile away the
noise of their coming had attracted the men from the fields and the
women from the kitchen. As with a final roar and splutter the car pulled
up at Ansdore's green gate, Joanna had the pleasure of seeing Mrs.
Tolhurst and Milly standing on the doorstep, while Wilson and Broadhurst
hung over the yard fence.

Before such an audience Joanna must alight with sweeping dignity, and no
puckish sprite of wickedness caused her to trip in her descent. Parsons
was already on the ground to offer her his hand.

"Well," she said, "I've enjoyed that."

"And so have I."

"I hope I haven't made you late on your journey."

"No, we're in excellent time"--he was helping her off with her borrowed
coat "how am I to see you again?"

"I dunno when, if you're going back to London."

"Are you never in town?"

She shook her head. An hour ago she might have planned even such a
mighty expedition for the sake of his voice and his air and his eyes.
But now the man was lost in his machine. He no longer had an existence
apart from the triumph he had given her. He had fulfilled his purpose
and she did not care if she never saw him again.

He was a little offended by her indifference.

"Well, we must hope for a lucky chalice," he said lightly. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Thank ye and good-bye."

He was off, and when the noise of his going had died away and she could
hear herself speak she turned to Mrs. Tolhurst.

"Well, Mrs. Tolhurst, and what did you think of that?"

"Surelye, miss, I never saw the like of it in all my days. Fancy it,
now--you to be riding in an ortymobble. I never thought I should ever
see such a sight."

"I quite enjoyed it," said Joanna grandly, "but don't say 'ortymobble,'
Mrs. Tolhurst--it's 'ortomobeely.'"

"I see, miss; and now if you'll take my advice, you'll come in and git
some of the smuts off."

Joanna felt dashed for a moment, then realized that the worst would not
have happened till they were some miles out of New Romney.

"Well, you'd better put on the kettle now, and I'll have a wash; and
make me a cup of tea, that's a dear good woman, for my head's going
round and round."

She found that her legs, her arms, her whole body, were shaking. There
was a curious dinning noise in her head. She staggered into the kitchen
and collapsed into the solitary armchair, lying back shaken, dazed and
grimy, with a triumphant smile upon her lips.



Transcriber's note:

The edition used as base for this book contained the
following errors, which have been corrected.

Page 205 (VIII. The Man Whom the Rocks Hated):

he could see nothing of Brasseur or the boat. They had banished.
=> he could see nothing of Brasseur or the boat. They had vanished.

Page 236 ("IX.2 Variations on a Theme -- Palehouse"):

would it be any satisfatcion to them to live there?
=> would it be any satisfaction to them to live there?

Page 250 ("IX.2 Variations on a Theme -- Palehouse"):

"it ough to fetch five or six thousand pounds instead of two."
=> "it ought to fetch five or six thousand pounds instead of two."




[End of _Faithful Stranger And Other Stories_ by Sheila Kaye-Smith]
