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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Vera, by the Author of Elizabeth
and her German Garden.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34366 ***</div>
<h1>VERA</h1>
<h2>BY THE AUTHOR OF<br/>
"ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN"</h2>
<h4>MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED,</h4>
<h4>ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON</h4>
<h4>1921 </h4>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>I</h2>
<p>When the doctor had gone, and the two women from the
village he had been waiting for were upstairs shut in
with her dead father, Lucy went out into the garden
and stood leaning on the gate staring at the sea.</p>
<p>Her father had died at nine o'clock that morning,
and it was now twelve. The sun beat on her bare head;
and the burnt-up grass along the top of the cliff, and the
dusty road that passed the gate, and the glittering sea,
and the few white clouds hanging in the sky, all blazed
and glared in an extremity of silent, motionless heat
and light.</p>
<p>Into this emptiness Lucy stared, motionless herself,
as if she had been carved in stone. There was not a
sail on the sea, nor a line of distant smoke from any
steamer, neither was there once the flash of a bird's wing
brushing across the sky. Movement seemed smitten
rigid. Sound seemed to have gone to sleep.</p>
<p>Lucy stood staring at the sea, her face as empty of
expression as the bright blank world before her. Her
father had been dead three hours, and she felt nothing.</p>
<p>It was just a week since they had arrived in Cornwall,
she and he, full of hope, full of pleasure in the pretty
little furnished house they had taken for August and
September, full of confidence in the good the pure air
was going to do him. But there had always been
confidence; there had never been a moment during
the long years of his fragility when confidence had even
been questioned. He was delicate, and she had taken
care of him. She had taken care of him and he had
been delicate ever since she could remember. And
ever since she could remember he had been everything
in life to her. She had had no thought since she grew
up for anybody but her father. There was no room for
any other thought, so completely did he fill her heart.
They had done everything together, shared everything
together, dodged the winters together, settled in
charming places, seen the same beautiful things, read
the same books, talked, laughed, had friends,—heaps of
friends; wherever they were her father seemed at once
to have friends, adding them to the mass he had already.
She had not been away from him a day for years; she
had had no wish to go away. Where and with whom
could she be so happy as with him? All the years were
years of sunshine. There had been no winters; nothing
but summer, summer, and sweet scents and soft skies,
and patient understanding with her slowness—for he
had the nimblest mind—and love. He was the most
amusing companion to her, the most generous friend,
the most illuminating guide, the most adoring father;
and now he was dead, and she felt nothing.</p>
<p>Her father. Dead. For ever.</p>
<p>She said the words over to herself. They meant
nothing.</p>
<p>She was going to be alone. Without him. Always.</p>
<p>She said the words over to herself. They meant
nothing.</p>
<p>Up in that room with its windows wide open, shut
away from her with the two village women, he was
lying dead. He had smiled at her for the last time, said
all he was ever going to say to her, called her the last
of the sweet, half-teasing names he loved to invent for
her. Why, only a few hours ago they were having
breakfast together and planning what they would do
that day. Why, only yesterday they drove together
after tea towards the sunset, and he had seen, with his
quick eyes that saw everything, some unusual grasses
by the road-side, and had stopped and gathered them,
excited to find such rare ones, and had taken them back
with him to study, and had explained them to her
and made her see profoundly interesting, important
things in them, in these grasses which, till he touched
them, had seemed just grasses. That is what he did
with everything,—touched it into life and delight. The
grasses lay in the dining-room now, waiting for him to
work on them, spread out where he had put them on
some blotting-paper in the window. She had seen them
as she came through on her way to the garden; and she
had seen, too, that the breakfast was still there, the
breakfast they had had together, still as they had left
it, forgotten by the servants in the surprise of death.
He had fallen down as he got up from it. Dead. In
an instant. No time for anything, for a cry, for a look.
Gone. Finished. Wiped out.</p>
<p>What a beautiful day it was; and so hot. He loved
heat. They were lucky in the weather....</p>
<p>Yes, there were sounds after all,—she suddenly
noticed them; sounds from the room upstairs, a busy
moving about of discreet footsteps, the splash of water,
crockery being carefully set down. Presently the women
would come and tell her everything was ready, and she
could go back to him again. The women had tried to
comfort her when they arrived; and so had the servants,
and so had the doctor. Comfort her! And she felt
nothing.</p>
<p>Lucy stared at the sea, thinking these things, examining
the situation as a curious one but unconnected
with herself, looking at it with a kind of cold comprehension.
Her mind was quite clear. Every detail of
what had happened was sharply before her. She knew
everything, and she felt nothing,—like God, she said to
herself; yes, exactly like God.</p>
<p>Footsteps came along the road, which was hidden
by the garden's fringe of trees and bushes for fifty yards
on either side of the gate, and presently a man passed
between her eyes and the sea. She did not notice him,
for she was noticing nothing but her thoughts, and he
passed in front of her quite close, and was gone.</p>
<p>But he had seen her, and had stared hard at her for
the brief instant it took to pass the gate. Her face and
its expression had surprised him. He was not a very
observant man, and at that moment was even less so
than usual, for he was particularly and deeply absorbed
in his own affairs; yet when he came suddenly on the
motionless figure at the gate, with its wide-open eyes
that simply looked through him as he went by, unconscious,
obviously, that any one was going by, his attention
was surprised away from himself and almost he had
stopped to examine the strange creature more closely.
His code, however, prevented that, and he continued
along the further fifty yards of bushes and trees that
hid the other half of the garden from the road, but more
slowly, slower and slower, till at the end of the garden
where the road left it behind and went on very solitarily
over the bare grass on the top of the cliffs, winding in
and out with the ins and outs of the coast for as far as
one could see, he hesitated, looked back, went on a yard
or two, hesitated again, stopped and took off his hot hat
and wiped his forehead, looked at the bare country and
the long twisting glare of the road ahead, and then very
slowly turned and went past the belt of bushes towards
the gate again.</p>
<p>He said to himself as he went: 'My God, I'm so
lonely. I can't stand it. I must speak to some one.
I shall go off my head——'</p>
<p>For what had happened to this man—his name was
Wemyss—was that public opinion was forcing him into
retirement and inactivity at the very time when he most
needed company and distraction. He had to go away
by himself, he had to withdraw for at the very least a
week from his ordinary life, from his house on the river
where he had just begun his summer holiday, from his
house in London where at least there were his clubs,
because of this determination on the part of public
opinion that he should for a space be alone with his
sorrow. Alone with sorrow,—of all ghastly things for
a man to be alone with! It was an outrage, he felt, to
condemn a man to that; it was the cruellest form of
solitary confinement. He had come to Cornwall because
it took a long time to get to, a whole day in the train
there and a whole day in the train back, clipping the
week, the minimum of time public opinion insisted on
for respecting his bereavement, at both ends; but
still that left five days of awful loneliness, of wandering
about the cliffs by himself trying not to think, without
a soul to speak to, without a thing to do. He couldn't
play bridge because of public opinion. Everybody knew
what had happened to him. It had been in all the
papers. The moment he said his name they would
know. It was so recent. Only last week....</p>
<p>No, he couldn't bear this, he must speak to some one.
That girl,—with those strange eyes she wasn't just
ordinary. She wouldn't mind letting him talk to her
for a little, perhaps sit in the garden with her a little.
She would understand.</p>
<p>Wemyss was like a child in his misery. He very
nearly cried outright when he got to the gate and took
off his hat, and the girl looked at him blankly just as
if she still didn't see him and hadn't heard him when he
said, 'Could you let me have a glass of water? I—it's
so hot——'</p>
<p>He began to stammer because of her eyes. 'I—I'm
horribly thirsty—the heat——'</p>
<p>He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his
forehead. He certainly looked very hot. His face was
red and distressed, and his forehead dripped. He was
all puckered, like an unhappy baby. And the girl
looked so cool, so bloodlessly cool. Her hands, folded
on the top bar of the gate, looked more than cool, they
looked cold; like hands in winter, shrunk and small with
cold. She had bobbed hair, he noticed, so that it was
impossible to tell how old she was, brown hair from
which the sun was beating out bright lights; and her
small face had no colour except those wide eyes fixed on
his and the colour of her rather big mouth; but even
her mouth seemed frozen.</p>
<p>'Would it be much bother——' began Wemyss
again; and then his situation overwhelmed him.</p>
<p>'You would be doing a greater kindness than you
know,' he said, his voice trembling with unhappiness,
'if you would let me come into the garden a minute and
rest.'</p>
<p>At the sound of the genuine wretchedness in his voice
Lucy's blank eyes became a little human. It got through
to her consciousness that this distressed warm stranger
was appealing to her for something.</p>
<p>'Are you so hot?' she asked, really seeing him for
the first time.</p>
<p>'Yes, I'm hot,' said Wemyss. 'But it isn't that.
I've had a misfortune—a terrible misfortune——'</p>
<p>He paused, overcome by the remembrance of it, by
the unfairness of so much horror having overtaken
him.</p>
<p>'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Lucy vaguely, still miles away
from him, deep in indifference. 'Have you lost anything?'</p>
<p>'Good God, not that sort of misfortune!' cried
Wemyss. 'Let me come in a minute—into the garden
a minute—just to sit a minute with a human being.
You would be doing a great kindness. Because you're
a stranger I can talk to you about it if you'll let me.
Just because we're strangers I could talk. I haven't
spoken to a soul but servants and official people since—since
it happened. For two days I haven't spoken
at all to a living soul—I shall go mad——'</p>
<p>His voice shook again with his unhappiness, with
his astonishment at his unhappiness.</p>
<p>Lucy didn't think two days very long not to speak
to anybody in, but there was something overwhelming
about the strange man's evident affliction that roused
her out of her apathy; not much,—she was still profoundly
detached, observing from another world, as it
were, this extreme heat and agitation, but at least she
saw him now, she did with a faint curiosity consider him.
He was like some elemental force in his directness. He
had the quality of an irresistible natural phenomenon.
But she did not move from her position at the gate, and
her eyes continued, with the unwaveringness he thought
so odd, to stare into his.</p>
<p>'I would gladly have let you come in,' she said, 'if
you had come yesterday, but to-day my father died.'</p>
<p>Wemyss looked at her in astonishment. She had
said it in as level and ordinary a voice as if she had been
remarking, rather indifferently, on the weather.</p>
<p>Then he had a moment of insight. His own calamity
had illuminated him. He who had never known pain,
who had never let himself be worried, who had never
let himself be approached in his life by a doubt, had for
the last week lived in an atmosphere of worry and pain,
and of what, if he allowed himself to think, to become
morbid, might well grow into a most unfair, tormenting
doubt. He understood, as he would not have understood
a week ago, what her whole attitude, her rigidity
meant. He stared at her a moment while she stared
straight back at him, and then his big warm hands
dropped on to the cold ones folded on the top bar of the
gate, and he said, holding them firmly though they made
no attempt to move, 'So that's it. So that's why.
Now I know.'</p>
<p>And then he added, with the simplicity his own
situation was putting into everything he did, 'That
settles it. We two stricken ones must talk together.'</p>
<p>And still covering her hands with one of his, with the
other he unlatched the gate and walked in.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>II</h2>
<p>There was a seat under a mulberry tree on the little
lawn, with its back to the house and the gaping windows,
and Wemyss, spying it out, led Lucy to it as if she were
a child, holding her by the hand.</p>
<p>She went with him indifferently. What did it matter
whether she sat under the mulberry tree or stood at
the gate? This convulsed stranger—was he real?
Was anything real? Let him tell her whatever it was
he wanted to tell her, and she would listen, and get him
his glass of water, and then he would go his way and
by that time the women would have finished upstairs
and she could be with her father again.</p>
<p>'I'll fetch the water,' she said when they got to the
seat.</p>
<p>'No. Sit down,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>She sat down. So did he, letting her hand go. It
dropped on the seat, palm upwards, between them.</p>
<p>'It's strange our coming across each other like this,'
he said, looking at her while she looked indifferently
straight in front of her at the sun on the grass beyond
the shade of the mulberry tree, at a mass of huge fuchsia
bushes a little way off. 'I've been going through
hell—and so must you have been. Good God, what hell! Do
you mind if I tell you? You'll understand because of
your own——'</p>
<p>Lucy didn't mind. She didn't mind anything. She
merely vaguely wondered that he should think she had
been going through hell. Hell and her darling father;
how quaint it sounded. She began to suspect that she
was asleep. All this wasn't really happening. Her
father wasn't dead. Presently the housemaid would
come in with the hot water and wake her to the usual
cheerful day. The man sitting beside her,—he seemed
rather vivid for a dream, it was true; so detailed, with
his flushed face and the perspiration on his forehead,
besides the feel of his big warm hand a moment ago and
the small puffs of heat that came from his clothes when
he moved. But it was so unlikely ... everything
that had happened since breakfast was so <i>unlikely</i>.
This man, too, would resolve himself soon into just
something she had had for dinner last night, and she
would tell her father about her dream at breakfast,
and they would laugh.</p>
<p>She stirred uneasily. It wasn't a dream. It was real.</p>
<p>'The story is unbelievably horrible,' Wemyss was
saying in a high aggrievement, looking at her little head
with the straight cut hair, and her grave profile. How
old was she? Eighteen? Twenty-eight? Impossible
to tell exactly with hair cut like that, but young anyhow
compared to him; very young perhaps compared to
him who was well over forty, and so much scarred, so
deeply scarred, by this terrible thing that had happened
to him.</p>
<p>'It's so horrible that I wouldn't talk about it if you
were going to mind,' he went on, 'but you can't mind
because you're a stranger, and it may help you with your
own trouble, because whatever you may suffer I'm
suffering much worse, so then you'll see yours isn't so
bad. And besides I must talk to some one I should
go mad——'</p>
<p>This was certainly a dream, thought Lucy. Things
didn't happen like this when one was awake,—grotesque
things.</p>
<p>She turned her head and looked at him. No, it
wasn't a dream. No dream could be so solid as the
man beside her. What was he saying?</p>
<p>He was saying in a tormented voice that he was
Wemyss.</p>
<p>'You are Wemyss,' she repeated gravely.</p>
<p>It made no impression on her. She didn't mind his
being Wemyss.</p>
<p>'I'm the Wemyss the newspapers were full of last
week,' he said, seeing that the name left her unmoved.
'My God,' he went on, again wiping his forehead, but
as fast as he wiped it more beads burst out, 'those
posters to see one's own name staring at one everywhere
on posters!'</p>
<p>'Why was your name on posters?' said Lucy.</p>
<p>She didn't want to know; she asked mechanically,
her ear attentive only to the sounds from the open
windows of the room upstairs.</p>
<p>'Don't you read newspapers here?' was his answer.</p>
<p>'I don't think we do,' she said, listening. 'We've
been settling in. I don't think we've remembered to
order any newspapers yet.'</p>
<p>A look of some, at any rate, relief from the pressure
he was evidently struggling under came into Wemyss's
face. 'Then I can tell you the real version,' he said,
'without you're being already filled up with the
monstrous suggestions that were made at the inquest.
As though I hadn't suffered enough as it was! As
though it hadn't been terrible enough already——'</p>
<p>'The inquest?' repeated Lucy.</p>
<p>Again she turned her head and looked at him. 'Has
your trouble anything to do with death?'</p>
<p>'Why, you don't suppose anything else would reduce
me to the state I'm in?'</p>
<p>'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said; and into her eyes and into
her voice came a different expression, something living,
something gentle. 'I hope it wasn't anybody you—loved?'</p>
<p>'It was my wife,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>He got up quickly, so near was he to crying at the
thought of it, at the thought of all he had endured,
and turned his back on her and began stripping the
leaves off the branches above his head.</p>
<p>Lucy watched him, leaning forward a little on both
hands. 'Tell me about it,' she said presently, very
gently.</p>
<p>He came back and dropped down heavily beside her
again, and with many interjections of astonishment
that such a ghastly calamity could have happened to
him, to him who till now had never——</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy, comprehendingly and gravely,
'yes—I know——'</p>
<p>—had never had anything to do with—well, with
calamities, he told her the story.</p>
<p>They had gone down, he and his wife, as they did
every 25th of July, for the summer to their house on
the river, and he had been looking forward to a glorious
time of peaceful doing nothing after months of London,
just lying about in a punt and reading and smoking and
resting—London was an awful place for tiring one out—and
they hadn't been there twenty-four hours before
his wife—before his wife——</p>
<p>The remembrance of it was too grievous to him. He
couldn't go on.</p>
<p>'Was she—very ill?' asked Lucy gently, to give
him time to recover. 'I think that would almost be
better. One would be a little at least one would be
a little prepared——'</p>
<p>'She wasn't ill at all,' cried Wemyss. 'She just—died.'</p>
<p>'Oh like father!' exclaimed Lucy, roused now
altogether. It was she now who laid her hand on his.</p>
<p>Wemyss seized it between both his, and went on
quickly.</p>
<p>He was writing letters, he said, in the library at his
table in the window where he could see the terrace and
the garden and the river; they had had tea together
only an hour before; there was a flagged terrace along
that side of the house, the side the library was on and
all the principal rooms; and all of a sudden there was
a great flash of shadow between him and the light;
come and gone instantaneously; and instantaneously
then there was a thud; he would never forget it, that
thud; and there outside his window on the flags——</p>
<p>'Oh don't—oh don't——' gasped Lucy.</p>
<p>'It was my wife,' Wemyss hurried on, not able now
to stop, looking at Lucy while he talked with eyes of
amazed horror. 'Fallen out of the top room of the
house her sitting-room because of the view—it was in
a straight line with the library window—she dropped
past my window like a stone—she was smashed—smashed——'</p>
<p>'Oh, don't—oh——'</p>
<p>'Now can you wonder at the state I'm in?' he cried.
'Can you wonder if I'm nearly off my head? And
forced to be by myself—forced into retirement for what
the world considers a proper period of mourning, with
nothing to think of but that ghastly inquest.'</p>
<p>He hurt her hand, he gripped it so hard.</p>
<p>'If you hadn't let me come and talk to you,'
he said, 'I believe I'd have pitched myself over the
cliff there this afternoon and made an end of it.'</p>
<p>'But how—but why—how could she fall?' whispered
Lucy, to whom poor Wemyss's misfortune seemed more
frightful than anything she had ever heard of.</p>
<p>She hung on his words, her eyes on his face, her lips
parted, her whole body an agony of sympathy. Life—how
terrible it was, and how unsuspected. One went
on and on, never dreaming of the sudden dreadful day
when the coverings were going to be dropped and one
would see it was death after all, that it had been death
all the time, death pretending, death waiting. Her
father, so full of love and interests and plans,—gone,
finished, brushed away as if he no more mattered than
some insect one unseeingly treads on as one walks;
and this man's wife, dead in an instant, dead so far
more cruelly, so horribly....</p>
<p>'I had often told her to be careful of that window,'
Wemyss answered in a voice that almost sounded like
anger; but all the time his tone had been one of high
anger at the wanton, outrageous cruelty of fate. 'It
was a very low one, and the floor was slippery. Oak.
Every floor in my house is polished oak. I had them
put in myself. She must have been leaning out and her
feet slipped away behind her. That would make her
fall head foremost——'</p>
<p>'Oh—oh——' said Lucy, shrinking. What could she
do, what could she say to help him, to soften at least
these dreadful memories?</p>
<p>'And then,' Wemyss went on after a moment, as
unaware as Lucy was that she was tremblingly stroking
his hand, 'at the inquest, as though it hadn't all been
awful enough for me already, the jury must actually
get wrangling about the cause of death.'</p>
<p>'The cause of death?' echoed Lucy. 'But—she
fell.'</p>
<p>'Whether it were an accident or done on purpose.'</p>
<p>'Done on——?'</p>
<p>'Suicide.'</p>
<p>'Oh——'</p>
<p>She drew in her breath quickly.</p>
<p>'But—it wasn't?'</p>
<p>'How could it be? She was my wife, without a
care in the world, everything done for her, no troubles,
nothing on her mind, nothing wrong with her health.
We had been married fifteen years, and I was devoted
to her—devoted to her.'</p>
<p>He banged his knee with his free hand. His voice
was full of indignant tears.</p>
<p>'Then why did the jury——'</p>
<p>'My wife had a fool of a maid—I never could stand
that woman—and it was something she said at the
inquest, some invention or other about what my wife
had said to her. You know what servants are. It
upset some of the jury. You know juries are made up
of anybody and everybody—butcher, baker, and candle-stick-maker—quite
uneducated most of them, quite at
the mercy of any suggestion. And so instead of a
verdict of death by misadventure, which would have
been the right one, it was an open verdict.'</p>
<p>'Oh, how terrible—how terrible for you,' breathed
Lucy, her eyes on his, her mouth twitching with
sympathy.</p>
<p>'You'd have seen all about it if you had read the
papers last week,' said Wemyss, more quietly. It had
done him good to get it out and talked over.</p>
<p>He looked down at her upturned face with its horror-stricken
eyes and twitching mouth. 'Now tell me about
yourself,' he said, touched with compunction; nothing
that had happened to her could be so horrible as what
had happened to him, still she too was newly smitten,
they had met on a common ground of disaster, Death
himself had been their introducer.</p>
<p>'Is life all—only death?' she breathed, her horror-stricken
eyes on his.</p>
<p>Before he could answer—and what was there to
answer to such a question except that of course it
wasn't, and he and she were just victims of a monstrous
special unfairness,—he certainly was; her father had
probably died as fathers did, in the usual way in his
bed—before he could answer, the two women came out of
the house, and with small discreet steps proceeded
down the path to the gate. The sun flooded their
spare figures and their decent black clothes, clothes
kept for these occasions as a mark of respectful
sympathy.</p>
<p>One of them saw Lucy under the mulberry tree and
hesitated, and then came across the grass to her with
the mincing steps of tact.</p>
<p>'Here's somebody coming to speak to you,' said
Wemyss, for Lucy was sitting with her back to the
path.</p>
<p>She started and looked round.</p>
<p>The woman approached hesitatingly, her head on
one side, her hands folded, her face pulled into a little
smile intended to convey encouragement and pity.</p>
<p>'The gentleman's quite ready, miss,' she said softly.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>III</h2>
<p>All that day and all the next day Wemyss was Lucy's
tower of strength and rock of refuge. He did everything
that had to be done of the business part of death—that
extra wantonness of misery thrown in so grimly to
finish off the crushing of a mourner who is alone. It
is true the doctor was kind and ready to help, but he
was a complete stranger; she had never seen him till
he was fetched that dreadful morning; and he had
other things to see to besides her affairs,—his own
patients, scattered widely over a lonely countryside.
Wemyss had nothing to see to. He could concentrate
entirely on Lucy. And he was her friend, linked to
her so strangely and so strongly by death. She felt
she had known him for ever. She felt that since the
beginning of time she and he had been advancing hand
in hand towards just this place, towards just this house
and garden, towards just this year, this August, this
moment of existence.</p>
<p>Wemyss dropped quite naturally into the place a
near male relative would have been in if there had
been a near male relative within reach; and his relief
at having something to do, something practical and
immediate, was so immense that never were funeral
arrangements made with greater zeal and energy,—really
one might almost say with greater gusto. Fresh from the
horrors of those other funeral arrangements, clouded as
they had been by the silences of friends and the averted
looks of neighbours—all owing to the idiotic jurors and
their hesitations, and the vindictiveness of that woman
because, he concluded, he had refused to raise her
wages the previous month—what he was arranging now
was so simple and straightforward that it positively
was a pleasure. There were no anxieties, there were no
worries, and there was a grateful little girl. After each
fruitful visit to the undertaker, and he paid several in
his zeal, he came back to Lucy and she was grateful;
and she was not only grateful, but very obviously glad
to get him back.</p>
<p>He saw she didn't like it when he went away, off along
the top of the cliff on his various business visits, purpose
in each step, a different being from the indignantly
miserable person who had dragged about that very
cliff killing time such a little while before; he could see
she didn't like it. She knew he had to go, she was
grateful and immensely expressive of her gratitude—Wemyss
thought he had never met any one so expressively
grateful—that he should so diligently go, but
she didn't like it. He saw she didn't like it; he saw
that she clung to him; and it pleased him.</p>
<p>'Don't be long,' she murmured each time, looking
at him with eyes of entreaty; and when he got
back, and stood before her again mopping his forehead,
having triumphantly advanced the funeral arrangements
another stage, a faint colour came into her face and
she had the relieved eyes of a child who has been
left alone in the dark and sees its mother coming in
with a candle. Vera usedn't to look like that. Vera
had accepted everything he did for her as a matter of
course.</p>
<p>Naturally he wasn't going to let the poor little girl
sleep alone in that house with a dead body, and the
strange servants who had been hired together with the
house and knew nothing either about her or her father
probably getting restive as night drew on, and as likely
as not bolting to the village; so he fetched his things
from the primitive hotel down in the cove about seven
o'clock and announced his intention of sleeping on the
drawing-room sofa. He had lunched with her, and had
had tea with her, and now was going to dine with her.
What she would have done without him Wemyss couldn't
think.</p>
<p>He felt he was being delicate and tactful in this
about the drawing-room sofa. He might fairly have
claimed the spare-room bed; but he wasn't going to
take any advantage, not the smallest, of the poor little
girl's situation. The servants, who supposed him to be
a relation and had supposed him to be that from the
first moment they saw him, big and middle-aged,
holding the young lady's hand under the mulberry
tree, were surprised at having to make up a bed in the
drawing-room when there were two spare-rooms with
beds already in them upstairs, but did so obediently,
vaguely imagining it had something to do with watchfulness
and French windows; and Lucy, when he told her
he was going to stay the night, was so grateful, so really
thankful, that her eyes, red from the waves of grief that
had engulfed her at intervals during the afternoon—ever
since, that is, the sight of her dead father lying
so remote from her, so wrapped, it seemed, in a deep,
absorbed attentiveness, had unfrozen her and swept her
away into a sea of passionate weeping—filled again
with tears.</p>
<p>'Oh,' she murmured, 'how <i>good</i> you are——'</p>
<p>It was Wemyss who had done all the thinking for
her, and in the spare moments between his visits to
the undertaker about the arrangements, and to the
doctor about the certificate, and to the vicar about the
burial, had telegraphed to her only existing relative,
an aunt, had sent the obituary notice to <i>The Times</i>,
and had even reminded her that she had on a blue
frock and asked if she hadn't better put on a black one;
and now this last instance of his thoughtfulness overwhelmed her.</p>
<p>She had been dreading the night, hardly daring to
think of it so much did she dread it; and each time he
had gone away on his errands, through her heart crept
the thought of what it would be like when dusk came
and he went away for the last time and she would be
alone, all alone in the silent house, and upstairs that
strange, wonderful, absorbed thing that used to be her
father, and whatever happened to her, whatever awful
horror overcame her in the night, whatever danger, he
wouldn't hear, he wouldn't know, he would still lie
there content, content....</p>
<p>'How <i>good</i> you are!' she said to Wemyss, her red
eyes filling. 'What would I have done without you?'</p>
<p>'But what would I have done without <i>you</i>?' he
answered; and they stared at each other, astonished
at the nature of the bond between them, at its closeness,
at the way it seemed almost miraculously to have been
arranged that they should meet on the crest of despair
and save each other.</p>
<p>Till long after the stars were out they sat together
on the edge of the cliff, Wemyss smoking while he talked,
in a voice subdued by the night and the silence and the
occasion, of his life and of the regular healthy calm
with which it had proceeded till a week ago. Why this
calm should have been interrupted, and so cruelly, he
couldn't imagine. It wasn't as if he had deserved it.
He didn't know that a man could ever be justified
in saying he had done good, but he, Wemyss, could
at least fairly say that he hadn't done any one any
harm.</p>
<p>'Oh, but you have done good,' said Lucy, her voice,
too, dropped into more than ordinary gentleness by the
night, the silence, and the occasion; besides which it
vibrated with feeling, it was lovely with seriousness,
with simple conviction. 'Always, always I know that
you've been doing good,' she said, 'being kind. I can't
imagine you anything else but a help to people and
a comfort.'</p>
<p>And Wemyss said, Well, he had done his best and
tried, and no man could say more, but judging from
what—well, what people had said to him, it hadn't been
much of a success sometimes, and often and often he
had been hurt, deeply hurt, by being misunderstood.</p>
<p>And Lucy said, How was it possible to misunderstand
him, to misunderstand any one so transparently good,
so evidently kind?</p>
<p>And Wemyss said, Yes, one would think he was
easy enough to understand; he was a very natural,
simple sort of person, who had only all his life asked
for peace and quiet. It wasn't much to ask. Vera——</p>
<p>'Who is Vera?' asked Lucy.</p>
<p>'My wife.'</p>
<p>'Ah, don't,' said Lucy earnestly, taking his hand
very gently in hers. 'Don't talk of that to-night
please don't let yourself think of it. If I could only,
only find the words that would comfort you——'</p>
<p>And Wemyss said that she didn't need words, that
just her being there, being with him, letting him help
her, and her not having been mixed up with anything
before in his life, was enough.</p>
<p>'Aren't we like two children,' he said, his voice,
like hers, deepened by feeling, 'two scared, unhappy
children, clinging to each other alone in the dark.'</p>
<p>So they talked on in subdued voices as people do
who are in some holy place, sitting close together,
looking out at the starlit sea, darkness and coolness
gathering round them, and the grass smelling sweetly
after the hot day, and the little waves, such a long way
down, lapping lazily along the shingle, till Wemyss
said it must be long past bedtime, and she, poor girl,
must badly need rest.</p>
<p>'How old are you?' he asked suddenly, turning to
her and scrutinising the delicate faint outline of her
face against the night.</p>
<p>'Twenty-two,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'You might just as easily be twelve,' he said,
'except for the sorts of things you say.'</p>
<p>'It's my hair,' said Lucy. 'My father liked—he
liked——'</p>
<p>'Don't,' said Wemyss, in his turn taking her hand.
'Don't cry again. Don't cry any more to-night. Come—we'll
go in. It's time you were in bed.'</p>
<p>And he helped her up, and when they got into the
light of the hall he saw that she had, this time, successfully
strangled her tears.</p>
<p>'Good-night,' she said, when he had lit her candle
for her, 'good-night, and—God bless you.'</p>
<p>'God bless <i>you</i>' said Wemyss solemnly, holding her
hand in his great warm grip.</p>
<p>'He has,' said Lucy. 'Indeed He has already, in
sending me you.' And she smiled up at him.</p>
<p>For the first time since he had known her—and he
too had the feeling that he had known her ever since he
could remember—he saw her smile, and the difference
it made to her marred, stained face surprised him.</p>
<p>'Do that again,' he said, staring at her, still holding
her hand.</p>
<p>'Do what?' asked Lucy.</p>
<p>'Smile,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>Then she laughed; but the sound of it in the silent,
brooding house was shocking.</p>
<p>'<i>Oh</i>,' she gasped, stopping short, hanging her head
appalled by what it had sounded like.</p>
<p>'Remember you're to go to sleep and not think of
anything,' Wemyss ordered as she went slowly upstairs.</p>
<p>And she did fall asleep at once, exhausted but protected,
like some desolate baby that had cried itself
sick and now had found its mother.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>IV</h2>
<p>All this, however, came to an end next day when
towards evening Miss Entwhistle, Lucy's aunt, arrived.</p>
<p>Wemyss retired to his hotel again and did not
reappear till next morning, giving Lucy time to explain
him; but either the aunt was inattentive, as she well
might be under the circumstances in which she found
herself so suddenly, so lamentably placed, or Lucy's
explanations were vague, for Miss Entwhistle took
Wemyss for a friend of her dear Jim's, one of her dear,
dear brother's many friends, and accepted his services
as natural and himself with emotion, warmth, and
reminiscences.</p>
<p>Wemyss immediately became her rock as well as
Lucy's, and she in her turn clung to him. Where he
had been clung to by one he was now clung to by two,
which put an end to talk alone with Lucy. He did not
see Lucy alone again once before the funeral, but at
least, owing to Miss Entwhistle's inability to do without
him, he didn't have to spend any more solitary hours.
Except breakfast, he had all his meals up in the little
house on the cliff, and in the evenings smoked his pipe
under the mulberry tree till bedtime sent him away,
while Miss Entwhistle in the darkness gently and
solemnly reminisced, and Lucy sat silent, as close to
him as she could get.</p>
<p>The funeral was hurried on by the doctor's advice,
but even so the short notice and the long distance did
not prevent James Entwhistle's friends from coming to
it. The small church down in the cove was packed;
the small hotel bulged with concerned, grave-faced
people. Wemyss, who had done everything and been
everything, disappeared in this crowd. Nobody noticed
him. None of James Entwhistle's friends happened—luckily,
he felt, with last week's newspapers still fresh
in the public mind—to be his. For twenty-four hours
he was swept entirely away from Lucy by this surge of
mourners, and at the service in the church could only
catch a distant glimpse, from his seat by the door, of her
bowed head in the front pew.</p>
<p>He felt very lonely again. He wouldn't have stayed
in the church a minute, for he objected with a healthy
impatience to the ceremonies of death, if it hadn't
been that he regarded himself as the stage-manager,
so to speak, of these particular ceremonies, and that it
was in a peculiarly intimate sense his funeral. He
took a pride in it. Considering the shortness of the
time it really was a remarkable achievement, the way
he had done it, the smooth way the whole thing was
going. But to-morrow,—what would happen to-morrow,
when all these people had gone away again? Would
they take Lucy and the aunt with them? Would the
house up there be shut, and he, Wemyss, left alone again
with his bitter, miserable recollections? He wouldn't,
of course, stay on in that place if Lucy were to go, but
wherever he went there would be emptiness without her,
without her gratefulness, and gentleness, and clinging.
Comforting and being comforted,—that is what he and
she had been doing to each other for four days, and he
couldn't but believe she would feel the same emptiness
without him that he knew he was going to feel without
her.</p>
<p>In the dark under the mulberry tree, while her aunt
talked softly and sadly of the past, Wemyss had sometimes
laid his hand on Lucy's, and she had never taken
hers away. They had sat there, content and comforted
to be hand in hand. She had the trust in him, he felt,
of a child; the confidence, and the knowledge that she
was safe. He was proud and touched to know it, and
it warmed him through and through to see how her face
lit up whenever he appeared. Vera's face hadn't done
that. Vera had never understood him, not with fifteen
years to do it in, as this girl had in half a day. And
the way Vera had died,—it was no use mincing matters
when it came to one's own thoughts, and it had been all
of a piece with her life: the disregard for others and of
anything said to her for her own good, the determination
to do what suited her, to lean out of dangerous windows
if she wished to, for instance, not to take the least
trouble, the least thought.... Imagine bringing such
horror on him, such unforgettable horror, besides worries
and unhappiness without end, by deliberately disregarding
his warnings, his orders indeed, about that window.
Wemyss did feel that if one looked at the thing dispassionately
it would be difficult to find indifference to
the wishes and feelings of others going further.</p>
<p>Sitting in the church during the funeral service,
his arms folded on his chest and his mouth grim with
these thoughts, he suddenly caught sight of Lucy's
face. The priest was coming down the aisle in front of
the coffin on the way out to the grave, and Lucy and
her aunt were following first behind it.</p>
<p><i>Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to
live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down,
like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never
continueth in one stay....</i></p>
<p>The priest's sad, disillusioned voice recited the
beautiful words as he walked, the afternoon sun from
the west window and the open west door pouring on
his face and on the faces of the procession that seemed
all black and white,—black clothes, white faces.</p>
<p>The whitest face was Lucy's, and when Wemyss
saw the look on it his mouth relaxed and his heart went
soft within him, and he came impulsively out of the
shadow and joined her, boldly walking on her other side
at the head of the procession, and standing beside her at
the grave; and at the awful moment when the first earth
was dropped on to the coffin he drew her hand, before
everybody, through his arm and held it there tight.</p>
<p>Nobody was surprised at his standing there with
her like that. It was taken quite for granted. He was
evidently a relation of poor Jim's. Nor was anybody
surprised when Wemyss, not letting her go again, took
her home up the cliff, her arm in his just as though he
were the chief mourner, the aunt following with some
one else.</p>
<p>He didn't speak to her or disturb her with any claims
on her attention, partly because the path was very
steep and he wasn't used to cliffs, but also because of
his feeling that he and she, isolated together by their
sorrows, understood without any words. And when they
reached the house, the first to reach it from the church
just as if, he couldn't help thinking, they were coming
back from their wedding, he told her in his firmest voice
to go straight up to her room and lie down, and she
obeyed with the sweet obedience of perfect trust.</p>
<p>'Who is that?' asked the man who was helping
Miss Entwhistle up the cliff.</p>
<p>'Oh, a <i>very</i> old friend of darling Jim's,' she sobbed,—she
had been sobbing without stopping from the first
words of the burial service, and was quite unable to
leave off. 'Mr.—Mr.—We—We—Wemyss——'</p>
<p>'Wemyss? I don't remember coming across him
with Jim.'</p>
<p>'Oh, one of his—his <i>oldest</i>—f—fr—friends,' sobbed
poor Miss Entwhistle, got completely out of control.</p>
<p>Wemyss, continuing in his rôle of chief mourner, was
the only person who was asked to spend the evening
up at the bereaved house.</p>
<p>'I don't wonder,' said Miss Entwhistle to him at
dinner, still with tears in her voice, 'at my dear brother's
devotion to you. You have been the greatest help,
the greatest comfort——'</p>
<p>And neither Wemyss nor Lucy felt equal to explanation.</p>
<p>What did it matter? Lucy, fatigued by emotions,
her mind bruised by the violent demands that had
been made on it the last four days, sat drooping at
the table, and merely thought that if her father had
known Wemyss it would certainly have been true that
he was devoted to him. He hadn't known him; he
had missed him by—yes, by just three hours; and this
wonderful friend of hers was the very first good thing
that she and her father hadn't shared. And Wemyss's
attitude was simply that if people insist on jumping at
conclusions, why, let them. He couldn't anyhow begin
to expound himself in the middle of a meal, with a
parlourmaid handing dishes round and listening.</p>
<p>But there was an awkward little moment when Miss
Entwhistle tearfully wondered—she was eating blanc-mange,
the last of a series of cold and pallid dishes with
which the imaginative cook, a woman of Celtic origin,
had expressed her respectful appreciation of the occasion—whether
when the will was read it wouldn't be found
that Jim had appointed Mr. Wemyss poor Lucy's
guardian.</p>
<p>'I am—dear me, how very hard it is to remember
to say I was—my dear brother's only relative. We
belong—belonged—to an exiguous family, and naturally
I'm no longer as young as I was. There is only—was
only—a year between Jim and me, and at any moment
I may be——'</p>
<p>Here Miss Entwhistle was interrupted by a sob, and
had to put down her spoon.</p>
<p>'—taken,' she finished after a moment, during which
the other two sat silent.</p>
<p>'When this happens,' she went on presently, a little
recovered, 'poor Lucy will be without any one, unless
Jim thought of this and has appointed a guardian.
You, Mr. Wemyss, I hope and expect.'</p>
<p>Neither Lucy nor Wemyss spoke. There was the
parlourmaid hovering, and one couldn't anyhow go
into explanations now which ought to have been made
four days ago.</p>
<p>A dead-white cheese was handed round,—something
local probably, for it wasn't any form of cheese with
which Wemyss was acquainted, and the meal ended
with cups of intensely black cold coffee. And all these
carefully thought-out expressions of the cook's sympathy
were lost on the three, who noticed nothing; certainly
they noticed nothing in the way the cook had intended.
Wemyss was privately a little put out by the coffee
being cold. He had eaten all the other clammy things
patiently, but a man likes his after-dinner coffee hot,
and it was new in his experience to have it served cold.
He did notice this, and was surprised that neither of
his companions appeared to. But there,—women were
notoriously insensitive to food; on this point the best
of them were unintelligent, and the worst of them were
impossible. Vera had been awful about it; he had had
to do all the ordering of the meals himself at last, and
also the engaging of the cooks.</p>
<p>He got up from the table to open the door for the
ladies feeling inwardly chilled, feeling, as he put it to
himself, slabby inside; and, left alone with a dish of
black plums and some sinister-looking wine in a decanter,
which he avoided because when he took hold of it ice
clinked, he rang the bell as unobtrusively as he could
and asked the parlourmaid in a subdued voice, the
French window to the garden being open and in the
garden being Lucy and her aunt, whether there were
such a thing in the house as a whisky and soda.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid, who was a nice-looking girl and
much more at home, as she herself was the first to admit,
with gentlemen than with ladies, brought it him, and
inquired how he had liked the dinner.</p>
<p>'Not at all,' said Wemyss, whose mind on that point
was clear.</p>
<p>'No sir,' said the parlourmaid, nodding sympathetically.
'No sir.'</p>
<p>She then explained in a discreet whisper, also with
one eye on the open window, how the dinner hadn't
been an ordinary dinner and it wasn't expected that it
should be enjoyed, but it was the cook's tribute to her
late master's burial day,—a master they had only known
a week, sad to say, but to whom they had both taken
a great fancy, he being so pleasant-spoken and all for
giving no trouble.</p>
<p>Wemyss listened, sipping the comforting drink and
smoking a cigar.</p>
<p>Very different, said the parlourmaid, who seemed glad
to talk, would the dinner have been if the cook hadn't
liked the poor gentleman. Why, in one place where she
and the cook were together, and the lady was taken
just as the cook would have given notice if she hadn't
been because she was such a very dishonest and unpunctual
lady, besides not knowing her place—no lady,
of course, and never was—when she was taken, not
sudden like this poor gentleman but bit by bit, on the
day of her funeral the cook sent up a dinner you'd never
think of,—she was like that, all fancy. Lucky it was
that the family didn't read between the lines, for it
began with fried soles——</p>
<p>The parlourmaid paused, her eye anxiously on the
window. Wemyss sat staring at her.</p>
<p>'Did you say fried soles?' he asked, staring at her.</p>
<p>'Yes sir. Fried soles. I didn't see anything in
that either at first. It's how you spell it makes the
difference, Cook said. And the next course was'—her
voice dropped almost to inaudibleness—'devilled
bones.'</p>
<p>Wemyss hadn't so much as smiled for nearly a fortnight,
and now to his horror, for what could it possibly
sound like to the two mourners on the lawn, he gave a
sudden dreadful roar of laughter. He could hear it
sounding hideous himself.</p>
<p>The noise he made horrified the parlourmaid as
much as it did him. She flew to the window and shut
it. Wemyss, in his effort to strangle the horrid thing,
choked and coughed, his table-napkin up to his face,
his body contorted. He was very red, and the parlourmaid
watched him in terror. He had seemed at first
to be laughing, though what Uncle Wemyss (thus did
he figure in the conversations of the kitchen) could see
to laugh at in the cook's way of getting her own back,
the parlourmaid, whose flesh had crept when she first
heard the story, couldn't understand; but presently
she feared he wasn't laughing at all but was being, in
some very robust way, ill. Dread seized her, deaths
being on her mind, lest perhaps here in the chair, so
convulsively struggling behind a table-napkin, were
the beginnings of yet another corpse. Having flown
to shut the window she now flew to open it, and
ran out panic-stricken into the garden to fetch the
ladies.</p>
<p>This cured Wemyss. He got up quickly, leaving
his half-smoked cigar and his half-drunk whisky, and
followed her out just in time to meet Lucy and her aunt
hurrying across the lawn towards the dining-room
window.</p>
<p>'I choked,' he said, wiping his eyes, which indeed
were very wet.</p>
<p>'Choked?' repeated Miss Entwhistle anxiously.
'We heard a most strange noise——'</p>
<p>'That was me choking,' said Wemyss. 'It's all
right—it's nothing at all,' he added to Lucy, who was
looking at him with a face of extreme concern.</p>
<p>But he felt now that he had had about as much of
the death and funeral atmosphere as he could stand.
Reaction had set in, and his reactions were strong. He
wanted to get away from woe, to be with normal,
cheerful people again, to have done with conditions in
which a laugh was the most improper of sounds. Here
he was, being held down by the head, he felt, in a black
swamp,—first that ghastly business of Vera's, and now
this woebegone family.</p>
<p>Sudden and violent was Wemyss's reaction, let loose
by the parlourmaid's story. Miss Entwhistle's swollen
eyes annoyed him. Even Lucy's pathetic face made
him impatient. It was against nature, all this. It
shouldn't be allowed to go on, it oughtn't to be encouraged.
Heaven alone knew how much he had
suffered, how much more he had suffered than the
Entwhistles with their perfectly normal sorrow, and if
he could feel it was high time now to think of other
things surely the Entwhistles could. He was tired of
funerals. He had carried this one through really
brilliantly from start to finish, but now it was over and
done with, and he wished to get back to naturalness.
Death seemed to him highly unnatural. The mere fact
that it only happened once to everybody showed how
exceptional it was, thought Wemyss, thoroughly disgusted
with it. Why couldn't he and the Entwhistles
go off somewhere to-morrow, away from this place
altogether, go abroad for a bit, to somewhere cheerful,
where nobody knew them and nobody would expect
them to go about with long faces all day? Ostend, for
instance? His mood of sympathy and gentleness had
for the moment quite gone. He was indignant that
there should be circumstances under which a man felt
as guilty over a laugh as over a crime. A natural person
like himself looked at things wholesomely. It was
healthy and proper to forget horrors, to dismiss them
from one's mind. If convention, that offspring of
cruelty and hypocrisy, insisted that one's misfortunes
should be well rubbed in, that one should be forced to
smart under them, and that the more one was seen to
wince the more one was regarded as behaving creditably,—if
convention insisted on this, and it did insist, as
Wemyss had been experiencing himself since Vera's
accident, why then it ought to be defied. He had
found he couldn't defy it by himself, and came away
solitary and wretched in accordance with what it
expected, but he felt quite different now that he had
Lucy and her aunt as trusting friends who looked up to
him, who had no doubts of him and no criticisms.
Health of mind had come back to him,—his own natural
wholesomeness, which had never deserted him in his
life till this shocking business of Vera's.</p>
<p>'I'd like to have some sensible talk with you,' he
said, looking down at the two small black figures and
solemn tired faces that were growing dim and wraith-like
in the failing light of the garden.</p>
<p>'With me or with Lucy?' asked Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>By this time they both hung on his possible wishes,
and watched him with the devout attentiveness of a
pair of dogs.</p>
<p>'With you and with Lucy,' said Wemyss, smiling
at the upturned faces. He felt very conscious of being
the male, of being in command.</p>
<p>It was the first time he had called her Lucy. To Miss
Entwhistle it seemed a matter of course, but Lucy
herself flushed with pleasure, and again had the feeling
of being taken care of and safe. Sad as she was at the
end of that sad day, she still was able to notice how nice
her very ordinary name sounded in this kind man's voice.
She wondered what his own name was, and hoped it
was something worthy of him,—not Albert, for instance.</p>
<p>'Shall we go into the drawing-room?' asked Miss
Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'Why not to the mulberry tree?' said Wemyss, who
naturally wished to hold Lucy's little hand if possible,
and could only do that in the dark.</p>
<p>So they sat there as they had sat other nights,
Wemyss in the middle, and Lucy's hand, when it got
dark enough, held close and comfortingly in his.</p>
<p>'This little girl,' he began, 'must get the roses back
into her cheeks.'</p>
<p>'Indeed, indeed she must,' agreed Miss Entwhistle,
a catch in her voice at the mere reminder of the absence
of Lucy's roses, and consequently of what had driven
them away.</p>
<p>'How do you propose to set about it?' asked
Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Time,' gulped Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'Time?'</p>
<p>'And patience. We must wait we must both wait
p-patiently till time has s-softened——'</p>
<p>She hastily pulled out her handkerchief.</p>
<p>'No, no,' said Wemyss, 'I don't at all agree. It
isn't natural, it isn't reasonable to prolong sorrow.
You'll forgive plain words, Miss Entwhistle, but I don't
know any others, and I say it isn't right to wallow—yes,
wallow—in sorrow. Far from being patient one
should be impatient. One shouldn't wait resignedly for
time to help one, one should up and take time by the
forelock. In cases of this kind, and believe me I know
what I'm talking about'—it was here that his hand, the
one on the further side from Miss Entwhistle, descended
gently on Lucy's, and she made a little movement closer
up to him—'it is due to oneself to refuse to be knocked
out. Courage, spirit, is what one must aim at,—setting
an example.'</p>
<p>Ah, how wonderful he was, thought Lucy; so big,
so brave, so simple, and so tragically recently himself
the victim of the most awful of catastrophes. There
was something burly about his very talk. Her darling
father and his friends had talked quite differently.
Their talk used to seem as if it ran about the room like
liquid fire, it was so quick and shining; often it was
quite beyond her till her father afterwards, when she
asked him, explained it, put it more simply for her,
eager as he always was that she should share and understand.
She could understand every word of Wemyss's.
When he spoke she hadn't to strain, to listen with all her
might; she hardly had to think at all. She found this
immensely reposeful in her present state.</p>
<p>'Yes,' murmured Miss Entwhistle into her handkerchief,
'yes—you're quite right, Mr. Wemyss—one ought—it
would be more—more heroic. But then if one—if
one has loved some one very tenderly—as I did my
dear brother—and Lucy her most precious father——'</p>
<p>She broke off and wiped her eyes.</p>
<p>'Perhaps,' she finished, 'you haven't ever loved
anybody very—very particularly and lost them.'</p>
<p>'Oh,' breathed Lucy at that, and moved still closer
to him.</p>
<p>Wemyss was deeply injured. Why should Miss
Entwhistle suppose he had never particularly loved
anybody? He seemed, on looking back, to have loved
a great deal. Certainly he had loved Vera with the
utmost devotion till she herself wore it down. He indignantly
asked himself what this maiden lady could
know of love.</p>
<p>But there was Lucy's little hand, so clinging, so
understanding, nestling in his. It soothed him.</p>
<p>There was a pause. Then he said, very gravely,
'My wife died only a fortnight ago.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle was crushed. 'Ah,' she cried, 'but
you must forgive me——'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>V</h2>
<p>Nevertheless he was not able to persuade her to join
him, with Lucy, in a trip abroad. She was tirelessly
concerned to do and say everything she could that
showed her deep sympathy with him in his loss—he had
told her nothing beyond the bare fact, and she was not
one to read about inquests—and her deep sense of
obligation to him that he, labouring under so great a
burden of sorrow of his own, should have helped them
with such devotion and unselfishness in theirs; but
she wouldn't go abroad. She was going, she said, to her
little house in London with Lucy.</p>
<p>'What, in August?' exclaimed Wemyss.</p>
<p>Yes, they would be quiet there, and indeed they
were both worn out and only wished for solitude.</p>
<p>'Then why not stay here?' asked Wemyss, who
now considered Lucy's aunt selfish. 'This is solitary
enough, in all conscience.'</p>
<p>No, they neither of them felt they could bear to
stay in that house. Lucy must go to the place least
connected in her mind with her father. Indeed, indeed
it was best. She did so understand and appreciate
Mr. Wemyss's wonderful and unselfish motives in
suggesting the continent, but she and Lucy were in that
state when the idea of an hotel and waiters and a band
was simply impossible to them, and all they wished was
to creep into the quiet and privacy of their own nest,—'Like
wounded birds,' said poor Miss Entwhistle,
looking up at him with much the piteous expression
of a dog lifting an injured paw.</p>
<p>'It's very bad for Lucy to be encouraged to think
she's a wounded bird,' said Wemyss, controlling his
disappointment as best he could.</p>
<p>'You must come and see us in London and help us
to feel heroic,' said Miss Entwhistle, with a watery
smile.</p>
<p>'But I can come and see you much better and easier
if you're here,' persisted Wemyss.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle, however, though watery, was
determined. She refused to stay where she so conveniently
was, and Wemyss now considered Lucy's aunt
obstinate as well as selfish. Also he thought her very
ungrateful. She had made use of him, and now was
going to leave him, without apparently giving him a
thought, in the lurch.</p>
<p>He was having a good deal of Miss Entwhistle,
because during the two days that came after the funeral
Lucy was practically invisible, engaged in collecting and
packing her father's belongings. Wemyss hung about
the garden, not knowing when these activities mightn't
suddenly cease and not wishing to miss her if she did
come out, and Miss Entwhistle, who couldn't help Lucy
in this—no one could help her in the heart-breaking
work—naturally joined him.</p>
<p>He found these two days long. Miss Entwhistle felt
there was a great bond between herself and him, and
Wemyss felt there wasn't. When she said there was
he had difficulty in not contradicting her. Not only,
Miss Entwhistle felt, and also explained, was there the
bond of their dear Jim, whom both she and Mr. Wemyss
had so much loved, but there was this communion of
sorrow,—the loss of his wife, the loss of her brother,
within the same fortnight.</p>
<p>Wemyss shut his mouth tight at this and said nothing.</p>
<p>How natural for her, feeling so sorry for him, feeling
so grateful to him, when from a window during those
two days she beheld him sitting solitary beneath the
mulberry tree, to go down and sit there with him; how
natural that, when he got up, made restless, she supposed,
by his memories, and began to pace the lawn, she should
get up and sympathetically pace it too. She could not
let this kind, tender-hearted man—he must be that, or
Jim wouldn't have been fond of him, besides she had
seen it for herself in the way he had helped her and
Lucy—she could not let him be alone with his sad
thoughts. And he had a double burden of sad thoughts,
a double loss to bear, for he had lost her dear brother as
well as his poor wife.</p>
<p>All Entwhistles were compassionate, and as she and
Wemyss sat together or together paced, she kept up a
flow of gentle loving-kindness. Wemyss smoked his
pipe in practically unbroken silence. This was his way
when he was holding on to himself. Miss Entwhistle
of course didn't know he was holding on to himself, and
taking his silence for the inarticulateness of deep unhappiness
was so much touched that she would have
done anything for him, anything that might bring this
poor, kind, suffering fellow-creature comfort—except
go to Ostend. From that dreadful suggestion she
continued to shudder away; nor, though he tried
again, even after all arrangements for leaving Cornwall
had been made, would she be persuaded to stay where
she was.</p>
<p>Therefore Wemyss was forced to conclude that she
was obstinate as well as selfish; and if it hadn't been
for the brief moments at meals when Lucy appeared,
and through her unhappiness—what she was doing was
obviously depressing her very much—smiled faintly at
him and always went and sat as near him as she could,
he would have found these two days intolerable.</p>
<p>How atrocious, he thought, while he smoked in
silence and held on to himself, that Lucy should be
taken away from him by a mere maiden lady, an aunt,
an unmarried aunt,—weakest and most negligible, surely,
of all relatives. How atrocious that such a person
should have any right to come between him and Lucy, to
say she wouldn't do this, that, or the other that Wemyss
proposed, and thus possess the power to make him
unhappy. Miss Entwhistle was so little that he could
have brushed her aside with the back of one hand; yet
here again the strong monster public opinion stepped in
and forced him to acquiesce in any plan she chose to
make for Lucy, however desolate it left him, merely
because she stood to her in the anæmic relationship of
aunt.</p>
<p>During two mortal days, as he waited about in that
garden so grievously infested by Miss Entwhistle,
sounds of boxes being moved and drawers being opened
and shut came through the windows, but except at
meals there was no Lucy. He could have borne it if
he hadn't known they were the very last days he would
be with her, but as things were it seemed cruel that he
should be left like that to be miserable. Why should
he be left like that to be miserable, just because of a lot
of clothes and papers? he asked himself; and he felt
he was getting thoroughly tired of Jim.</p>
<p>'Haven't you done yet?' he said at tea on the second
afternoon of this sorting out and packing, when Lucy
got up to go indoors again, leaving him with Miss
Entwhistle, even before he had finished his second cup
of tea.</p>
<p>'You've no idea what a lot there is,' she said, her
voice sounding worn out; and she lingered a moment,
her hand on the back of her aunt's chair. 'Father
brought all his notes with him, and heaps and heaps of
letters from people he was consulting, and I'm trying
to get them straight—get them as he would have
wished——'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle put up her hand and stroked Lucy's
arm.</p>
<p>'If you weren't in this hurry to go away you'd have
had more time and done it comfortably,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Oh, but I don't want more time,' said Lucy quickly.</p>
<p>'Lucy means she couldn't bear it drawn out,' said
Miss Entwhistle, leaning her thin cheek against Lucy's
sleeve. 'These things—they tear one's heart. And
nobody can help her. She has to go through with it
alone.' And she drew Lucy's face down to hers and
held it there a moment, gently stroking it, the tears
brimming up again in the eyes of both.</p>
<p>Always tears, thought Wemyss. Yes, and there
always would be tears as long as that aunt had hold of
Lucy. She was the arch-wallower, he told himself,
filling his pipe in silence after Lucy had gone in.</p>
<p>He got up and went out at the gate and crossed the
road and stood staring at the evening sea. Should he
hear steps coming after him and Miss Entwhistle were
to follow him even beyond the garden, he would proceed
without looking round down to the cove and to the inn,
where she must needs leave him alone. He had had
enough. That Miss Entwhistle should explain to him
what Lucy meant, he considered to be the last straw
of her behaviour. Barging in, he said indignantly to
himself; barging in when nobody had asked her opinion
or explanation of anything. And she had stroked Lucy's
face as though Lucy and her face and everything about
her belonged to her, merely because she happened to be
her aunt. Fancy explaining to him what Lucy really
meant, taking upon herself the functions of interpreter,
of go-between, when for a whole day and a half before
she appeared on the scene—and she had only appeared
on it at all thanks to his telegram—Lucy and he had
been in the closest fellowship, the closest communion....</p>
<p>Well, things couldn't go on like this. He was not the
man to be dominated by a relative. If he had lived
in those sensible ancient days when people behaved
wholesomely, he would have flung Lucy over his shoulder
and walked off with her to Ostend or Paris and laughed
at such insects as aunts. He couldn't do that unfortunately,
though where the harm would be in two
mourners like himself and Lucy going together in search
of relief he must say he was unable to see. Why should
they be condemned to search for relief separately?
Their sorrows, surely, would be their chaperone,
especially his sorrow. Nobody would object to Lucy's
nursing him, supposing he were dangerously ill; why
should she not be equally beyond the reach of tongues if
she nursed the bitter wounds of his spirit?</p>
<p>He heard steps coming down the garden path to the
gate. There, he thought, was the aunt again, searching
for him, and he stood squarely and firmly with his back
to the road, smoking his pipe and staring at the sea. If
he heard the gate open and she dared to come through
it he would instantly walk away. In the garden he
had to endure being joined by her, because there he was
in the position of guest; but let her try to join him on
the King's highway!</p>
<p>Nobody opened the gate, however, and, as he heard
no retreating footsteps either, after a minute he began
to want to look round. He struggled against this wish,
because the moment Miss Entwhistle caught his eye
she would come out to him, he felt sure. But Wemyss
was not much good at struggling against his wishes,—he
usually met with defeat; and after briefly doing so
on this occasion he did look round. And what a good
thing he did, for it was Lucy.</p>
<p>There she was, leaning on the gate just as she had
been that first morning, but this time her eyes instead of
being wide and blank were watching him with a deep
and touching interest.</p>
<p>He got across the road in one stride. 'Lucy!' he
exclaimed. 'You? Why didn't you call me? We've
wasted half an hour——'</p>
<p>'About two minutes,' she said, smiling up at him as
he, on the other side of the gate, folded both her hands
in his just as he had done that first morning; and the
relief it was to Wemyss to see her again alone, to see
that smile of trust and—surely—content in getting back
to him!</p>
<p>Then her face went grave again. 'I've finished
father's things now,' she said, 'and so I came to look
for you.'</p>
<p>'Lucy, how can you leave me,' was Wemyss's answer
to that, his voice vibrating, 'how can you go away from
me to-morrow and hand me over again to the torments—yes,
torments, I was in before?'</p>
<p>'But I have to go,' she said, distressed. 'And you
mustn't say that. You mustn't let yourself be like that
again. You won't be, I know—you're so brave and
strong.'</p>
<p>'Not without you. I'm nothing without you,' said
Wemyss; and his eyes, as he searched hers, were full of
tears.</p>
<p>At this Lucy flushed, and then, staring at him, her
face went slowly white. These words of his, the way
he said them, reminded her—oh no, it wasn't possible;
he and she stood in a relationship to each other like
none, she was sure, that had ever yet been. It was
an intimacy arrived at at a bound, with no preliminary
steps. It was a holy thing, based on mutual grief,
protected from everything ordinary by the great wings
of Death. He was her wonderful friend, big in his
simplicity, all care for her and goodness, a very rock
of refuge and shelter in the wilderness she had been
flung into when he found her. And that he, bleeding
as he was himself from the lacerations of the violent
rending asunder from his wife to whom he had been,
as he had told her, devoted, that he should—oh no,
it wasn't possible; and she hung her head, shocked at
her thoughts. For the way he had said those words,
and the words themselves had reminded her—no, she
could hardly bear to think it, but they <i>had</i> reminded
her of the last time she had been proposed to. The
man—he was a young man; she had never been
proposed to by any one even approximately Wemyss's
age—had said almost exactly that: Without you I am
nothing. And just in that same deep, vibrating voice.</p>
<p>How dreadful thoughts could be, Lucy said to herself,
overcome that such a one at such a moment should
thrust itself into her mind. Hateful of her, hateful....</p>
<p>She hung her head in shame; and Wemyss, looking
down at the little bobbed head with its bright, thick
young hair bent over their folded hands as though
it were saying its prayers,—Wemyss, not having his
pipe in his mouth to protect him and help him to hold
on to himself, for he had hastily stuffed it in his pocket,
all alight as it was, when he saw her at the gate, and
there at that moment it was burning holes,—Wemyss,
after a brief struggle with his wishes, in which as usual
he was defeated, stooped and began to kiss Lucy's hair.
And having begun, he continued.</p>
<p>She was horrified. At the first kiss she started as if
she had been hit, and then, clinging to the gate, she
stood without moving, without being able to think
or lift her head, in the same attitude bowed over his
and her own hands, while this astonishing thing was
being done to her hair. Death all round them, death
pervading every corner of their lives, death in its
blackest shape brooding over him, and—kisses. Her
mind, if anything so gentle could be said to be in anything
that sounds so loud, was in an uproar. She had
had the complete, guileless trust in him of a child
for a tender and sympathetic friend,—a friend, not
a father, though he was old enough to be her father,
because in a father, however much hidden by sweet
comradeship as it had been in hers, there always at
the back of everything was, after all, authority. And
it had been even more than the trust of a child in its
friend: it had been the trust of a child in a fellow-child
hit by the same punishment,—a simple fellowship,
a wordless understanding.</p>
<p>She hung on to the gate while her thoughts flew
about in confusion within her. These kisses—and his
wife just dead—and dead so terribly—how long would
she have to stand there with this going on—she
couldn't lift up her head, for then she felt it would only
get worse—she couldn't turn and run into the house,
because he was holding her hands. He oughtn't to
have—oh, he oughtn't to have—it wasn't fair....</p>
<p>Then—what was he saying? She heard him say,
in an absolutely broken voice, laying his head on hers,
'We two poor things—we two poor things'—and then
he said and did nothing more, but kept his head like
that, and presently, thick though her hair was, through
it came wetness.</p>
<p>At that Lucy's thoughts suddenly stopped flying
about and were quite still. Her heart went to wax
within her, melted again into pity, into a great flood
of pitiful understanding. The dreadfulness of lonely
grief.... Was there anything in the world so blackly
desolate as to be left alone in grief? This poor broken
fellow-creature—and she herself, so lost, so lost in
loneliness—they were two half-drowned things, clinging
together in a shipwreck—how could she let him go,
leave him to himself—how could she be let go, left to
herself....</p>
<p>'Lucy,' he said, 'look at me——'</p>
<p>She lifted her head. He loosed her hands, and put
his arms round her shoulders.</p>
<p>'Look at me,' he said; for though she had lifted her
head she hadn't lifted her eyes.</p>
<p>She looked at him. Tears were on his face. When
she saw them her mouth began to quiver and twitch.
She couldn't bear that.</p>
<p>'Lucy——' he said again.</p>
<p>She shut her eyes. 'Yes'—she breathed, 'yes.'
And with one hand she felt along up his coat till she
reached his face, and shakingly tried to brush away
its tears.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>VI</h2>
<p>After that, for the moment anyhow, it was all over
with Lucy. She was engulfed. Wemyss kissed her shut
eyes, he kissed her parted lips, he kissed her dear,
delightful bobbed hair. His tears dried up; or rather,
wiped away by her little blind, shaking hand, there
were no more of them. Death for Wemyss was indeed
at that moment swallowed up in victory. Instantly
he passed from one mood to the other, and when she
finally did open her eyes at his orders and look at him,
she saw bending over her a face she hardly recognised,
for she had not yet seen him happy. Happy! How
could he be happy, as happy as that all in a moment?
She stared at him, and even through her confusion, her
bewilderment, was frankly amazed.</p>
<p>Then the thought crept into her mind that it was
she who had done this, it was she who had transformed
him, and her stare softened into a gaze almost of awe,
with something of the look in it of a young mother
when she first sees her new-born baby. 'So that is
what it is like,' the young mother whispers to herself
in a sort of holy surprise, 'and I have made it, and it
is mine'; and so, gazing at this new, effulgent Wemyss,
did Lucy say to herself with the same feeling of wonder,
of awe at her own handiwork, 'So that is what he
is like.'</p>
<p>Wemyss's face was indeed one great beam. He
simply at that moment couldn't remember that he had
ever been miserable. He seemed to have his arms
round Love itself; for never did any one look more
like the very embodiment of his idea of love than Lucy
then as she gazed up at him, so tender, so resistless.
But there were even more wonderful moments after
dinner in the darkening garden, while Miss Entwhistle
was upstairs packing ready to start by the early train
next morning, and they hadn't got the gate between
them, and Lucy of her own accord laid her cheek against
his coat, nestling her head into it as though there indeed
she knew that she was safe.</p>
<p>'My baby—my baby,' Wemyss murmured, in an
ecstasy of passionate protectiveness, in his turn flooded
by maternal feeling. 'You shall never cry again
never, never.'</p>
<p>It irked him that their engagement—Lucy demurred
at first to the word engagement, but Wemyss, holding
her tight in his arms, said he would very much like to
know, then, by what word she would describe her
position at that moment—it irked him that it had to
be a secret. He wanted instantly to shout out to the
whole world his glory and his pride. But this under
the tragic circumstances of their mourning was even to
Wemyss clearly impossible. Generally he brushed aside
the word impossible if it tried to come between him
and the smallest of his wishes, but that inquest was
still too vividly in his mind, and the faces of his so-called
friends. What the faces of his so-called friends would
look like if he, before Vera had been dead a fortnight,
should approach them with the news of his engagement
even Wemyss, a person not greatly imaginative, could
picture. And Lucy, quite overwhelmed, first by his
tears and then by his joy, no longer could judge anything.
She no longer knew whether it were very awful
to be love-making in the middle of death, or whether
it were, as Wemyss said, the natural glorious self-assertiveness
of life. She knew nothing any more
except that he and she, shipwrecked, had saved each
other, and that for the moment nothing was required
of her, no exertion, nothing at all, except to sit passive
with her head on his breast, while he called her his
baby and softly, wonderfully, kissed her closed eyes.
She couldn't think; she needn't think; oh, she was
tired—and this was rest.</p>
<p>But after he had gone that night, and all the next
day in the train without him, and for the first few days
in London, misgivings laid hold of her.</p>
<p>That she should be being made love to, be engaged,
as Wemyss insisted, within a week of her father's death,
could not, she thought, be called anything worse than
possibly and at the outside an irrelevance. It did no
harm to her father's dear memory; it in no way
encroached on her adoration of him. He would have
been the first to be pleased that she should have found
comfort. But what worried her was that Everard—Wemyss's
Christian name was Everard—should be able
to think of such things as love and more marriage when
his wife had just died so awfully, and he on the very
spot, and he the first to rush out and see....</p>
<p>She found that the moment she was away from him
she couldn't get over this. It went round and round
in her head as a thing she was unable, by herself, to
understand. While she was with him he overpowered
her into a torpor, into a shutting of her eyes and her
thoughts, into just giving herself up, after the shocks
and agonies of the week, to the blessedness of a soothed
and caressed semi-consciousness; and it was only when
his first letters began to come, such simple, adoring
letters, taking the situation just as it was, just as life
and death between them had offered it, untroubled by
questioning, undimmed by doubt, with no looking
backward but with a touching, thankful acceptance of
the present, that she gradually settled down into that
placidity which was at once the relief and the astonishment
of her aunt. And his letters were so easy to
understand. They were so restfully empty of the
difficult thoughts and subtle, half-said things her father
used to write and all his friends. His very handwriting
was the round, slow handwriting of a boy. Lucy had
loved him before; but now she fell in love with him,
and it was because of his letters.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>VII</h2>
<p>Miss Entwhistle lived in a slim little house in Eaton
Terrace. It was one of those little London houses
where you go in and there's a dining-room, and you go
up and there's a drawing-room, and you go up again
and there's a bedroom and a dressing-room, and you go
up yet more and there's a maid's room and a bathroom,
and then that's all. For one person it was just enough;
for two it was difficult. It was so difficult that Miss
Entwhistle had never had any one stay with her before,
and the dressing-room had to be cleared out of all her
clothes and toques, which then had nowhere to go to
and became objects that you met at night hanging over
banisters or perched with an odd air of dashingness on
the ends of the bath, before Lucy could go in.</p>
<p>But no Entwhistle ever minded things like that. No
trouble seemed to any of them too great to take for a
friend; while as for one's own dear niece, if only she
could have been induced to take the real bedroom and
let her aunt, who knew the dressing-room's ways, sleep
there instead, that aunt—on such liberal principles was
this family constructed—would have been perfectly
happy.</p>
<p>Lucy, of course, only smiled at that suggestion, and
inserted herself neatly into the dressing-room, and the
first weeks of their mourning, which Miss Entwhistle
had dreaded for them both, proceeded to flow by with
a calm, an unruffledness, that could best be described
by the word placid.</p>
<p>In that small house, unless the inhabitants were
accommodating and adaptable, daily life would be a
trial. Miss Entwhistle well knew Lucy would give no
trouble that she could help, but their both being in
such trouble themselves would, at such close quarters,
she had been afraid, inevitably keep their sorrow raw
by sheer rubbing against each other.</p>
<p>To her surprise and great relief nothing of the sort
happened. There seemed to be no rawness to rub.
Not only Lucy didn't fret—her white face and heavy
eyes of the days in Cornwall had gone—but she was
almost from the first placid. Just on leaving Cornwall,
and for a day or two after, she was a little <i>bouleversée</i>,
and had a curious kind of timidity in her manner to
her aunt, and crept rather than walked about the house,
but this gradually disappeared; and if Miss Entwhistle
hadn't known her, hadn't known of her terrible loss,
she would have said that here was some one who was
quietly happy. It was subdued, but there it was, as
if she had some private source of confidence and warmth.
Had she by any chance got religion? wondered her
aunt, who herself had never had it, and neither had
Jim, and neither had any Entwhistles she had ever
heard of. She dismissed that. It was too unlikely
for one of their breed. But even the frequent necessary
visits to the house in Bloomsbury she and her father
had lived in so long didn't quite blot out the odd effect
Lucy produced of being somehow inwardly secure.
Presently, when these sad settlings up were done with,
and the books and furniture stored, and the house
handed over to the landlord, and she no longer had to
go to it and be among its memories, her face became
what it used to be,—delicately coloured, softly rounded,
ready to light up at a word, at a look.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle was puzzled. This serenity of the
one who was, after all, chief mourner, made her feel it
would be ridiculous if she outdid Lucy in grief. If
Lucy could pull herself together so marvellously—and
she supposed it must be that, it must be that she was
heroically pulling herself together—she for her part
wouldn't be behindhand. Her darling Jim's memory
should be honoured, then, like this: she would bless
God for him, bless God that she had had him, and
in a high thankfulness continue cheerfully on her
way.</p>
<p>Such were some of Miss Entwhistle's reflections and
conclusions as she considered Lucy. She seemed to
have no thought of the future,—again to her aunt's
surprise and relief, who had been afraid she would very
soon begin to worry about what she was to do next.
She never talked of it; she never apparently thought
of it. She seemed to be—yes, that was the word,
decided Miss Entwhistle observing her—resting. But
resting on what? A second time Miss Entwhistle
dismissed the idea of religion. Impossible, she thought,
that Jim's girl,—yet it did look very like religion.</p>
<p>There was, it appeared, enough money left scraped
together by Jim for Lucy in case of his death to produce
about two hundred pounds a year. This wasn't much;
but Lucy apparently didn't give it a thought. Probably
she didn't realise what it meant, thought her aunt,
because of her life with her father having been so easy,
surrounded by all those necessities for an invalid which
were, in fact, to ordinary people luxuries. No one had
been appointed her guardian. There was no mention
of Mr. Wemyss in the will. It was a very short will,
leaving everything to Lucy. This, as far as it went,
was admirable, thought Miss Entwhistle, but
unfortunately there was hardly anything to leave. Except
books; thousands of books, and the old charming
furniture of the Bloomsbury house. Well, Lucy should
live with her for as long as she could endure the dressing-room,
and perhaps they might take a house together a
little less tiny, though Miss Entwhistle had lived in
the one she was in for so long that it wouldn't be very
easy for her to leave it.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the first weeks of mourning slid by in an
increasing serenity, with London empty and no one
to intrude on what became presently distinctly
recognisable as happiness. She and Lucy agreed so
perfectly. And they weren't altogether alone either,
for Mr. Wemyss came regularly twice a week, coming
on the same days, and appearing so punctually on the
stroke of five that at last she began to set her clocks
by him.</p>
<p>He, too, poor man, seemed to be pulling himself
together. He had none of the air of the recently
bereaved, either in his features or his clothes. Not
that he wore coloured ties or anything like that, but
he certainly didn't produce an effect of blackness. His
trousers, she observed, were grey; and not a particularly
dark grey either. Well, perhaps it was no longer the
fashion, thought Miss Entwhistle, eyeing these trousers
with some doubt, to be very unhappy. But she couldn't
help thinking there ought to be a band on his left arm
to counteract the impression of light-heartedness in his
legs; a crape band, no matter how narrow, or a band
of black anything, not necessarily crape, such as she
was sure it was usual in these circumstances to wear.</p>
<p>However, whatever she felt about his legs she welcomed
him with the utmost cordiality, mindful of his
kindness to them down in Cornwall and of how she
had clung to him there as her rock; and she soon got
to remember the way he liked his tea, and had the
biggest chair placed comfortably ready for him—the
chairs were neither very big nor numerous in her spare
little drawing-room—and did all she could in the way
of hospitality and pleasant conversation. But the more
she saw of him, and the more she heard of his talk, the
more she wondered at Jim.</p>
<p>Mr. Wemyss was most good-natured, and she was
sure, and as she knew from experience, was most kind
and thoughtful; but the things he said were so very
unlike the things Jim said, and his way of looking at
things was so very unlike Jim's way. Not that there
wasn't room in the world for everybody, Miss Entwhistle
reminded herself, sitting at her tea-table observing
Wemyss, who looked particularly big and prosperous in
her small frugal room, and no doubt one star differed
from another in glory; still, she did wonder at Jim.
And if Mr. Wemyss could bear the loss of his wife to
the extent of grey trousers, how was it he couldn't
bear Jim's name so much as mentioned? Whenever
the talk got on to Jim—it couldn't be kept off him in
a circle composed of his daughter and his sister and his
friend—she noticed that Mr. Wemyss went silent. She
would have taken this for excess of sensibility and the
sign of a deep capacity for faithful devotion if it
hadn't been for those trousers. Faced by them, it
perplexed her.</p>
<p>While Miss Entwhistle was thinking like this and
observing Wemyss, who never observed her at all after
a first moment of surprise that she should look and
behave so differently from the liquid lady of the cottage
in Cornwall, that she should sit so straight and move
so briskly, he and Lucy were, though present in the
body, absent in love. Round them was drawn that
magic circle through which nobody and nothing can
penetrate, and within it they sat hand in hand and
safe. Lucy's whole heart was his. He only had to
come into the room for her to feel content. There was
a naturalness, a bigness about his way of looking at
things that made intricate, tormenting feelings shrink
away in his presence ashamed. Quite apart from her
love for him, her gratitude, her longing that he should
go on now being happy and forget his awful tragedy,
he was so very comfortable. She had never met any
one so comfortable to lean on mentally. Bodily, on
the few occasions on which her aunt was out of the
room, he was comfortable too; he reminded her of the
very nicest of sofas,—expensive ones, all cushions.
But mentally he was more than comfortable, he was
positively luxurious. Such perfect rest, listening to his
talk. No thinking needed. Things according to him
were either so, or so. With her father things had never
been either so, or so; and one had had to frown, and
concentrate, and make efforts to follow and understand
his distinctions, his infinitely numerous, delicate,
difficult distinctions. Everard's plain division of everything
into two categories only, snow-white and jet-black,
was as reposeful as the Roman church. She
hadn't got to strain or worry, she had only to surrender.
And to what love, to what safety! At night she couldn't
go to bed for thinking of how happy she was. She
would sit quite still in the little dressing-room, her
hands in her lap, and a proverb she had read somewhere
running in her head:</p>
<p>
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">When God shuts the door He opens the window.</span><br />
</p>
<p>Not for a moment, hardly, had she been left alone to
suffer. Instantly, almost, Everard had come into her
life and saved her. Lucy had indeed, as her aunt had
twice suspected, got religion, but her religion was
Wemyss. Ah, how she loved him! And every night
she slept with his last letter under her pillow on the
side of her heart.</p>
<p>As for Wemyss, if Lucy couldn't get over having
got him he couldn't get over having got Lucy. He
hadn't had such happiness as this, of this quality of
tenderness, of goodness, in his life before. What he
had felt for Vera had not at any time, he was sure,
even at the beginning, been like this. While for the last
few years—oh, well. Wemyss, when he found himself
thinking of Vera, pulled up short. He declined to think
of her now. She had filled his thoughts enough lately,
and how terribly. His little angel Lucy had healed
that wound, and there was no use in thinking of an old
wound; nobody healthy ever did that. He had explained
to Lucy, who at first had been a little morbid,
how wrong it is, how really wicked, besides being
intensely stupid, not to get over things. Life, he had
said, is for the living; let the dead have death. The
present is the only real possession a man has, whatever
clever people may say; and the wise man, who is also
the natural man of simple healthy instincts and a proper
natural shrinking from death and disease, does not
allow the past, which after all anyhow is done for,
to intrude upon, much less spoil, the present. That
is what, he explained, the past will always do if
it can. The only safe way to deal with it is to
forget it.</p>
<p>'But I don't want to forget mine,' Lucy had said at
that, opening her eyes, which as usual had been shut,
because the commas of Wemyss's talk with her when
they chanced to be alone were his soothing, soporific
kisses dropped gently on her closed eyelids.
'Father——'</p>
<p>'Oh, you may remember yours,' he had answered,
smiling tenderly down at the head lying on his breast.
'It's such a little one. But you'll see when you're
older if your Everard wasn't right.'</p>
<p>To Wemyss in his new happiness it seemed that Vera
had belonged to another life altogether, an elderly, stale
life from which, being healthy-minded, he had managed
to unstick himself and to emerge born again all new and
fresh and fitted for the present. She was forty when
she died. She had started life five years younger than
he was, but had quickly caught him up and passed him,
and had ended, he felt, by being considerably his senior.
And here was Lucy, only twenty-two anyhow, and
looking like twelve. The contrast never ceased to
delight him, to fill him with pride. And how pretty
she was, now that she had left off crying. He adored
her bobbed hair that gave her the appearance of a child
or a very young boy, and he adored the little delicate
lines of her nose and nostrils, and her rather big, kind
mouth that so easily smiled, and her sweet eyes, the
colour of Love-in-a-Mist. Not that he set any store
by prettiness, he told himself; all he asked in a woman
was devotion. But her being pretty would make it
only the more exciting when the moment came to show
her to his friends, to show his little girl to those friends
who had dared slink away from him after Vera's death,
and say, 'Look here—look at this perfect little
thing—<i>she</i> believes in me all right!'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>VIII</h2>
<p>London being empty, Wemyss had it all his own way.
No one else was there to cut him out, as his expression
was. Lucy had many letters with offers of every kind
of help from her father's friends, but naturally she
needed no help and had no wish to see anybody in her
present condition of secret contentment, and she replied
to them with thanks and vague expressions of hope that
later on they might all meet. One young man—he
was the one who often proposed to her—wasn't to be
put off like that, and journeyed all the way from Scotland,
so great was his devotion, and found out from the
caretaker of the Bloomsbury house that she was living
with her aunt, and called at Eaton Terrace. But that
afternoon Lucy and Miss Entwhistle were taking the
air in a car Wemyss had hired, and at the very moment
the young man was being turned away from the Eaton
Terrace door Lucy was being rowed about the river at
Hampton Court—very slowly, because of how soon
Wemyss got hot—and her aunt, leaning on the stone
parapet at the end of the Palace gardens, was observing
her. It was a good thing the young man wasn't observing
her too, for it wouldn't have made him happy.</p>
<p>'What is Mr. Wemyss?' asked Miss Entwhistle
unexpectedly that evening, just as they were going to
bed.</p>
<p>Lucy was taken aback. Her aunt hadn't asked a
question or said a thing about him up to then, except
general comments on his kindness and good-nature.</p>
<p>'What is Mr. Wemyss?' she repeated stupidly; for
she was not only taken aback, but also, she discovered,
she had no idea. It had never occurred to her even to
wonder what he was, much less to ask. She had been,
as it were, asleep the whole time in a perfect contentment
on his breast.</p>
<p>'Yes. What is he besides being a widower?' said
Miss Entwhistle. 'We know he's that, but it is hardly
a profession.'</p>
<p>'I—don't think I know,' said Lucy, looking and
feeling very stupid.</p>
<p>'Oh well, perhaps he isn't anything,' said her aunt
kissing her good-night. 'Except punctual,' she added,
smiling, pausing a moment at her bedroom door.</p>
<p>And two or three days later, when Wemyss had again
hired a car to take them for an outing to Windsor, while
she and Lucy were tidying themselves for tea in the
ladies' room of the hotel she turned from the looking-glass
in the act of pinning back some hair loosened by
motoring, and in spite of having a hairpin in her mouth
said, again suddenly, 'What did Mrs. Wemyss die of?'</p>
<p>This unnerved Lucy. If she had stared stupidly at
her aunt at the other question she stared aghast at her
at this one.</p>
<p>'What did she die of?' she repeated, flushing.</p>
<p>'Yes. What illness was it?' asked her aunt, continuing to pin.</p>
<p>'It—wasn't an illness,' said Lucy helplessly.</p>
<p>'Not an illness?'</p>
<p>'I—believe it was an accident.'</p>
<p>'An accident?' said Miss Entwhistle, taking the
hairpin out of her mouth and in her turn staring. 'What
sort of an accident?'</p>
<p>'I think a rather serious one,' said Lucy, completely
unnerved.</p>
<p>How could she bear to tell that dreadful story, the
knowledge of which seemed somehow so intimately to
bind her and Everard together with a sacred, terrible tie?</p>
<p>At that her aunt remarked that an accident resulting
in death would usually be described as serious, and asked
what its nature, apart from its seriousness, had been;
and Lucy, driven into a corner, feeling instinctively
that her aunt, who had already once or twice expressed
what she said was her surprised admiration for Mr.
Wemyss's heroic way of bearing his bereavement,
might be too admiringly surprised altogether if she knew
how tragically much he really had to bear, and might
begin to inquire into the reasons of this heroism, took
refuge in saying what she now saw she ought to have
begun by saying, even though it wasn't true, that she
didn't know.</p>
<p>'Ah,' said her aunt. 'Well—poor man. It's
wonderful how he bears things.' And again in her
mind's eye, and with an increased doubt, she saw the
grey trousers.</p>
<p>That day at tea Wemyss, with the simple naturalness
Lucy found so restful, the almost bald way he had
of talking frankly about things more sophisticated
people wouldn't have mentioned, began telling them of
the last time he had been at Windsor.</p>
<p>It was the summer before, he said, and he and his
wife—at this Miss Entwhistle became attentive—had
motored down one Sunday to lunch in that very room,
and it had been so much crowded, and the crowding
had been so monstrously mismanaged, that positively
they had had to go away without having had lunch at all.</p>
<p>'Positively without having had any lunch at all,'
repeated Wemyss, looking at them with a face full of
astonished aggrievement at the mere recollection.</p>
<p>'Ah,' said Miss Entwhistle, leaning across to him,
'don't let us revive sad memories.'</p>
<p>Wemyss stared at her. Good heavens, he thought,
did she think he was talking about Vera? Any one
with a grain of sense would know he was only talking
about the lunch he hadn't had.</p>
<p>He turned impatiently to Lucy, and addressed his
next remark to her. But in another moment there was
her aunt again.</p>
<p>'Mr. Wemyss,' she said, 'I've been dying to ask
you——'</p>
<p>Again he was forced to attend. The pure air and
rapid motion of the motoring intended to revive and
brace his little love were apparently reviving and
bracing his little love's aunt as well, for lately he had
been unable to avoid noticing a tendency on her part
to assert herself. During his first eight visits to Eaton
Terrace—that made four weeks since his coming back
to London and six since the funeral in Cornwall—he
had hardly known she was in the room; except, of
course, that she <i>was</i> in the room, completely hindering
his courting. During those eight visits his first impression
of her remained undisturbed in his mind: she was
a wailing creature who had hung round him in Cornwall
in a constant state of tears. Down there she had
behaved exactly like the traditional foolish woman when
there is a death about,—no common sense, no grit, crying
if you looked at her, and keeping up a continual dismal
recital of the virtues of the departed. Also she had
been obstinate; and she had, besides, shown
unmistakable signs of selfishness. When he paid his first
call in Eaton Terrace he did notice that she had
considerably, indeed completely, dried up, and was therefore
to that extent improved, but she still remained for
him just Lucy's aunt,—somebody who poured out the
tea, and who unfortunately hardly ever went out of the
room; a necessary, though luckily a transitory, evil.
But now it was gradually being borne in on him that she
really existed, on her own account, independently.
She asserted herself. Even when she wasn't saying
anything—and often she said hardly a word during an
entire outing—she still somehow asserted herself.</p>
<p>And here she was asserting herself very much indeed,
and positively asking him across a tea-table which was
undoubtedly for the moment his, asking him straight
out what, if anything, he did in the way of a trade,
profession or occupation.</p>
<p>She was his guest, and he regarded it as less than
seemly for a guest to ask a host what he did. Not that
he wouldn't gladly have told her if it had come from
him of his own accord. Surely a man has a right, he
thought, to his own accord. At all times Wemyss
disliked being asked questions. Even the most innocent,
ordinary question appeared to him to be an encroachment
on the right he surely had to be let alone.</p>
<p>Lucy's aunt between sips of tea—his tea—pretended,
pleasantly it is true, and clothing what could be nothing
but idle curiosity in words that were not disagreeable,
that she was dying to know what he was. She could
see for herself, she said, smiling down at the leg nearest
her, that he wasn't a bishop, she was sure he wasn't
either a painter, musician or writer, but she wouldn't
be in the least surprised if he were to tell her he was an
admiral.</p>
<p>Wemyss thought this intelligent of the aunt. He
had no objection to being taken for an admiral; they
were an honest, breezy lot.</p>
<p>Placated, he informed her that he was on the Stock
Exchange.</p>
<p>'Ah,' nodded Miss Entwhistle, looking wise because
on this subject she so completely wasn't, the Stock
Exchange being an institution whose nature and operations
were alien to anything the Entwhistles were
familiar with; 'ah yes. Quite. Bulls and bears.
Now I come to look at it, you have the Stock
Exchange eye.'</p>
<p>'Foolish woman,' thought Wemyss, who for some
reason didn't like being told before Lucy that he had
the Stock Exchange eye; and he dismissed her impatiently
from his mind and concentrated on his little
love, asking himself while he did so how short he could,
with any sort of propriety, cut this unpleasant time of
restricted courting, of never being able to go anywhere
with her unless her tiresome aunt came too.</p>
<p>Nearly two months now since both those deaths;
surely Lucy's aunt might soon be told now of the
engagement. It was after this outing that he began
in his letters, and in the few moments he and she were
alone, to urge Lucy to tell her aunt. Nobody else need
know, he wrote; it could go on being kept secret from
the world; but the convenience of her aunt's knowing
was so obvious,—think of how she would then keep out
of the way, think of how she would leave them to
themselves, anyhow indoors, anyhow in the house in
Eaton Terrace.</p>
<p>Lucy, however, was reluctant. She demurred. She
wrote begging him to be patient. She said that every
week that passed would make their engagement less a
thing that need surprise. She said that at present it
would take too much explaining, and she wasn't sure
that even at the end of the explanation her aunt would
understand.</p>
<p>Wemyss wrote back brushing this aside. He said
her aunt would have to understand, and if she didn't
what did it matter so long as she knew? The great
thing was that she should know. Then, he said, she
would leave them alone together, instead of for ever
sticking; and his little love must see how splendid it
would be for him to come and spend happy hours with
her quite alone. What was an aunt after all? he asked.
What could she possibly be, compared to Lucy's own
Everard? Besides, he disliked secrecy, he said. No
honest man could stand an atmosphere of concealment.
His little girl must make up her mind to tell her aunt,
and believe that her Everard knew best; or, if she
preferred it, he would tell her himself.</p>
<p>Lucy didn't prefer it, and was beginning to feel
worried, because as the days went on Wemyss grew
more and more persistent the more he became bored by
Miss Entwhistle's development of an independent and
inquiring mind, and she hated having to refuse or even
to defer doing anything he asked, when her aunt one
morning at breakfast, in the very middle of apparent
complete serene absorption in her bacon, looked up
suddenly over the coffee-pot and said, 'How long had
your father known Mr. Wemyss?'</p>
<p>This settled things. Lucy felt she could bear no
more of these shocks. A clean breast was the only
thing left for her.</p>
<p>'Aunt Dot,' she stammered—Miss Entwhistle's
Christian name was Dorothy,—'I'd like—I've got—I
want to tell you——'</p>
<p>'After breakfast,' said Miss Entwhistle briskly.
'We shall need lots of time, and to be undisturbed.
We'll go up into the drawing-room.'</p>
<p>And immediately she began talking about other
things.</p>
<p>Was it possible, thought Lucy, her eyes carefully on
her toast and butter, that Aunt Dot suspected?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>IX</h2>
<p>It was not only possible, but the fact. Aunt Dot had
suspected, only she hadn't suspected anything like all
that was presently imparted to her, and she found great
difficulty in assimilating it. And two hours later Lucy,
standing in the middle of the drawing-room, was still
passionately saying to her, and saying it for perhaps the
tenth time, 'But don't you <i>see</i>? It's just <i>because</i>
what happened to him was so awful. It's nature asserting
itself. If he couldn't be engaged now, if he couldn't
reach up out of such a pit of blackness and get into touch
with living things again and somebody who sympathises
and—is fond of him, he would die, die or go mad; and
oh, what's the <i>use</i> to the world of somebody good and
fine being left to die or go mad? Aunt Dot, what's
the <i>use</i>?'</p>
<p>And her aunt, sitting in her customary chair by the
fireplace, continued to assimilate with difficulty. Also
her face was puckered into folds of distress. She was
seriously upset.</p>
<p>Lucy, looking at her, felt a kind of despair that she
wasn't being able to make her aunt, whom she loved,
see what she saw, understand what she understood, and
so be, as she was, filled with confidence and happiness.
Not that she was happy at that moment; she, too,
was seriously upset, her face flushed, her eyes bright
with effort to get Wemyss as she knew him, as he so
simply was, through into her aunt's consciousness.</p>
<p>She had made her clean breast with a completeness
that had included the confession that she did know
what Mrs. Wemyss's accident had been, and she had
described it. Her aunt was painfully shocked. Anything
so horrible as that hadn't entered her mind. To fall
past the very window her husband was sitting at ... it
seemed to her dreadful that Lucy should be mixed up
in it, and mixed up so instantly on the death of her
of her natural protector,—of her two natural protectors,
for hadn't Mrs. Wemyss as long as she existed also
been one? She was bewildered, and couldn't understand
the violent reactions that Lucy appeared to look
upon as so natural in Wemyss. She would have concluded
that she didn't understand because she was too
old, because she was out of touch with the elasticities
of the younger generation, but Wemyss must be very
nearly as old as herself. Certainly he was of the same
generation; and yet behold him, within a fortnight of
his wife's most shocking death, able to forget her, able
to fall in love——</p>
<p>'But that's <i>why</i>—that's <i>why</i>,' Lucy cried when Miss
Entwhistle said this. 'He <i>had</i> to forget, or die himself.
It was beyond what anybody could bear and stay
sane——'</p>
<p>'I'm sure I'm very glad he should stay sane,' said
Miss Entwhistle, more and more puckered, 'but I can't
help wishing it hadn't been you, Lucy, who are assisting
him to stay it.'</p>
<p>And then she repeated what at intervals she had
kept on repeating with a kind of stubborn helplessness,
that her quarrel with Mr. Wemyss was that he had got
happy so very quickly.</p>
<p>'Those grey trousers,' she murmured.</p>
<p>No; Miss Entwhistle couldn't get over it. She
couldn't understand it. And Lucy, expounding and
defending Wemyss in the middle of the room with all
the blaze and emotion of what was only too evidently
genuine love, was to her aunt an astonishing sight.
That little thing, defending that enormous man. Jim's
daughter; Jim's cherished little daughter....</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle, sitting in her chair, struggled among
other struggles to be fair, and reminded herself that Mr.
Wemyss had proved himself to be most kind and eager
to help down in Cornwall,—though even on this there
was shed a new and disturbing light, and that now that
she knew everything, and the doubts that had made
her perhaps be a little unjust were out of the way and
she could begin to consider him impartially, she would
probably very soon become sincerely attached to him.
She hoped so with all her heart. She was used to being
attached to people. It was normal to her to like and be
liked. And there must be something more in him than
his fine appearance for Lucy to be so very fond of him.</p>
<p>She gave herself a shake. She told herself she was
taking this thing badly; that she ought not, just because
it was an unusual situation, be so ready to condemn it.
Was she really only a conventional spinster, shrinking
back shocked at a touch of naked naturalness? Wasn't
there much in what that short-haired child was so
passionately saying about the rightness, the saneness,
of reaction from horror? Wasn't it nature's own protection
against too much death? After all, what was
the good of doubling horror, of being so much horrified
at the horrible that you stayed rooted there and couldn't
move, and became, with your starting eyes and bristling
hair, a horror yourself?</p>
<p>Better, of course, to pass on, as Lucy was explaining,
to get on with one's business, which wasn't death but
life. Still—there were the decencies. However desolate
one would be in retirement, however much one would
suffer, there was a period, Miss Entwhistle felt,
during which the bereaved withdrew. Instinctively.
The really bereaved <i>would</i> want to withdraw——</p>
<p>'Ah, but don't you <i>see</i>,' Lucy once more tried
despairingly to explain, 'this wasn't just being
bereaved—this was something simply too awful. Of course
Everard would have behaved in the ordinary way if
it had been an ordinary death.'</p>
<p>'So that the more terrible one's sorrow the more
cheerfully one goes out to tea,' said Miss Entwhistle,
the remembrance of the light trousers at one end of
Wemyss and the unmistakably satisfied face at the other
being for a moment too much for her.</p>
<p>'Oh,' almost moaned Lucy at that, and her head
drooped in a sudden fatigue.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle got up quickly and put her arms
round her. 'Forgive me,' she said. 'That was just
stupid and cruel. I think I'm hide-bound. I think
I've probably got into a rut. Help me out of it, Lucy.
You shall teach me to take heroic views——'</p>
<p>And she kissed her hot face tenderly, holding it close
to her own.</p>
<p>'But if I could only make you <i>see</i>,' said Lucy, clinging
to her, tears in her voice.</p>
<p>'But I do see that you love him very much,' said
Miss Entwhistle gently, again very tenderly kissing her.</p>
<p>That afternoon when Wemyss appeared at five
o'clock, it being his bi-weekly day for calling, he found
Lucy alone.</p>
<p>'Why, where——? How——-?' he asked, peeping
round the drawing-room as though Miss Entwhistle
must be lurking behind a chair.</p>
<p>'I've told,' said Lucy, who looked tired.</p>
<p>Then he clasped her with a great hug to his heart.
'Everard's own little love,' he said, kissing and kissing
her. 'Everard's own good little love.'</p>
<p>'Yes, but——' began Lucy faintly. She was, however,
so much muffled and engulfed that her voice didn't
get through.</p>
<p>'Now wasn't I right?' he said triumphantly, holding
her tight. 'Isn't this as it should be? Just you and
me, and nobody to watch or interfere?'</p>
<p>'Yes, but——' began Lucy again.</p>
<p>'What do you say? "Yes, but?"' laughed
Wemyss, bending his ear. 'Yes without any but, you
precious little thing. Buts don't exist for us—only
yeses.'</p>
<p>And on these lines the interview continued for quite
a long time before Lucy succeeded in telling him that
her aunt had been much upset.</p>
<p>Wemyss minded that so little that he didn't even ask
why. He was completely incurious about anything her
aunt might think. 'Who cares?' he said, drawing
her to his heart again. 'Who cares? We've got each
other. What does anything else matter? If you had
fifty aunts, all being upset, what would it matter?
What can it matter to us?'</p>
<p>And Lucy, who was exhausted by her morning, felt
too as she nestled close to him that nothing did matter
so long as he was there. But the difficulty was that he
wasn't there most of the time, and her aunt was, and she
loved her aunt and did very much hate that she should
be upset.</p>
<p>She tried to convey this to Wemyss, but he didn't
understand. When it came to Miss Entwhistle he
was as unable to understand Lucy as Miss Entwhistle
was unable to understand her when it came to Wemyss.
Only Wemyss didn't in the least mind not understanding.
Aunts. What were they? Insects. He laughed, and
said his little love couldn't have it both ways; she
couldn't eat her cake, which was her Everard, and have
it too, which was her aunt; and he kissed her hair and
asked who was a complicated little baby, and rocked
her gently to and fro in his arms, and Lucy was amused
at that and laughed too, and forgot her aunt, and forgot
everything except how much she loved him.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Miss Entwhistle was spending a diligent
afternoon in the newspaper room of the British Museum.
She was reading <i>The Times</i> report of the Wemyss
accident and inquest; and if she had been upset by what
Lucy told her in the morning she was even more upset
by what she read in the afternoon. Lucy hadn't
mentioned that suggestion of suicide. Perhaps he
hadn't told her. Suicide. Well, there had been no
evidence. There was an open verdict. It had been a
suggestion made by a servant, perhaps a servant with a
grudge. And even if it had been true, probably the
poor creature had discovered she had some incurable
disease, or she may have had some loss that broke her
down temporarily, and—oh, there were many explanations;
respectable, ordinary explanations.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle walked home slowly, loitering at
shop windows, staring at hats and blouses that she never
saw, spinning out her walk to its utmost, trying to
think. Suicide. How desolate it sounded on that
beautiful afternoon. Such a giving up. Such a defeat.
Why should she have given up? Why should she have
been defeated? But it wasn't true. The coroner had
said there was no evidence to show how she came by
her death.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle walked slower and slower. The
nearer she got to Eaton Terrace the more unwillingly
did she advance. When she reached Belgrave Square
she went right round it twice, lingering at the garden
railings studying the habits of birds. She had been out
all the afternoon, and, as those who have walked it
know, it is a long way from the British Museum to Eaton
Terrace. Also it was a hot day and her feet ached,
and she very much would have liked to be in her own
chair in her cool drawing-room having her tea. But
there in that drawing-room would probably still be Mr.
Wemyss, no longer now to be Mr. Wemyss for her—would
she really have to call him Everard?—or she
might meet him on the stairs—narrow stairs; or in the
hall—also narrow, which he would fill up; or on her
doorstep she might meet him, filling up her doorstep;
or, when she turned the corner into her street, there,
coming towards her, might be the triumphant trousers.</p>
<p>No, she felt she couldn't stand seeing him that day.
So she lingered forlornly watching the sparrows inside
the garden railings of Belgrave Square, balancing first
on one and then on the other of those feet that ached.</p>
<p>This was only the beginning, she thought; this was
only the first of many days for her of wandering homelessly
round. Her house was too small to hold both
herself and love-making. If it had been the slender
love-making of the young man who was so doggedly
devoted to Lucy, she felt it wouldn't have been too
small. He would have made love youthfully, shyly.
She could have sat quite happily in the dining-room
while the suitably paired young people dallied delicately
together overhead. But she couldn't bear the thought
of being cramped up so near Mr. Wemyss's—no,
Everard's; she had better get used to that at
once—love-making. His way of courting wouldn't be,—she
searched about in her uneasy mind for a word, and
found vegetarian. Yes; that word sufficiently indicated
what she meant: it wouldn't be vegetarian.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle drifted away from the railings, and
turning her back on her own direction wandered towards
Sloane Street. There she saw an omnibus stopping
to let some one out. Wanting very much to sit down
she made an effort and caught it, and squeezing herself
into its vacant seat gave herself up to wherever it
should take her.</p>
<p>It took her to the City; first to the City, and then
to strange places beyond. She let it take her. Her
clothes became steadily more fashionable the farther the
omnibus went. She ended by being conspicuous and
stared at. But she was determined to give the widest
margin to the love-making and go the whole way, and
she did.</p>
<p>For an hour and a half the omnibus went on and on.
She had no idea omnibuses did such things. When
it finally stopped she sat still; and the conductor, who
had gradually come to share the growing surprise of the
relays of increasingly poor passengers, asked her what
address she wanted.</p>
<p>She said she wanted Sloane Street.</p>
<p>He was unable to believe it, and tried to reason with
her, but she sat firm in her place and persisted.</p>
<p>At nine o'clock he put her down where he had taken
her up. She disappeared into the darkness with the
movements of one who is stiff, and he winked at the
passenger nearest the door and touched his forehead.</p>
<p>But as she climbed wearily and hungrily up her steps
and let herself in with her latchkey, she felt it had been
well worth it; for that one day at least she had escaped
Mr. We—— no, Everard.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>X</h2>
<p>Miss Entwhistle, however, made up her mind very
firmly that after this one afternoon of giving herself up
to her feelings she was going to behave in the only way
that is wise when faced by an inevitable marriage, the
way of sympathy and friendliness.</p>
<p>Too often had she seen the first indignation of
disappointed parents at the marriages of their children
harden into a matter of pride, a matter of doggedness
and principle, and finally become an attitude unable to
be altered, long after years had made it ridiculous. If
the marriages turned out happy, how absurd to persist
in an antiquated disapproval; if they turned out
wretched, then how urgent the special need for love.</p>
<p>Thus Miss Entwhistle reasoned that first sleepless
night in bed, and on these lines she proceeded during
the next few months. They were trying months. She
used up all she had of gallantry in sticking to her determination.
Lucy's instinct had been sound, that wish
to keep her engagement secret from her aunt for as
long as possible. Miss Entwhistle, always thin, grew
still more thin in her constant daily and hourly struggle
to be pleased, to enter into Lucy's happiness, to make
things easy for her, to protect her from the notice and
inquiry of their friends, to look hopefully and with as
much of Lucy's eyes as she could at Everard and at
the future.</p>
<p>'She isn't simple enough,' Wemyss would say to
Lucy if ever she said anything about her aunt's increasing
appearance of strain and overwork. 'She should
take things more naturally. Look at us.' For it was
the one fly in Lucy's otherwise perfect ointment, this
intermittent consciousness that her aunt wasn't altogether happy.</p>
<p>And then he would ask her, laying his head on hers
as he stood with his arms about her, who had taught
his little girl to be simple; and they would laugh, and
kiss, and talk of other things.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle was unable to be simple in Wemyss's
sense. She tried to; for when she saw his fresh,
unlined face, his forehead without a wrinkle on it, and
compared it in the glass with her own which was only
three years older, she thought there must be a good
deal to be said for single-mindedness. It was Lucy
who told her Everard was so single-minded. He took
one thing at a time, she said, concentrating quietly.
When he had completely finished it off then, and not
till then, he went on to the next. He knew his own
mind. Didn't Aunt Dot think it was a great thing to
know one's own mind? Instead of wobbling about,
wasting one's thoughts and energies on side-shows?</p>
<p>This was the very language of Wemyss; and Miss
Entwhistle, after having been listening to him in the
afternoon—for every time he came she put in a brief
appearance just for the look of the thing, and on the
Saturday and Sunday outings she was invariably
present the whole time—felt it a little hard that when
at last she had reached the end of the day and the
harbour of her empty drawing-room she should, through
the mouth of Lucy, have to listen to him all the evening
as well.</p>
<p>But she always agreed, and said Yes, he was a great
dear; for when an only and much-loved niece is certainly
going to marry, the least a wise aunt can call her future
nephew is a great dear. She will make this warmer and
more varied if she can, but at least she will say that
much. Miss Entwhistle tried to think of variations,
afraid Lucy might notice a certain sameness, and once
with an effort she faltered out that he seemed to be
a—a real darling; but it had a hollow sound, and she didn't
repeat it. Besides, Lucy was quite satisfied with the
other.</p>
<p>She used, sitting at her aunt's feet in the
evenings—Wemyss never came in the evenings because he distrusted
the probable dinner—sometimes to make her
aunt say it again, by asking a little anxiously, 'But
you <i>do</i> think him a great dear, don't you, Aunt Dot?'
Whereupon Miss Entwhistle, afraid her last expression
of that opinion may have been absent-minded, would
hastily exclaim with almost excess of emphasis, 'Oh,
a <i>great</i> dear.'</p>
<p>Perhaps he was a dear. She didn't know. What
had she against him? She didn't know. He was too
old, that was one thing; but the next minute, after
hearing something he had said or laughed at, she
thought he wasn't old enough. Of course what she
really had against him was that he had got over his
wife's shocking death so quickly. Yet she admitted
there was much in Lucy's explanation of this as a sheer
instinctive gesture of self-defence. Besides, she couldn't
keep it up as a grudge against him for ever; with every
day it mattered less. And sometimes Miss Entwhistle
even doubted whether it was this that mattered to her
at all,—whether it was not rather some quite small
things that she really objected to: a want of fastidiousness,
for instance, a forgetfulness of the minor
courtesies,—the objections, in a word, she told herself smiling, of
an old maid. Lucy seemed not to mind his blunders
in these directions in the least. She seemed positively,
thought her aunt, to take a kind of pride in them,
delighting in everything he said or did with the
adoring tenderness of a young mother watching the
pranks of her first-born. She laughed gaily; she
let him caress her openly. She too, thought Miss
Entwhistle, had become what she no doubt would
say was single-minded. Well, perhaps all this was a
spinster's way of feeling about a type not previously
met with, and she had got—again she reproached
herself—into an elderly groove. Jim's friends,—well,
they had been different, but not necessarily better.
Mr. Wemyss would call them, she was sure, a finicking
lot.</p>
<p>When in October London began to fill again, and
Jim's friends came to look her and Lucy up and showed
a tendency, many of them, to keep on doing it, a new
struggle was added to her others, the struggle to prevent
their meeting Wemyss. He wouldn't, she was convinced,
be able to hide his proprietorship in Lucy, and
Lucy wouldn't ever get that look of tenderness out of
her eyes when they rested on him. Questions as to
who he was would naturally be asked, and one or other
of Jim's friends would be sure to remember the affair
of Mrs. Wemyss's death; indeed, that day she went
to the British Museum and read the report of it she had
been amazed that she hadn't seen it at the time. It
took up so much of the paper that she was bound to
have seen it if she had seen a paper at all. She could
only suppose that as she was visiting friends just then,
she chanced that day to have been in the act of leaving
or arriving, and that if she bought a paper on the
journey she had looked, as was sometimes her way
in trains, not at it but out of the window.</p>
<p>She felt she hadn't the strength to support being
questioned, and in her turn have to embark on the
explanation and defence of Wemyss. There was too
much of him, she felt, to be explained. He ought to be
separated into sections, and taken gradually and bit
by bit,—but far best not to produce him, to keep him
from meeting her friends. She therefore arranged a
day in the week when she would be at home, and
discouraged every one from the waste of time of trying to
call on her on other days. Then presently the afternoon
became an evening once a week, when whoever
liked could come in after dinner and talk and drink coffee,
because the evening was safer; made safe by Wemyss's
conviction—he hadn't concealed it—that the dinners
of maiden ladies were notoriously both scanty and
bad.</p>
<p>Lucy would have preferred never to see a soul except
Wemyss, who was all she wanted, all she asked for in
life; but she did see her aunt's point, that only by pinning
their friends to a day and an hour could the risk of their
overflowing into precious moments be avoided. This is
how Miss Entwhistle put it to her, wondering as she
said it at her own growing ability in artfulness.</p>
<p>She had an old friend living in Chesham Street, a
widow full of that ripe wisdom that sometimes comes
at the end to those who have survived marriage;
and to her, when the autumn brought her back to
London, Miss Entwhistle went occasionally in search
of comfort.</p>
<p>'What in the whole world puts such a gulf between
two affections and comprehensions as a new love?'
she asked one day, freshly struck, because of something
Lucy had said, by the distance she had travelled. Lucy
was quite a tiny figure now, so far away from her had
she moved; she couldn't even get her voice to carry
to her, much less still hold on to her with her hands.</p>
<p>And the friend, made brief of speech by wisdom,
said: 'Nothing.'</p>
<p>About Wemyss's financial position Miss Entwhistle
could only judge from appearances, for it wouldn't have
occurred to him that it might perhaps be her concern
to know, and she preferred to wait till later, when the
engagement could be talked about, to ask some old
friend of Jim's to make the proper inquiries; but from
the way he lived it seemed to be an easy one. He went
freely in taxis, he hired cars with a reasonable frequency,
he inhabited one of the substantial houses of Lancaster
Gate, and also, of course, he had The Willows, the house
on the river near Strorley where his wife had died.
After all, what could be better than two houses, Miss
Entwhistle thought, congratulating herself, as it were,
on Lucy's behalf that this side of Wemyss was so
satisfactory. Two houses, and no children; how much
better than the other way about. And one day, feeling
almost hopeful about Lucy's prospects, on the advantages
of which she had insisted that her mind should dwell,
she went round again to the widow in Chesham Street
and said suddenly to her, who was accustomed to these
completely irrelevant exclamatory inquiries from her
friend, and who being wise was also incurious, 'What
can be better than two houses?'</p>
<p>To which the widow, whose wisdom was more ripe
than comforting, replied disappointingly: 'One.'</p>
<p>Later, when the marriage loomed very near, Miss
Entwhistle, who found that she was more than ever in
need of reassurance instead of being, as she had hoped
to become, more reconciled, went again, in a kind of
desperation this time, to the widow, seeking some word
from her who was so wise that would restore her to
tranquillity, that would dispel her absurd persistent
doubts. 'After all,' she said almost entreatingly,
'what can be better than a devoted husband?'</p>
<p>And the widow, who had had three and knew what
she was talking about, replied with the large calm of
those who have finished and can in leisure weigh and
reckon up: 'None.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XI</h2>
<p>The Wemyss-Entwhistle engagement proceeded on its
way of development through the ordinary stages of all
engagements: secrecy complete, secrecy partial, semi-publicity,
and immediately after that entire publicity,
with its inevitable accompanying uproar. The uproar,
always more or less audible to the protagonists, of
either approval or disapproval, was in this case one
of unanimous disapproval. Lucy's father's friends protested
to a man. The atmosphere at Eaton Terrace
was convulsed; and Lucy, running as she always did
to hide from everything upsetting into Wemyss's arms,
was only made more certain than ever that there alone
was peace.</p>
<p>This left Miss Entwhistle to face the protests by
herself. There was nothing for it but to face them.
Jim had had so many intimate, devoted friends, and
each of them apparently regarded his daughter as his
special care and concern. One or two of the younger
ones, who had been disciples rather than friends, were
in love with her themselves, and these were specially
indignant and vocal in their indignation. Miss Entwhistle
found herself in the position she had tried so
hard to avoid, that of defending and explaining Wemyss
to a highly sceptical, antagonistic audience. It was as
if, forced to fight for him, she was doing so with her
back to her drawing-room wall.</p>
<p>Lucy couldn't help her, because though she was
distressed that her aunt should be being worried because
of her affairs, yet she did feel that Everard was right
when he said that her affairs concerned nobody in the
world but herself and him. She, too, was indignant,
but her indignation was because her father's friends,
who had been ever since she could remember always
good and kind, besides perfectly intelligent and
reasonable, should with one accord, and without knowing
anything about Everard except that story of the
accident, be hostile to her marrying him. The ready
unfairness, the willingness immediately to believe the
worst instead of the best, astonished and shocked her.
And then the way they all talked! Everlasting arguments
and reasoning and hair-splitting; so clever, so
impossible to stand up against, and yet so surely, she
was certain, if only she had been clever too and able to
prove things, wrong. All their multitudinous points of
view,—why, there was only one point of view about a
thing, Everard said, and that was the right one. Ah,
but what a woman wanted wasn't this; she didn't
want this endless thinking and examining and dissecting
and considering. A woman—her very thoughts were
now dressed in Wemyss's words—only wanted her
man. '"Hers not to reason why,"' Wemyss had
quoted one day, and both of them had laughed at his
parody, '"hers but to love and—not die, but live."'</p>
<p>The most that could be said for her father's friends
was that they meant well; but oh, what trouble the
well-meaning could bring into an otherwise simple
situation! From them she hid—it was inevitable—in
Wemyss's arms. Here were no arguments; here were
no misgivings and paralysing hesitations. Here was
just simple love, and the feeling—delicious to her whose
mother had died in the very middle of all the sweet
early petting, and whose whole life since had been spent
entirely in the dry and bracing company of unusually
inquisitive-minded, clever men—of being a baby again
in somebody's big, comfortable, uncritical lap.</p>
<p>The engagement hadn't leaked out so much as
flooded out. It would have continued secret for quite
a long time, known only to the three and to the maids—who
being young women themselves, and well acquainted
with the symptoms of the condition, were
sure of it before Miss Entwhistle had even begun to
suspect,—if Wemyss hadn't taken to dropping in,
contrary to expectations, on the Thursday evenings.
Lucy's descriptions of these evenings and of the people
who came, and of how very kind they were to her aunt
and herself, and how anxious they were to help her,
they of course supposing that she was, actually, the
lonely thing she would have been if she hadn't had
Everard as the dear hidden background to her life—at
this point they embraced,—at first amused him, then
made him curious, and finally caused him to come and
see for himself.</p>
<p>He didn't tell Lucy he was coming, he just came.
It had taken him five Thursday evenings of playing
bridge as usual at his club, playing it with one hand,
as he said to her afterwards, and thinking of her with
the other—'You know what I mean,' he said, and they
laughed and embraced—before it slowly oozed into and
pervaded his mind that there was his little girl,
rounded by people fussing over her and making love
to her (because, said Wemyss, everybody would
naturally want to make love to her), and there was
he, the only person who had a right to do this, somewhere
else.</p>
<p>So he walked in; and when he walked in, the group
standing round Lucy with their backs to the door saw
her face, which had been gently attentive, suddenly flash
into colour and light; and turning with one accord to
see what it was she was looking at behind them with
parted lips and eyes of startled joy, beheld once more
the unknown chief mourner of the funeral in Cornwall.</p>
<p>Down there they had taken for granted that he was
a relation of Jim's, the kind of relative who in a man's
life appears only three times, the last of which is his
funeral; here in Eaton Terrace they were immediately
sure he was not, anyhow, that, because for relatives
who only appear those three times a girl's face doesn't
change in a flash from gentle politeness to tremulous,
shining life. They all stared at him astonished. He
was so different from the sorts of people they had met
at Jim's. For one thing he was so well dressed,—in the
mating season, thought Miss Entwhistle, even birds dress
well,—and in his impressive evening clothes, with what
seemed a bigger and more spotless shirt-front than any
shirt-front they could have imagined, he made them look
and feel what they actually were, a dingy, shabby lot.</p>
<p>Wemyss was good-looking. He might be middle-aged,
but he was good-looking enough frequently to
eclipse the young. He might have a little too much of
what tailors call a fine presence, but his height carried
this off. His features were regular, his face care-free
and healthy, his brown hair sleek with no grey in it,
he was clean-shaven, and his mouth was the kind of
mouth sometimes described by journalists as mobile,
sometimes as determined, but always as well cut. One
could visualise him in a fur-lined coat, thought a young
man near Lucy, considering him; and one couldn't
visualise a single one of the others, including himself,
in the room that evening in a fur-lined coat. Also,
thought this same young man, one could see railway
porters and taxi-drivers and waiters hurrying to be of
service to him; and one not only couldn't imagine them
taking any notice that wasn't languid and reluctant of
the others, including himself, but one knew from personal
distressing experience that they didn't.</p>
<p>'My splendid lover!' Lucy's heart cried out within
her when the door opened and there he stood. She
had not seen him before in the evening, and the contrast
between him and the rest of the people there was really
striking.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle had been right: there was no hiding
the look in Lucy's eyes or Wemyss's proprietary manner.
He hadn't meant to take any but the barest notice of
his little girl, he had meant to be quite an ordinary
guest—just shake hands and say 'Hasn't it been wet
to-day'—that sort of thing; but his pride and love
were too much for him, he couldn't hide them. He
thought he did, and was sure he was behaving beautifully
and with the easiest unconcern, but the mere way
he looked at her and stood over her was enough. Also
there was the way she looked at him. The intelligences
in that room were used to drawing more complicated
inferences than this. They were outraged by its obviousness.
Who was this middle-aged, prosperous outsider
who had got hold of Jim's daughter? What had her
aunt been about? Where had he dropped from? Had
Jim known?</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle introduced him. 'Mr. Wemyss,'
she said to them generally, with a vague wave of her
hand; and a red spot appeared and stayed on each of
her cheekbones.</p>
<p>Wemyss held forth. He stood on the hearthrug
filling his pipe—he was used to smoking in that room
when he came to tea with Lucy, and forgot to ask Miss
Entwhistle if it mattered—and told everybody what
he thought. They were talking about Ireland when he
came in, and after the disturbance of his arrival had
subsided he asked them not to mind him but to go on.
He then proceeded to go on himself, telling them what
he thought; and what he thought was what <i>The Times</i>
had thought that morning. Wemyss spoke with the
practised fluency of a leading article. He liked politics
and constantly talked them at his club, and it created
vacancies in the chairs near him. But Lucy, who
hadn't heard him on politics before and found that she
could understand every word, listened to him with
parted lips. Before he came in they had been saying
things beyond her quickness in following, eagerly
discussing Sinn Fein, Lloyd George, the outrageous cost
of living—it was the autumn of 1920—turning everything
inside out, upside down, being witty, being
surprising, being tremendously eager and earnest. It
had been a kind of restless flashing round and catching
fire from each other,—a kind of kick, and flick, and
sparks, and a burst of laughter, and then on to something
else just as she was laboriously getting under weigh to
follow the last sentence but six. She had been missing
her father, who took her by the hand on these occasions
when he saw her lagging behind, and stopped a moment
to explain to her, and held up the others while she got
her breath.</p>
<p>But now came Everard, and in a minute everything
was plain. He had the effect on her of a window being
thrown open and fresh air and sunlight being let in.
He was so sensible, she felt, compared to these others;
so healthy and natural. The Government, he said,
only had to do this and that, and Ireland and the cost
of living would immediately, regarded as problems, be
solved. He explained the line to be taken. It was a
very simple line. One only needed goodwill and a
little common sense. Why, thought Lucy, unconsciously
nodding proud agreement, didn't people have goodwill
and a little common sense?</p>
<p>At first there was a disposition to interrupt, to
heckle, but it grew fainter and soon gave way to complete
silence. The other guests might have been stunned,
Miss Entwhistle thought, so motionless did they presently
sit. And when they went away, which they
seemed to do earlier than usual and in a body, Wemyss
was still standing on the hearthrug explaining the
points of view of the ordinary, sensible business man.</p>
<p>'Mind you,' he said, pointing at them with his pipe,
'I don't pretend to be a great thinker. I'm just a
plain business man, and as a plain business man I know
there's only one way of doing a thing, and that's the
right way. Find out what that way is, and go and do
it. There's too much arguing altogether and asking
other people what they think. We don't want talk,
we want action. I agree with Napoleon, who said
concerning the French Revolution, <i>"Il aurait fallu
mitrailler cette canaille."</i> We're not simple enough.'</p>
<p>This was the last the others heard as they trooped
in silence down the stairs. Outside they lingered for a
while in little knots on the pavement talking, and then
they drifted away to their various homes, where most
of them spent the rest of the evening writing to Miss
Entwhistle.</p>
<p>The following Thursday evening, her letters in reply
having been vague and evasive, they came again, each
hoping to get Lucy's aunt to himself, and on the ground
of being Jim's most devoted friend ask her straight
questions such as who and what was Wemyss. Also,
more particularly, why. Who and what he was was of
no sort of consequence if he would only be and do it
somewhere else; but they arrived determined to get
an answer to the third question: Why Wemyss? And
when they got there, there he was again; there before
them this time, standing on the hearthrug as if he had
never moved off it since the week before and had gone
on talking ever since.</p>
<p>This was the end of the Thursday evenings. The
next one was unattended, except by Wemyss; but
Miss Entwhistle had been forced to admit the engagement,
and from then on right up to the marriage
her life was a curse to her and a confusion. Just
because Jim had appointed no guardian in his will
for Lucy, every single one of his friends felt bound to
fill the vacancy. They were indignant when they discovered
that almost before they had begun Lucy was
being carried off, but they were horrified when they
discovered what Wemyss it was who was carrying her
off. Most of them quite well remembered the affair of
Mrs. Wemyss's death a few weeks before, and those who
did not went, as Miss Entwhistle had gone, to the British
Museum and read it up. They also, though they themselves
were chiefly unworldly persons who lost money
rather than made it, instituted the most searching
private inquiries into Wemyss's business affairs, hoping
that he might be caught out as such a rascal or so
penniless, or, preferably, both, that no woman could
possibly have anything to do with him. But Wemyss's
business record, the solicitor they employed informed
them, was quite creditable. Everything about it was
neat and in order. He was not what the City would
call a wealthy man, but if you went out say to Ealing,
said the solicitor, he would be called wealthy. He was
solid, and he was certainly more than able to support
a wife and family. He could have been quite wealthy
if he had not adopted a principle to which he had adhered
for years of knocking off work early and leaving his
office at an hour when other men did not,—the friends
were obliged to admit that this, at least, seemed sensible.
There had been, though, a very sad occurrence recently
in his private life,—'Oh, thank you,' interrupted the
friends, 'we have heard about that.'</p>
<p>But however good Wemyss's business record might
be, it couldn't alter their violent objection to Jim's
daughter marrying him. Apart from the stuff he
talked, there was the inquest. They were aware that in
this they were unreasonable, but they were all too much
attached to Jim's memory to be able to be reasonable
about a man they felt so certain he wouldn't have
liked. Singly and in groups they came at safe times, such
as after breakfast, to Eaton Terrace to reason with Lucy,
too much worried to remember that you cannot reason
with a person in love. Less wise than Miss Entwhistle,
they tried to dissuade her from marrying this man,
and the more they tried the tighter she clung to him.
To the passion of love was added, by their attitudes,
the passion of protectiveness, of flinging her body
between him and them. And all the while, right inside
her innermost soul, in spite of her amazement at them
and her indignation, she was smiling to herself; for it
was really very funny, the superficial judgments of
these clever people when set side by side with what
she alone knew,—the tenderness, the simple goodness
of her heart's beloved.</p>
<p>Lucy laughed to herself in her happy sureness. She
had miraculously found not only a lover she could adore
and a guide she could follow and a teacher she could
look up to and a sufferer who without her wouldn't
have been healed, but a mother, a nurse, and a playmate.
In spite of his being so much older and so
extraordinarily wise, he was yet her contemporary,—sometimes
hardly even that, so boyish was he in his
talk and jokes. Lucy had never had a playmate. She
had spent her life sitting, as it were, bolt upright
mentally behaving, and she hadn't known till Wemyss
came on the scene how delicious it was to relax.
Nonsense had delighted her father, it is true, but it
had to be of a certain kind; never the kind to which
the adjective 'sheer' would apply. With Wemyss she
could say whatever nonsense came into her head, sheer
or otherwise. He laughed consumedly at her when she
talked it. She loved to make him laugh. They laughed
together. He understood her language. He was her
playmate. Those people outside, old and young, who
didn't know what playing was and were trying to get
her away from him, might beat at the door behind which
he and she sat listening, amused, as long as they liked.</p>
<p>'How they all try to separate us,' she said to him
one day, sitting as usual safe in the circle of his arm,
her head on his breast.</p>
<p>'You can't separate unity,' remarked Wemyss
comfortably.</p>
<p>She wanted to tell them that answer, confront them
with it next time they came after breakfast, as a discouragement
to useless further effort, but she had
learned that they somehow always knew when what
she said was Everard's and not hers, and then, of course,
prejudiced as they were, they wouldn't listen.</p>
<p>'Now, Lucy, that's pure Wemyss,' they would say.
'For heaven's sake say something of your own.'</p>
<p>At Christmas Wemyss had an encounter with Miss
Entwhistle, who ever since she had been told of the
engagement had been so quiet and inoffensive that he
quite liked her. She had seemed to recognise her
position as a side-show, and had accepted it without
a word. She no longer asked him questions, and she
made no difficulties. She left him alone with Lucy in
Eaton Terrace, and though she had to go with them on
the outings she asserted herself so little that he forgot
she was there. But when towards the middle of
December he remarked one afternoon that he always
spent Christmas at The Willows, and what day would
she and Lucy come down, Christmas Eve or the day
before, to his astonishment she looked astonished,
and after a silence said it was most kind of him,
but they were going to spend Christmas where they
were.</p>
<p>'I had hoped you would join us,' she said. 'Must
you really go away?'</p>
<p>'But——' began Wemyss, incredulous, doubting
his ears.</p>
<p>It was, however, the fact that Miss Entwhistle
wouldn't go to The Willows; and of course if she
wouldn't Lucy couldn't either. Nothing that he said
could shake her determination. Here was a repetition,
only how much worse—fancy spoiling his Christmas—of
her conduct in Cornwall when she insisted on going
away from that nice little house where they were all
so comfortably established, and taking Lucy up to
London. He had forgotten, so acquiescent had she
been for weeks, that down there he had discovered she
was obstinate. It was a shock to him to realise that
her obstinacy, the most obstinate obstinacy he had
ever met, might be going to upset his plans. He couldn't
believe it. He couldn't believe he wasn't going to be
able to have what he wished, and only because an old
maid said 'No.' Was the story of Balaam to be
reversed, and the angel be held up by the donkey?
He refused to believe such a thing possible.</p>
<p>Wemyss, who made his plans first and talked about
them afterwards, hadn't mentioned Christmas even to
Lucy. It was his habit to settle what he wished to do,
arrange all the details, and then, when everything was
ready, inform those who were to take part. It hadn't
occurred to him that over the Christmas question there
would be trouble. He had naturally taken it for granted
that he would spend Christmas with his little girl, and
of course as he always spent it at The Willows she
would spend it there too. All his arrangements were
made, and the servants, who looked surprised, had been
told to get the spare-rooms ready for two ladies. He
had begun to feel seasonable as early as the first week
in December, and had bespoken two big turkeys instead
of one, because this was to be his first real Christmas at
The Willows—Vera had been without the Christmas
spirit—and he felt it couldn't be celebrated lavishly
enough. Two where there had in previous years been
one,—that was the turkeys; four where there had been
two,—-that was the plum puddings. He doubled everything.
Doubling seemed the proper, even the symbolic
expression of his feelings, for wasn't he soon going to
be doubled himself? And how sweetly.</p>
<p>Then suddenly, having finished his preparations and
proceeding, the time being ripe, to the question of the
day of arrival, he found himself up against opposition.
Miss Entwhistle wouldn't go to The Willows—incredible,
impossible, and insufferable,—while Lucy,
instead of instantly insisting and joining with him in
a compelling majority, sat as quiet as a mouse.</p>
<p>'But Lucy——' Wemyss having stared speechless
at her aunt, turned to her. 'But of course we must
spend Christmas together.'</p>
<p>'Oh yes,' said Lucy, leaning forward, 'of course——'</p>
<p>'But of course you must come down. Why, any
other arrangement is unthinkable. My house is in the
country, which is the proper place for Christmas, and
it's your Everard's house, and you haven't seen it yet—why,
I would have taken you down long ago, but I've
been saving up for this.'</p>
<p>'We hoped,' said Miss Entwhistle, 'you would join
us here.'</p>
<p>'Here! But there isn't room to swing a turkey
here. I've ordered two, and each of them is twice too
big to get through your front door.'</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard—have you actually ordered turkeys?'
said Lucy.</p>
<p>She wanted to laugh, but she also wanted to cry.
His simplicity was too wonderful. In her eyes it set
him apart from criticism and made him sacred, like the
nimbus about the head of a saint.</p>
<p>That he should have been secretly busy making
preparations, buying turkeys, planning a surprise, when
all this time she had been supposing that why he never
mentioned The Willows was because he shrank both for
himself and for her from the house of his tragedy!
There had never been any talk of showing it to her, as
there had about the house in Lancaster Gate, and she
had imagined he would never go near it again and was
probably quietly getting rid of it. He would want to
get rid of it, of course,—that house of unbearable
memories. To the other one, the house in Lancaster
Gate, he had insisted on taking them to tea, and in spite
of a great desire not to go, plainly visible on her aunt's
face and felt too by herself, it had seemed after all a
natural and more or less inevitable thing, and they had
gone. At least that poor Vera had only lived there, and
not died there. It was a gloomy house, and Lucy had
wanted him to give it up and start life with her in a
place without associations, but he had been so much
astonished at the idea—'Why,' he had cried, 'it was
my father's house and I was born in it!'—that she
couldn't help laughing at his dismay, and was ashamed
of herself for having thought of uprooting him. Besides,
she hadn't known he had been born in it.</p>
<p>The Willows, however, was different. Of that he
never spoke, and Lucy had been sure of the pitiful,
the delicate reason. Now it appeared that all this
time he had just been saving it up as a Christmas
treat.</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard——!' she said, with a gasp. She
hadn't reckoned with The Willows. That The Willows
should still be in Everard's life, and actively so, not
just lingering on while house agents were disposing of
it, but visited and evidently prized, came upon her as
an immense shock.</p>
<p>'I think we can achieve a happy little Christmas for
you here,' said her aunt, smiling the smile she smiled
when she found difficulty in smiling. 'Of course
you and Lucy would want to be together. I ought
to have told you earlier that we were counting on
you, but somehow Christmas comes on one so unexpectedly.'</p>
<p>'Perhaps you'll tell me why you won't come to
The Willows,' said Wemyss, holding on to himself as
she used to make him hold on to himself in Cornwall.
'You realise, of course, that if you persist you spoil
both Lucy's and my Christmas.'</p>
<p>'Ah, but you mustn't put it that way,' said Miss
Entwhistle, gentle but determined. 'I promise you
that you and Lucy shall be very happy here.'</p>
<p>'You haven't answered my question,' said Wemyss,
slowly filling his pipe.</p>
<p>'I don't think I'm going to,' said Miss Entwhistle,
suddenly flaring up. She hadn't flared up since she
was ten, and was instantly ashamed of herself, but
there was something about Mr. Wemyss——</p>
<p>'I think,' she said, getting up and speaking very
gently, 'you'll like to be alone together now.' And she
crossed to the door.</p>
<p>There she wavered, and turning round said more
gently still, even penitentially, 'If Lucy wishes to go
to The Willows I'll—I'll accept your kind invitation
and take her. I leave it to her.'</p>
<p>Then she went out.</p>
<p>'That's all right then,' said Wemyss with a great
sigh of relief, smiling broadly at Lucy. 'Come here,
little love,—come to your Everard, and we'll fix it all
up. Lord, what a kill-joy that woman is!'</p>
<p>And he put out his arms and drew her to him.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XII</h2>
<p>But Christmas was spent after all at Eaton Terrace,
and they lived on Wemyss's turkeys and plum puddings
for a fortnight.</p>
<p>It was not a very successful Christmas, because
Wemyss was so profoundly disappointed, and Miss
Entwhistle had the apologeticness of those who try to
make up for having got their own way, and Lucy, who
had shrunk from The Willows far more than her aunt,
wished many times before it was over that they had
after all gone there. It would have been much simpler
in the long run, and much less painful than having to
look on at Everard being disappointed; but at the time,
and taken by surprise, she had felt that she couldn't
have borne festivities, and still less could she have borne
seeing Everard bearing festivities in that house.</p>
<p>'This is morbid,' he said, when in answer to his
questioning she at last told him it was poor Vera's
dreadful death there that made her feel she couldn't
go; and he explained, holding her in his arms, how
foolish it was to be morbid, and how his little girl, who
was marrying a healthy, sensible man who, God knew,
had had to fight hard enough to keep so—she pressed
closer—and yet had succeeded, must be healthily
sensible too. Otherwise, if she couldn't do this and
couldn't do that because it reminded her of something
sad, and couldn't go here and couldn't go there because
of somebody's having died, he was afraid she would
make both herself and him very unhappy.</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard——' said Lucy at that, holding him
tight, the thought of making him unhappy, him, her
own beloved who had been through such terrible
unhappiness already, giving her heart a stab.</p>
<p>His little girl must know, he continued, speaking
with the grave voice that was natural to him when he
was serious, the voice not of the playmate but of the
man she adored, the man she was in love with, in whose
hands she could safely leave her earthly concerns,—his
little girl must know that somebody had died
everywhere. There wasn't a spot, there wasn't a house,
except quite new ones——</p>
<p>'Oh yes, I know—but——' Lucy tried to interrupt.</p>
<p>And The Willows was his home, the home he had
looked forward to and worked for and had at last been
able to afford to rent on a long lease, a lease so long
that it made it practically his very own, and he had
spent the last ten years developing and improving it,
and there wasn't a brick or a tree in it in which he didn't
take an interest, really an almost personal interest, and
his one thought all these months had been the day when
he would show it to her, to its dear future mistress.</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard—yes—you shall—I want to——' said
Lucy incoherently, her cheek against his, 'only not yet—not
festivities—please—I won't be so morbid—I
promise not to be morbid—but—please——'</p>
<p>And just when she was wavering, just when she was
going to give in, not because of his reasoning, for her
instincts were stronger than his reasoning, but because
she couldn't bear his disappointment, Miss Entwhistle,
sure now of Lucy's dread of Christmas at The Willows,
suddenly turned firm again and announced that they
would spend it in Eaton Terrace.</p>
<p>So Wemyss was forced to submit. The sensation
was so new to him that he couldn't get over it. Once
it was certain that his Christmas was, as he insisted,
spoilt, he left off talking about it and went to the other
extreme and was very quiet. That his little love should
be so much under the influence of her aunt saddened
him, he told her. Lucy tried to bring gaiety into this
attitude by pointing out the proof she was giving
him of how very submissive she was to the person
she happened to live with,—'And presently all my
submissiveness will be concentrated on you,' she said
gaily.</p>
<p>But he wouldn't be gay. He shook his head in
silence and filled his pipe. He was too deeply
disappointed to be able to cheer up. And the expression
'happen to live with,' jarred a little. There was an
airy carelessness about the phrase. One didn't happen
to live with one's husband; yet that had been the
implication.</p>
<p>Every year in April Wemyss had a birthday; that
is, unlike most people of his age, he regularly celebrated
it. Christmas and his birthday were the festivals of
the year for Him, and were always spent at The Willows.
He regarded his birthday, which was on the 4th of
April, as the first day of spring, defying the calendar,
and was accustomed to find certain yellow flowers in
blossom down by the river on that date supporting his
contention. If these flowers came out before his birthday
he took no notice of them, treating them as non-existent,
nor did he ever notice them afterwards, for he did not
easily notice flowers; but his gardener had standing
orders to have a bunch of them on the table that one
morning in the year to welcome him with their bright
shiny faces when he came down to his birthday breakfast,
and coming in and seeing them he said, 'My birthday
and Spring's'; whereupon his wife—up to now it
had been Vera, but from now it would be Lucy—kissed
him and wished him many happy returns. This was
the ritual; and when one year of abnormal cold the
yellow flowers weren't there at breakfast, because neither
by the river's edge nor in the most sheltered of the
swamps had the increasingly frantic gardener been able
to find them, the entire birthday was dislocated. He
couldn't say on entering the room and beholding them,
'My birthday and Spring's,' because he didn't behold
them; and his wife—that year Vera—couldn't kiss
him and wish him many happy returns because she
hadn't the cue. She was so much used to the cue that
not having it made her forget her part,—forget, indeed,
his birthday altogether; and consequently it was a day
of the extremest spiritual chill and dinginess, matching
the weather without. Wemyss had been terribly
hurt. He hoped never to spend another birthday like
it. Nor did he, for Vera remembered it after that.</p>
<p>Birthdays being so important to him, he naturally
reflected after Miss Entwhistle had spoilt his Christmas
that she would spoil his birthday too if he let her. Well,
he wasn't going to let her. Not twice would he be
caught like that; not twice would he be caught in a
position of helplessness on his side and power on hers.
The way to avoid it was very simple: he would marry
Lucy in time for his birthday. Why should they wait
any longer? Why stick to that absurd convention of
the widower's year? No sensible man minded what
people thought. And who were the people? Surely
one didn't mind the opinions of those shabby weeds he
had met on the two Thursday evenings at Lucy's aunt's.
The little they had said had been so thoroughly unsound
and muddled and yet dangerous, that if they one and
all emigrated to-morrow England would only be the
better. After meeting them he had said to Lucy, who
had listened in some wonder at this new light thrown
on her father's friends, that they were the very stuff
of which successful segregation was made. In an island
by themselves, he told her, they would be quite happy
undermining each other's backbones, and the backbone
of England, which consisted of plain unspoilt patriots,
would be let alone. They, certainly, didn't matter;
while as for his own friends, those friends who had
behaved badly to him on Vera's death, not only didn't
he care twopence for their criticisms but he could
hardly wait for the moment when he would confound
them by producing for their inspection this sweetest
of little girls, so young, so devoted to him, Lucy his
wife.</p>
<p>He accordingly proceeded to make all the necessary
arrangements for being married in March, for going for
a trip to Paris, and for returning to The Willows for
the final few days of his honeymoon on the very day
of his birthday. What a celebration that would be!
Wemyss, thinking of it, shut his eyes so as to dwell
upon it undisturbed. Never would he have had a
birthday like this next one. He might really quite
fairly call it his First, for he would be beginning life
all over again, and entering on years that would indeed
be truthfully described as tender.</p>
<p>So much was it his habit to make plans privately
and not mention them till they were complete, that he
found it difficult to tell Lucy of this one in spite of the
important part she was to play in it. But, after all,
some preparing would, he admitted to himself, be
necessary even for the secret marriage he had decided
on at a registrar's office. She would have to pack a
bag; she would have to leave her belongings in order.
Also he might perhaps have to use persuasion. He
knew his little girl well enough to be sure she would
relinquish church and white satin without a murmur at
his request, but she might want to tell her aunt of the
marriage's imminence, and then the aunt would, to a
dead certainty, obstruct, and either induce her to wait
till the year was out, or, if Lucy refused to do this,
make her miserable with doubts as to whether she had
been right to follow her lover's wishes. Fancy making
a girl miserable because she followed her lover's wishes!
What a woman, thought Wemyss, filling his pipe. In
his eyes Miss Entwhistle had swollen since her conduct
at Christmas to the bulk of a monster.</p>
<p>Having completed his preparations, and fixed his
wedding day for the first Saturday in March, Wemyss
thought it time he told Lucy; so he did, though not
without a slight fear at the end that she might make
difficulties.</p>
<p>'My little love isn't going to do anything that spoils
her Everard's plans after all the trouble he has taken?'
he said, seeing that with her mouth slightly open she
gazed at him in an obvious astonishment and didn't
say a word.</p>
<p>He then proceeded to shut the eyes that were gazing
up into his, and the surprised parted lips, with kisses,
for he had discovered that gentle, lingering kisses hushed
Lucy quiet when she was inclined to say, 'But——' and
brought her back quicker than anything to the mood
of tender, half-asleep acquiescence in which, as she lay
in his arms, he most loved her; then indeed she was
his baby, the object of the passionate protectiveness he
felt he was naturally filled with, but for the exercise of
which circumstances up to now had given him no scope.
You couldn't passionately protect Vera. She was
always in another room.</p>
<p>Lucy, however, did say, 'But——' when she
recovered from her first surprise, and did presently—directly,
that is, he left off kissing her and she could
speak—make difficulties. Her aunt; the secrecy; why
secrecy; why not wait; it was so necessary under
the circumstances to wait.</p>
<p>And then he explained about his birthday.</p>
<p>At that she gazed at him again with a look of wonder
in her eyes, and after a moment began to laugh. She
laughed a great deal, and with her arm tight round his
neck, but her eyes were wet. 'Oh, Everard,' she said,
her cheek against his, 'do you think we're really old
enough to marry?'</p>
<p>This time, however, he got his way. Lucy found
she couldn't bring herself to spoil his plans a second
time; the spectacle of his prolonged silent disappointment
at Christmas was still too vividly before her.
Nor did she feel she could tell her aunt. She hadn't the
courage to face her aunt's expostulations and final
distressed giving in. Her aunt, who loomed so enormous
in Wemyss's eyes, seemed to Lucy to be only half the
size she used to be. She seemed to have been worried
small by her position, like a bone among contending
dogs, in the middle of different indignations. What
would be the effect on her of this final blow? The
thought of it haunted Lucy and spoilt all the last days
before her marriage, days which she otherwise would
have loved, because she very quickly became infected
by the boyish delight and excitement over their secret
that made Wemyss hardly able to keep still in his chair.
He didn't keep still in it. Once at least he got up and
did some slow steps about the room, moving with an
apparent solemnity because of not being used to such
steps, which he informed her presently were a dance.
Till he told her this she watched him too much surprised
to say anything. So did penguins dance in pictures.
She couldn't think what was the matter with him.
When he had done, and told her, breathing a little hard,
that it was a dance symbolic of married happiness, she
laughed and laughed, and flew to hug him.</p>
<p>'Baby, oh, baby!' she said, rubbing her cheek up
and down his coat.</p>
<p>'Who's another baby?' he asked, breathless but
beaming.</p>
<p>Such was their conversation.</p>
<p>But poor Aunt Dot....</p>
<p>Lucy couldn't bear to think of poor little kind Aunt
Dot. She had been so wonderful, so patient, and she
would be deeply horrified by a runaway marriage.
Never, never would she understand the reason for it.
She didn't a bit understand Everard, didn't begin to
understand him, and that his birthday should be a
reason for breaking what she would regard as the common
decencies would of course only seem to her too childish to
be even discussed. Lucy was afraid Aunt Dot was going
to be very much upset, poor darling little Aunt Dot.
Conscience-stricken, she couldn't do enough for Aunt
Dot now that the secret date was fixed. She watched
for every possible want during their times alone, flew
to fetch things, darted at dropped handkerchiefs, kissed
her not only at bedtime and in the morning but whenever
there was the least excuse and with the utmost
tenderness; and every kiss and every look seemed to
say, 'Forgive me.'</p>
<p>'Are they going to run away?' wondered Miss
Entwhistle presently.</p>
<p>Lucy would have been immensely taken aback, and
perhaps, such is one's perversity, even hurt, if she could
have seen the ray of hope which at this thought lit her
Aunt Dot's exhausted mind; for Miss Entwhistle's
life, which had been a particularly ordered and calm
one up to the day when Wemyss first called at Eaton
Terrace, had since then been nothing but just confused
clamour. Everybody was displeased with her, and each
for directly opposite reasons. She had fallen on evil
days, and they had by February been going on so long
that she felt worn out. Wemyss, she was quite aware,
disliked her heartily; her Jim was dead; Lucy, her
one living relation, so tenderly loved, was every day
disappearing further before her very eyes into Wemyss's
personality, into what she sometimes was betrayed by
fatigue and impatience into calling to herself the Wemyss
maw; and her little house, which had always been so
placid, had become, she wearily felt, the cockpit of
London. She used to crawl back to it with footsteps
that lagged more and more the nearer she got, after her
enforced prolonged daily outings—enforced and
prolonged because the house couldn't possibly hold both
herself and Wemyss except for the briefest moments,—and
drearily wonder what letters she would find from
Jim's friends scolding her, and what fresh arrangements
in the way of tiring motor excursions, or invitations to
tea at that dreadful house in Lancaster Gate, would be
sprung upon her. Did all engagements pursue such a
turbulent course? she asked herself,—she had given up
asking the oracle of Chesham Street anything because
of her disconcerting answers. How glad she was she
had never been engaged; how glad she was she had
refused the offers she had had when she was a girl.
Quite recently she had met one of those would-be
husbands in an omnibus, and how glad she was when
she looked at him that she had refused him. People
don't keep well, mused Miss Entwhistle. If Lucy would
only refuse Wemyss now, how glad she would be that she
had when she met him in ten years' time in an omnibus.</p>
<p>But these, of course, were merely the reflections of
a tired-out spinster, and she still had enough spirit to
laugh at them to herself. After all, whatever she might
feel about Wemyss Lucy adored him, and when anybody
adores anybody as much as that, Miss Entwhistle
thought, the only thing to do is to marry and have done
with it. No; that was cynical. She meant, marry
and not have done with it. Ah, if only the child were
marrying that nice young Teddy Trevor, her own age
and so devoted, and with every window-sill throughout
his house in Chelsea the proper height....</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle was very unhappy all this time,
besides having feet that continually ached. Though
she dreaded the marriage, yet she couldn't help feeling
that it would be delicious to be able once more to sit
down. How enchanting to sit quietly in her own empty
drawing-room, and not to have to walk about London
any more. How enchanting not to make any further
attempts to persuade herself that she enjoyed Battersea
Park, and liked the Embankment, and was entertained
by Westminster Abbey. What she wanted with an
increasing longing that amounted at last to desperation
as the winter dragged on, was her own chair by the fire
and an occasional middle-aged crony to tea. She had
reached the time of life when one likes sitting down.
Also she had definitely got to the period of cronies.
One's contemporaries—people who had worn the same
kinds of clothes as oneself in girlhood, who remembered
bishop's sleeves and could laugh with one about bustles—how
very much one longed for one's contemporaries.</p>
<p>When, then, Lucy's behaviour suddenly became so
markedly attentive and so very tender, when she caught
her looking at her with wistful affection and flushing on
being caught, when her good-nights and good-mornings
were many kisses instead of one, and she kept on jumping
up and bringing her teaspoons she hadn't asked for
and sugar she didn't want, Miss Entwhistle began to
revive.</p>
<p>'Is it possible they're going to run away?' she
wondered; and so much reduced was she that she
very nearly hoped so.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XIII</h2>
<p>Lucy had meant to do exactly as Wemyss said and keep
her marriage secret, creeping out of the house quietly,
going off with him abroad after the registrar had bound
them together, and telegraphing or writing to her aunt
from some safe distant place <i>en route</i> like Boulogne;
but on saying good-night the evening before the wedding
day, to her very great consternation her aunt, whom she
was in the act of kissing, suddenly pushed her gently
a little away, looked at her a moment, and then
holding her by both arms said with conviction, 'It's
to-morrow.'</p>
<p>Lucy could only stare. She stared idiotically, open-mouthed,
her face scarlet. She looked and felt both
foolish and frightened. Aunt Dot was uncanny. If
she had discovered, how had she discovered? And
what was she going to do? But had she discovered,
or was it just something she chanced to remember,
some engagement Lucy had naturally forgotten, or
perhaps only somebody coming to tea?</p>
<p>She clutched at this straw. 'What is to-morrow?'
she stammered, scarlet with fright and guilt.</p>
<p>And her aunt made herself perfectly clear by replying,
'Your wedding.'</p>
<p>Then Lucy fell on her neck and cried and told her
everything, and her wonderful, unexpected, uncanny,
adorable little aunt, instead of being upset and making
her feel too wicked and ungrateful to live, was full of
sympathy and understanding. They sobbed together,
sitting on the sofa locked in each other's arms, but it
was a sweet sobbing, for they both felt at this moment
how much they loved each other. Miss Entwhistle
wished she had never had a single critical impatient
thought of the man this darling little child so deeply
loved, and Lucy wished she had never had a single
secret from this darling little aunt Everard so blindly
didn't love. Dear, dear little Aunt Dot. Lucy's heart
was big with gratitude and tenderness and pity,—pity
because she herself was so gloriously happy and
surrounded by love, and Aunt Dot's life seemed, compared
to hers, so empty, so solitary, and going to be like that
till the end of her days; and Miss Entwhistle's heart
was big with yearning over this lamb of Jim's who was
giving herself with such fearlessness, all lit up by radiant
love, into the hands of a strange husband. Presently,
of course, he wouldn't be a strange husband, he would
be a familiar husband; but would he be any the better
for that, she wondered? They sobbed, and kissed,
and sobbed again, each keeping half her thoughts to
herself.</p>
<p>This is how it was that Miss Entwhistle walked into
the registrar's office with Lucy next morning and was
one of the witnesses of the marriage.</p>
<p>Wemyss had a very bad moment when he saw her
come in. His heart gave a great thump, such as it had
never done in his life before, for he thought there was
to be a hitch and that at the very last minute he was
somehow not going to get his Lucy. Then he looked at
Lucy and was reassured. Her face was like the morning
of a perfect day in its cloudlessness, her Love-in-a-Mist
eyes were dewy with tenderness as they rested on him,
and her mouth was twisted up by happiness into the
sweetest, funniest little crooked smile. If only she
would take off her hat, thought Wemyss, bursting with
pride, so that the registrar could see how young she
looked with her short hair,—why, perhaps the old boy
might think she was too young to be married and start
asking searching questions! What fun that would be.</p>
<p>He himself produced the effect on Miss Entwhistle,
as he stood next to Lucy being married, of an enormous
schoolboy who has just won some silver cup or other
for his House after immense exertions. He had exactly
that glowing face of suppressed triumph and pride; he
was red with delighted achievement.</p>
<p>'Put the ring on your wife's finger,' ordered the
registrar when, having got through the first part of
the ceremony, Wemyss, busy beaming down at Lucy,
forgot there was anything more to do. And Lucy
stuck up her hand with all the fingers spread out and
stiff, and her face beamed too with happiness at the
words, 'Your wife.'</p>
<p>'"Nothing is here for tears,"' quoted Miss Entwhistle
to herself, watching the blissful absorption with
which they were both engaged in getting the ring
successfully over the knuckle of the proper finger.
'He really <i>is</i> a—a dear. Yes. Of course. But how
queer life is. I wonder what he was doing this day
last year, he and that poor other wife of his.'</p>
<p>When it was over and they were outside on the
steps, with the taxi Wemyss had come in waiting to
take them to the station, Miss Entwhistle realised that
here was the place and moment of good-bye, and that
not only could she go no further with Lucy but that
from now on she could do nothing more for her. Except
love her. Except listen to her. Ah, she would always
be there to love and listen to her; but happiest of all
it would be for the little thing if she never, from her,
were to need either of those services.</p>
<p>At the last moment she put her hand impulsively
on Wemyss's breast and looked up into
his triumphant, flushed face and said, 'Be kind to
her.'</p>
<p>'Oh, Aunt Dot!' laughed Lucy, turning to hug her
once more.</p>
<p>'Oh, Aunt Dot!' laughed Wemyss, vigorously
shaking her hand.</p>
<p>They went down the steps, leaving her standing alone
on the top, and she watched the departing taxi with the
two heads bobbing up and down at the window and the
four hands waving good-byes. That taxi window could
never have framed in so much triumph, so much radiance
before. Well, well, thought Aunt Dot, going down in
her turn when the last glimpse of them had disappeared,
and walking slowly homeward; and she added, after a
space of further reflection, 'He really <i>is</i> a—a dear.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XIV</h2>
<p>Marriage, Lucy found, was different from what she
had supposed; Everard was different; everything was
different. For one thing she was always sleepy. For
another she was never alone. She hadn't realised how
completely she would never be alone, or, if alone, not
sure for one minute to the other of going on being alone.
Always in her life there had been intervals during
which she recuperated in solitude from any strain;
now there were none. Always there had been places
she could go to and rest in quietly, safe from interruption;
now there were none. The very sight of their
room at the hotels they stayed at, with Wemyss's suitcases
and clothes piled on the chairs, and the table
covered with his brushes and shaving things, for he
wouldn't have a dressing-room, being too natural and
wholesome, he explained, to want anything separate
from his own woman—the very sight of this room
fatigued her. After a day of churches, pictures and
restaurants—he was a most conscientious sightseer,
besides being greatly interested in his meals—to come
back to this room wasn't rest but further fatigue.
Wemyss, who was never tired and slept wonderfully—it
was the soundness of his sleep that kept her awake,
because she wasn't used to hearing sound sleep so
close—would fling himself into the one easy-chair and
pull her on to his knee, and having kissed her a great
many times he would ruffle her hair, and then when
it was all on ends like a boy's coming out of a bath,
look at her with the pride of possession and say, 'There's
a wife for a respectable British business man to have!
Mrs. Wemyss, aren't you ashamed of yourself?' And
then there would be more kissing,—jovial, gluttonous
kisses, that made her skin rough and chapped.</p>
<p>'Baby,' she would say, feebly struggling, and smiling
a little wearily.</p>
<p>Yes, he was a baby, a dear, high-spirited baby, but
a baby now at very close quarters and one that went
on all the time. You couldn't put him in a cot and
give him a bottle and say, 'There now,' and then sit
down quietly to a little sewing; you didn't have Sundays
out; you were never, day or night, an instant off duty.
Lucy couldn't count the number of times a day she had
to answer the question, 'Who's my own little wife?'
At first she answered it with laughing ecstasy, running
into his outstretched arms, but very soon that fatal
sleepiness set in and remained with her for the whole
of her honeymoon, and she really felt too tired sometimes
to get the ecstasy she quickly got to know was
expected of her into her voice. She loved him, she was
indeed his own little wife, but constantly to answer
this and questions like it satisfactorily was a great
exertion. Yet if there was a shadow of hesitation
before she answered, a hair's-breadth of delay owing to
her thoughts having momentarily wandered, Wemyss was
upset, and she had to spend quite a long time reassuring
him with the fondest whispers and caresses. Her
thoughts mustn't wander, she had discovered; her
thoughts were to be his as well as all the rest of her.
Was ever a girl so much loved? she asked herself,
astonished and proud; but, on the other hand, she
was dreadfully sleepy.</p>
<p>Any thinking she did had to be done at night, when
she lay awake because of the immense emphasis with
which Wemyss slept, and she hadn't been married a
week before she was reflecting what a bad arrangement
it was, the way ecstasy seemed to have no staying power.
Also it oughtn't to begin, she considered, at its topmost
height and accordingly not be able to move except
downwards. If one could only start modestly in
marriage with very little of it and work steadily upwards,
taking one's time, knowing there was more and more
to come, it would be much better she thought. No
doubt it would go on longer if one slept better and hadn't,
consequently, got headaches. Everard's ecstasy went
on. Perhaps by ecstasy she really meant high spirits,
and Everard was beside himself with high spirits.</p>
<p>Wemyss was indeed the typical bridegroom of the
Psalms, issuing forth rejoicing from his chamber. Lucy
wished she could issue forth from it rejoicing too. She
was vexed with herself for being so stupidly sleepy, for
not being able to get used to the noise beside her at
night and go to sleep as naturally as she did in Eaton
Terrace, in spite of the horns of taxis. It wasn't fair
to Everard, she felt, not to find a wife in the morning
matching him in spirits. Perhaps, however, this was a
condition peculiar to honeymoons, and marriage, once
the honeymoon was over, would be a more tranquil state.
Things would settle down when they were back in
England, to a different, more separated life in which
there would be time to rest, time to think; time to
remember, while he was away at his office, how deeply
she loved him. And surely she would learn to sleep;
and once she slept properly she would be able to answer
his loving questions throughout the day with more
real <i>élan</i>.</p>
<p>But,—there in England waiting for her, inevitable,
no longer to be put off or avoided, was The Willows.
Whenever her thoughts reached that house they gave
a little jump and tried to slink away. She was ashamed
of herself, it was ridiculous, and Everard's attitude was
plainly the sensible one, and if he could adopt it surely
she, who hadn't gone through that terrible afternoon
last July, could; yet she failed to see herself in The
Willows, she failed altogether to imagine it. How, for
instance, was she going to sit on that terrace,—'We
always have tea in fine weather on the terrace,' Wemyss
had casually remarked, apparently quite untouched by
the least memory—how was she going to have tea on
the very flags perhaps where.... Her thoughts slunk
away; but not before one of them had sent a curdling
whisper through her mind, '<i>The tea would taste of blood</i>.'</p>
<p>Well, this was sleeplessness. She never in her life
had had that sort of absurd thought. It was just that
she didn't sleep, and so her brain was relaxed and let
the reins of her thinking go slack. The day her father
died, it's true, when it began to be evening and she was
afraid of the night alone with him in his mysterious
indifference, she had begun thinking absurdly, but
Everard had come and saved her. He could save her
from this too if she could tell him; only she couldn't
tell him. How could she spoil his joy in his home?
It was the thing he loved next best to her.</p>
<p>As the honeymoon went on and Wemyss's ecstasies
a little subsided, as he began to tire of so many trains—after
Paris they did the châteaux country—and hotels
and waiters and taxis and restaurants, and the cooking
which he had at first enjoyed now only increased his
longing at every meal for a plain English steak and boiled
potatoes, he talked more and more of The Willows.
With almost the same eagerness as that which had so
much enchanted and moved her before their marriage
when he talked of their wedding day, he now talked of
The Willows and the day when he would show it to her.
He counted the days now to that day. The 4th of
April; his birthday; on that happy day he would lead
his little wife into the home he loved. How could she,
when he talked like that, do anything but pretend
enthusiasm and looking forward? He had apparently
entirely forgotten what she had told him about her
reluctance to go there at Christmas. She was astonished
that, when the first bliss of being married to her had
worn off and his thoughts were free for this other thing
he so much loved, his home, he didn't approach it with
more care for what he must know was her feeling about
it. She was still more astonished when she realised
that he had entirely forgotten her feeling about it. It
would be, she felt, impossible to shadow his happiness
at the prospect of showing her his home by any reminder
of her reluctance. Besides, she was certainly going to
have to live at The Willows, so what was the use of
talking?</p>
<p>'I suppose,' she did say hesitatingly one day when
he was describing it to her for the hundredth time, for
it was his habit to describe the same thing often, 'you've
changed your room——?'</p>
<p>They were sitting at the moment, resting after the
climb up, on one of the terraces of the Château of
Amboise, with a view across the Loire of an immense
horizon, and Wemyss had been comparing it, to its
disadvantage, when he recovered his breath, with the
view from his bedroom window at The Willows. It
wasn't very nice weather, and they both were cold and
tired, and it was still only eleven o'clock in the morning.</p>
<p>'Change my room? What room?' he asked.</p>
<p>'Your—the room you and—the room you slept in.'</p>
<p>'My bedroom? I should think not. It's the best
room in the house. Why do you think I've changed
it?' And he looked at her with a surprised face.</p>
<p>'Oh, I don't know,' said Lucy, taking refuge in
stroking his hand. 'I only thought——'</p>
<p>An inkling of what was in her mind penetrated into
his, and his voice went grave.</p>
<p>'You mustn't think,' he said. 'You mustn't be
morbid. Now Lucy, I can't have that. It will spoil
everything if you let yourself be morbid. And you
promised me before our marriage you wouldn't be.
Have you forgotten?'</p>
<p>He turned to her and took her face in both his hands
and searched her eyes with his own very solemn ones,
while the woman who was conducting them over the
castle went to the low parapet, and stood with her back
to them studying the view and yawning.</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard—of course I haven't forgotten. I've
not forgotten anything I promised you, and never will.
But—have I got to go into that bedroom too?'</p>
<p>He was really astonished. 'Have you got to go into
that bedroom too?' he repeated, staring at the face
enclosed in his two big hands. It looked extraordinarily
pretty like that, like a small flower in its delicate whiteness
next to his discoloured, middle-aged hands, and
her mouth since her marriage seemed to have become
an even more vivid red than it used to be, and her eyes
were young enough to be made more beautiful instead
of less by the languor of want of sleep. 'Well, I should
think so. Aren't you my wife?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy. 'But——'</p>
<p>'Now, Lucy, I'll have no buts,' he said, with his
most serious air, kissing her on the cheek, she had
discovered that just that kind of kiss was a rebuke.
'Those buts of yours butt in——'</p>
<p>He stopped, struck by what he had said.</p>
<p>'I think that was rather amusing—don't you?' he
asked, suddenly smiling.</p>
<p>'Oh yes—very,' said Lucy eagerly, smiling too,
delighted that he should switch off from solemnity.</p>
<p>He kissed her again,—this time a real kiss, on her
funny, charming mouth.</p>
<p>'I suppose you'll admit,' he said, laughing and
squeezing up her face into a quaint crumpled shape,
'that either you're my wife or not my wife, and that
if you're my wife——'</p>
<p>'Oh, I'm <i>that</i> all right,' laughed Lucy.</p>
<p>'Then you share my room. None of these damned
new-fangled notions for me, young woman.'</p>
<p>'Oh, but I didn't mean——'</p>
<p>'What? Another but?' he exclaimed, pouncing
down on to her mouth and stopping it with an
enormous kiss.</p>
<p>'<i>Monsieur et Madame se refroidiront</i>,' said the woman,
turning round and drawing her shawl closer over her
chest as a gust of chilly wind swept over the terrace.</p>
<p>They were honeymooners, poor creatures, and therefore
one had patience; but even honeymooners oughtn't
to wish to embrace in a cold wind on an exposed terrace
of a château round which they were being conducted
by a woman who was in a hurry to return to the preparation
of her Sunday dinner. For such purposes hotels
were provided, and the shelter of a comfortable warm
room. She had supposed them to be <i>père et fille</i> when
first she admitted them, but was soon aware of their
real relationship. '<i>Il doit être bien riche</i>,' had been her
conclusion.</p>
<p>'Come along, come along,' said Wemyss, getting up
quickly, for he too felt the gust of cold wind. 'Let's
finish the château or we'll be late for lunch. I wish
they hadn't preserved so many of these places—one
would have been quite enough to show us the sort
of thing.'</p>
<p>'But we needn't go and look at them all,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Oh yes we must. We've arranged to.'</p>
<p>'But Everard——' began Lucy, following after him
as he followed after the conductress, who had a way of
darting out of sight round corners.</p>
<p>'This woman's like a lizard,' panted Wemyss, arriving
round a corner only to see her disappear through an
arch. 'Won't we be happy when it's time to go back
to England and not have to see any more sights.'</p>
<p>'But why don't we go back now, if you feel like it?'
asked Lucy, trotting after him as he on his big legs
pursued the retreating conductress, and anxious to
show him, by eagerness to go sooner to The Willows than
was arranged, that she wasn't being morbid.</p>
<p>'Why, you know we can't leave before the 3rd of
April,' said Wemyss, over his shoulder. 'It's all
settled.'</p>
<p>'But can't it be unsettled?'</p>
<p>'What, and upset all the plans, and arrive home
before my birthday?' He stopped and turned round
to stare at her. 'Really, my dear——' he said.</p>
<p>She had discovered that my dear was a term of
rebuke.</p>
<p>'Oh yes—of course,' she said hastily, 'I forgot
about your birthday.'</p>
<p>At that Wemyss stared at her harder than ever;
incredulously, in fact. Forgot about his birthday?
<i>Lucy</i> had forgotten? If it had been Vera, now—but
Lucy? He was deeply hurt. He was so much hurt
that he stood quite still, and the conductress was
obliged, on discovering that she was no longer being
followed, to wait once more for the honeymooners;
which she did, clutching her shawl round her abundant
French chest and shivering.</p>
<p>What had she said, Lucy hurriedly asked herself,
nipping over her last words in her mind, for she had
learned by now what he looked like when he was hurt.
Oh yes,—the birthday. How stupid of her. But it
was because birthdays in her family were so unimportant,
and nobody had minded whether they were remembered
or not.</p>
<p>'I didn't mean that,' she said earnestly, laying her
hand on his breast. 'Of course I hadn't forgotten
anything so precious. It only had—well, you know
what even the most wonderful things do sometimes—it—it
had escaped my memory.'</p>
<p>'Lucy! Escaped your memory? The day to which
you owe your husband?'</p>
<p>Wemyss said this with such an exaggerated solemnity,
such an immense pomposity, that she thought he was in
fun and hadn't really minded about the birthday at all;
and, eager to meet every mood of his, she laughed.
Relieved, she was so unfortunate as to laugh merrily.</p>
<p>To her consternation, after a moment's further stare
he turned his back on her without a word and walked on.</p>
<p>Then she realised what she had done, that she had
laughed—oh, how dreadful!—in the wrong place, and
she ran after him and put her arm through his, and
tried to lay her cheek against his sleeve, which was
difficult because of the way their paces didn't match
and also because he took no notice of her, and said,
'Baby—baby—were his dear feelings hurt, then?' and
coaxed him.</p>
<p>But he wouldn't be coaxed. She had wounded him
too deeply,—laughing, he said to himself, at what was
to him the most sacred thing in life, the fact that he
was her husband, that she was his wife.</p>
<p>'Oh, Everard,' she murmured at last, withdrawing
her arm, giving up, 'don't spoil our day.'</p>
<p>Spoil their day? He? That finished it.</p>
<p>He didn't speak to her again till night. Then, in
bed, after she had cried bitterly for a long while, because
she couldn't make out what really had happened, and
she loved him so much, and wouldn't hurt him for
the world, and was heart-broken because she had, and
anyhow was tired out, he at last turned to her and took
her to his arms again and forgave her.</p>
<p>'I can't live,' sobbed Lucy, 'I can't live—if you
don't go on loving me—if we don't understand——'</p>
<p>'My little Love,' said Wemyss, melted by the way
her small body was shaking in his arms, and rather
frightened, too, at the excess of her woe. 'My little
Love don't. You mustn't. Your Everard loves you,
and you mustn't give way like this. You'll be ill.
Think how miserable you'd make him then.'</p>
<p>And in the dark he kissed away her tears, and held
her close till her sobbing quieted down; and presently,
held close like that, his kisses shutting her smarting eyes,
she now the baby comforted and reassured, and he the
soothing nurse, she fell asleep, and for the first time
since her marriage slept all night.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XV</h2>
<p>Early in their engagement Wemyss had expounded his
theory to Lucy that there should be the most perfect
frankness between lovers, while as for husband and wife
there oughtn't to be a corner anywhere about either of
them, mind, body, or soul, which couldn't be revealed
to the other one.</p>
<p>'You can talk about everything to your Everard,'
he assured her. 'Tell him your innermost thoughts,
whatever they may be. You need no more be ashamed
of telling him than of thinking them by yourself. He
<i>is</i> you. You and he are one in mind and soul now,
and when he is your husband you and he will become
perfect and complete by being one in body as well.
Everard—Lucy. Lucy—Everard. We shan't know
where one ends and the other begins. That, little Love,
is real marriage. What do you think of it?'</p>
<p>Lucy thought so highly of it that she had no words
with which to express her admiration, and fell to kissing
him instead. What ideal happiness, to be for ever
removed from the fear of loneliness by the simple
expedient of being doubled; and who so happy as herself
to have found the exactly right person for this doubling,
one she could so perfectly agree with and understand?
She felt quite sorry she had nothing in her mind in the
way of thoughts she was ashamed of to tell him then
and there, but there wasn't a doubt, there wasn't a
shred of anything a little wrong, not even an unworthy
suspicion. Her mind was a chalice filled only with love,
and so clear and bright was the love that even at the
bottom, when she stirred it up to look, there wasn't a
trace of sediment.</p>
<p>But marriage—or was it sleeplessness?—completely
changed this, and there were perfect crowds of thoughts
in her mind that she was thoroughly ashamed of.
Remembering his words, and whole-heartedly agreeing
that to be able to tell each other everything, to have
no concealments, was real marriage, the day after her
wedding she first of all reminded him of what he had
said, then plunged bravely into the announcement that
she'd got a thought she was ashamed of.</p>
<p>Wemyss pricked up his ears, thinking it was something
interesting to do with sex, and waited with an
amused, inquisitive smile. But Lucy in such matters
was content to follow him, aware of her want of
experience and of the abundance of his, and the thought
that was worrying her only had to do with a waiter.
A waiter, if you please.</p>
<p>Wemyss's smile died away. He had had occasion
to reprimand this waiter at lunch for gross negligence,
and here was Lucy alleging he had done so without
any reason that she could see, and anyhow roughly.
Would he remove the feeling of discomfort she had at
being forced to think her own heart's beloved, the kindest
and gentlest of men, hadn't been kind and gentle but
unjust, by explaining?</p>
<p>Well, that was at the very beginning. She soon
learned that a doubt in her mind was better kept there.
If she brought it out to air it and dispel it by talking
it over with him, all that happened was that he was
hurt, and when he was hurt she instantly became
perfectly miserable. Seeing, then, that this happened
about small things, how impossible it was to talk with
him of big things; of, especially, her immense doubt in
regard to The Willows. For a long while she was sure
he was bearing her feeling in mind, since it couldn't
have changed since Christmas, and that when she
arrived there she would find that he had had everything
altered and all traces of Vera's life there removed.
Then, when he began to talk about The Willows, she
found that such an idea as alterations hadn't entered
his head. She was to sleep in the very room that had
been his and Vera's, in the very bed. And positively,
so far was it from true that she could tell him every
thought and talk everything over with him, when
she discovered this she wasn't able to say more than
that hesitating remark on the château terrace at Amboise
about supposing he was going to change his bedroom.</p>
<p>Yet The Willows haunted her, and what a comfort
it would have been to tell him all she felt and let
him help her to get rid of her growing obsession by
laughing at her. What a comfort if, even if he had
thought her too silly and morbid to be laughed at,
he had indulged her and consented to alter those
rooms. But one learns a lot on a honeymoon, Lucy
reflected, and one of the things she had learned was
that Wemyss's mind was always made up. There
seemed to be no moment when it was in a condition of
becoming, and she might have slipped in a suggestion
or laid a wish before him; his plans were sprung upon
her full fledged, and they were unalterable. Sometimes
he said, 'Would you like——?' and if she didn't
like, and answered truthfully, as she answered at first
before she learned not to, there was trouble. Silent
trouble. A retiring of Wemyss into a hurt aloofness,
for his question was only decorative, and his little Love
should instinctively, he considered, like what he liked;
and there outside this aloofness, after efforts to get
at him with fond and anxious questions, she sat like a
beggar in patient distress, waiting for him to emerge
and be kind to her.</p>
<p>Of course as far as the minor wishes and preferences
of every day went it was all quite easy, once she had
grasped the right answer to the question, 'Would you
like?' She instantly did like. 'Oh yes—<i>very</i> much!'
she hastened to assure him; and then his face continued
content and happy instead of clouding with aggrievement.
But about the big things it wasn't easy, because
of the difficulty of getting the right flavour of enthusiasm
into her voice, and if she didn't get it in he would put
his finger under her chin and turn her to the light
and repeat the question in a solemn voice,—precursor,
she had learned, of the beginning of the cloud on his
face.</p>
<p>How difficult it was sometimes. When he said to
her, 'You'll like the view from your sitting-room at
The Willows,' she naturally wanted to cry out that
she wouldn't, and ask him how he could suppose she
would like what was to her a view for ever associated
with death? Why shouldn't she be able to cry out
naturally if she wanted to, to talk to him frankly, to
get his help to cure herself of what was so ridiculous
by laughing at it with him? She couldn't laugh all
alone, though she was always trying to; with him she
could have, and so have become quite sensible. For
he was so much bigger than she was, so wonderful in
the way he had triumphed over diseased thinking, and
his wholesomeness would spread over her too, a purging,
disinfecting influence, if only he would let her talk, if
only he would help her to laugh. Instead, she found
herself hurriedly saying in a small, anxious voice, 'Oh
yes—<i>very</i> much!'</p>
<p>'Is it possible,' she thought, 'that I am abject?'</p>
<p>Yes, she was extremely abject, she reflected, lying
awake at night considering her behaviour during the
day. Love had made her so. Love did make one
abject, for it was full of fear of hurting the beloved.
The assertion of the Scriptures that perfect love casteth
out fear only showed, seeing that her love for Everard
was certainly perfect, how little the Scriptures really
knew what they were talking about.</p>
<p>Well, if she couldn't tell him the things she was
feeling, why couldn't she get rid of the sorts of feelings
she couldn't tell him, and just be wholesome? Why
couldn't she be at least as wholesome about going to
that house as Everard? If anybody was justified in
shrinking from The Willows it was Everard, not herself.
Sometimes Lucy would be sure that deep in his character
there was a wonderful store of simple courage.
He didn't speak of Vera's death, naturally he didn't
wish to speak of that awful afternoon, but how often
he must think of it, hiding his thoughts even from her,
bearing them altogether alone. Sometimes she was sure
of this, and sometimes she was equally sure of the very
opposite. From the way he looked, the way he spoke,
from those tiny indications that one somehow has
noticed without knowing that one has noticed and that
are so far more revealing and conclusive than any words,
she sometimes was sure he really had forgotten. But
this was too incredible. She couldn't believe it. What
had perhaps happened, she thought, was that in self-defence,
for the preservation of his peace, he had made
up his mind never to think of Vera. Only by banishing
her altogether from his mind would he be safe. Yet
that couldn't be true either, for several times on the
honeymoon he had begun talking of her, of things she
had said, of things she had liked, and it was she, Lucy,
who stopped him. She shrank from hearing anything
about Vera. She especially shrank from hearing her
mentioned casually. She was ready to brace herself
to talk about her if it was to be a serious talk, because
she wanted to help and comfort him whenever the
remembrance of her death arose to torment him, but
she couldn't bear to hear her mentioned casually. In
a way she admired this casualness, because it was a
proof of the supreme wholesomeness Everard had
attained to by sheer courageous determination, but
even so she couldn't help thinking that she would have
preferred a little less of just this kind of wholesomeness
in her beloved. She might be too morbid, but wasn't
it possible to be too wholesome? Anyhow she shrank
from the intrusion of Vera into her honeymoon. That,
at least, ought to be kept free from her. Later on at
The Willows....</p>
<p>Lucy fought and fought against it, but always at
the back of her mind was the thought, not looked at,
slunk away from, but nevertheless fixed, that there at
The Willows, waiting for her, was Vera.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XVI</h2>
<p>Those who go to Strorley, and cross the bridge to the
other side of the river, have only to follow the towpath
for a little to come to The Willows. It can also be
reached by road, through a white gate down a lane
that grows more and more willowy as it gets nearer the
river and the house, but is quite passable for carts and
even for cars, except when there are floods. When
there are floods this lane disappears, and when the
floods have subsided it is black and oozing for a long
time afterwards, with clouds of tiny flies dancing about
in it if the weather is at all warm, and the shoes of those
who walk stick in it and come off, and those who drive,
especially if they drive a car, have trouble. But all
is well once a second white gate is reached, on the
other side of which is a gravel sweep, a variety of
handsome shrubs, nicely kept lawns, and The Willows.
There are no big trees in the garden of The Willows,
because it was built in the middle of meadows where
there weren't any, but all round the iron railings of
the square garden—the house being the centre of the
square—and concealing the wire netting which keeps
the pasturing cows from thrusting their heads through
and eating the shrubs, is a fringe of willows. Hence
its name.</p>
<p>'A house,' said Wemyss, explaining its name to
Lucy on the morning of their arrival, 'should always
be named after whatever most insistently catches
the eye.'</p>
<p>'Then oughtn't it to have been called The Cows?'
asked Lucy; for the meadows round were strewn
thickly as far as she could see with recumbent cows,
and they caught her eye much more than the tossing
bare willow branches.</p>
<p>'No,' said Wemyss, annoyed. 'It ought not have
been called The Cows.'</p>
<p>'No—of course I didn't mean that,' she said hastily.</p>
<p>Lucy was nervous, and said what first came into
her head, and had been saying things of this nature
the whole journey down. She didn't want to, she
knew he didn't like it, but she couldn't stop.</p>
<p>They had just arrived, and were standing on the
front steps while the servants unloaded the fly that
had brought them from the station, and Wemyss was
pointing out what he wished her to look at and admire
from that raised-up place before taking her indoors.
Lucy was glad of any excuse that delayed going indoors,
that kept her on the west side of the house, furthest
away from the terrace and the library window. Indoors
would be the rooms, the unaltered rooms, the library
past whose window..., the sitting-room at the top
of the house out of whose window..., the bedroom
she was going to sleep in with the very bed.... It was
too miserably absurd, too unbalanced of her for anything
but shame and self-contempt, how she couldn't
get away from the feeling that indoors waiting for her
would be Vera.</p>
<p>It was a grey, windy morning, with low clouds
scurrying across the meadows. The house was raised
well above flood level, and standing on the top step
she could see how far the meadows stretched beyond
the swaying willow hedge. Grey sky, grey water, green
fields,—it was all grey and green except the house,
which was red brick with handsome stone facings, and
made, in its exposed position unhidden by any trees,
a great splotch of vivid red in the landscape.</p>
<p>'Like blood,' said Lucy to herself; and was
immediately ashamed.</p>
<p>'Oh, how bracing!' she cried, spreading out her
arms and letting the wind blow her serge wrap out
behind her like a flag. It whipped her skirt round
her body, showing its slender pretty lines, and the
parlourmaid, going in and out with the luggage, looked
curiously at this small juvenile new mistress. 'Oh, I
love this wind—don't take me indoors yet——'</p>
<p>Wemyss was pleased that she should like the wind,
for was it not by the time it reached his house part, too,
of his property? His face, which had clouded a little
because of The Cows, cleared again.</p>
<p>But she didn't really like the wind at all, she never
had liked anything that blustered and was cold, and if
she hadn't been nervous the last thing she would have
done was to stand there letting it blow her to pieces.</p>
<p>'And what a lot of laurels!' she exclaimed, holding
on her hat with one hand and with the other pointing
to a corner filled with these shrubs.</p>
<p>'Yes. I'll take you round the garden after lunch,'
said Wemyss. 'We'll go in now.'</p>
<p>'And—and laurustinus. I love laurustinus——'</p>
<p>'Yes. Vera planted that. It has done very well.
Come in now——'</p>
<p>'And—look, what are those bare things without any
leaves yet?'</p>
<p>'I'll show you everything after lunch, Lucy. Come
in——' And he put his arm about her shoulders, and
urged her through the door the maid was holding open
with difficulty because of the wind.</p>
<p>There she was, then, actually inside The Willows.
The door was shut behind her. She looked about her
shrinkingly.</p>
<p>They were in a roomy place with a staircase in it.</p>
<p>'The hall,' said Wemyss, standing still, his arm
round her.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Oak,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>He gazed round him with a sigh of satisfaction at
having got back to it.</p>
<p>'All oak,' he said. 'You'll find nothing gimcrack
about <i>my</i> house, little Love. Where are those flowers?'
he added, turning sharply to the parlourmaid. 'I
don't see my yellow flowers.'</p>
<p>'They're in the dining-room, sir,' said the parlourmaid.</p>
<p>'Why aren't they where I could see them the first
thing?'</p>
<p>'I understood the orders were they were always to
be on the breakfast-table, sir.'</p>
<p>'Breakfast-table! When there isn't any breakfast?'</p>
<p>'I understood——'</p>
<p>'I'm not interested in what you understood.'</p>
<p>Lucy here nervously interrupted, for Everard sounded
suddenly very angry, by exclaiming, 'Antlers!' and waving
her unpinned-down arm in the direction of the——</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Wemyss, his attention called off the
parlourmaid, gazing up at his walls with pride.</p>
<p>'What a lot,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Aren't there. I always said I'd have a hall with
antlers in it, and I've got it.' He hugged her close
to his side. 'And I've got you too,' he said. 'I always
get what I'm determined to get.'</p>
<p>'Did you shoot them all yourself?' asked Lucy,
thinking the parlourmaid would take the opportunity
to disappear, and a little surprised that she continued
to stand there.</p>
<p>'What? The beasts they belonged to? Not I.
If you want antlers the simple way is to go and buy them.
Then you get them all at once, and not gradually. The
hall was ready for them all at once, not gradually. I
got these at Whiteley's. Kiss me.'</p>
<p>This sudden end to his remarks startled Lucy, and
she repeated in her surprise—for there still stood the
parlourmaid 'Kiss you?'</p>
<p>'I haven't had my birthday kiss yet.'</p>
<p>'Why, the very first thing when you woke up——'</p>
<p>'Not my real birthday kiss in my own home.'</p>
<p>She looked at the parlourmaid, who was quite frankly
looking at her. Well, if the parlourmaid didn't mind,
and Everard didn't mind, why should she mind?</p>
<p>She lifted her face and kissed him; but she didn't
like kissing him or being kissed in public. What was
the point of it? Kissing Everard was a great delight
to her. A mixture of all sorts of wonderful sensations,
and she loved to do it in different ways, tenderly,
passionately, lingeringly, dreamily, amusingly, solemnly;
each kind in turn, or in varied combinations. But
among her varied combinations there was nothing that
included a parlourmaid. Consequently her kiss was of
the sort that was to be expected, perfunctory and
brief, whereupon Wemyss said, 'Lucy——' in his hurt
voice.</p>
<p>She started.</p>
<p>'Oh Everard—what is it?' she asked nervously.</p>
<p>That particular one of his voices always by now made
her start, for it always took her by surprise. Pick her
way as carefully as she might among his feelings there
were always some, apparently, that she hadn't dreamed
were there and that she accordingly knocked against.
How dreadful if she had hurt him the very first thing
on getting into The Willows! And on his birthday
too. From the moment he woke that morning, all the
way down in the train, all the way in the fly from the
station, she had been unremittingly engaged in avoiding
hurting him; an activity made extra difficult by the
unfortunate way her nervousness about the house at
the journey's end impelled her to say the kinds of things
she least wanted to. Irreverent things; such as the
silly remark on his house's name. She had got on much
better the evening before at the house in Lancaster
Gate where they had slept, because gloomy as it was it
anyhow wasn't The Willows. Also there was no trace
in it that she could see of such a thing as a woman ever
having lived in it. It was a man's house; the house
of a man who has no time for pictures, or interesting
books and furniture. It was like a club and an office
mixed up together, with capacious leather chairs and
solid tables and Turkey carpets and reference books.
She found it quite impossible to imagine Vera, or any
other woman, in that house. Either Vera had spent
most of her time at The Willows, or every trace of her
had been very carefully removed. Therefore Lucy,
helped besides by extreme fatigue, for she had been
sea-sick all the way from Dieppe to Newhaven, Wemyss
having crossed that way because he was fond of the
sea, had positively been unable to think of Vera in
those surroundings and had dropped off to sleep directly
she got there and had slept all night; and of course being
asleep she naturally hadn't said anything she oughtn't
to have said, so that her first appearance in Lancaster
Gate was a success; and when she woke next morning,
and saw Wemyss's face in such unclouded tranquillity
next to hers as he still slept, she lay gazing at it with
her heart brimming with tender love and vowed that
his birthday should be as unclouded throughout as his
dear face was at that moment. She adored him. He
was her very life. She wanted nothing in the world
except for him to be happy. She would watch every
word. She really must see to it that on this day of
all days no word should escape her before it had been
turned round in her head at least three times, and
considered with the utmost care. Such were her resolutions
in the morning; and here she was not only saying
the wrong things but doing them. It was because she
hadn't expected to be told to kiss him in the presence
of a parlourmaid. She was always being tripped up
by the unexpected. She ought by now to have learned
better. How unfortunate.</p>
<p>'Oh Everard—what is it?' she asked nervously;
but she knew before he could answer, and throwing her
objections to public caresses to the winds, for anything
was better than that he should be hurt at just that
moment, she put up her free arm and drew his head
down and kissed him again,—lingeringly this time, a
kiss of tender, appealing love. What must it be like,
she thought while she kissed him and her heart yearned
over him, to be so fearfully sensitive. It made things
difficult for her, but how much, much more difficult
for him. And how wonderful the way his sensitiveness
had developed since marriage. There had been no sign
of it before.</p>
<p>Implicit in her kiss was an appeal not to let anything
she said or did spoil his birthday, to forgive her, to
understand. And at the back of her mind, quite
uncontrollable, quite unauthorised, ran beneath these other
thoughts this thought: 'I am certainly abject.'</p>
<p>This time he was quickly placated because of his
excitement at getting home. 'Nobody can hurt me
as you can,' was all he said.</p>
<p>'Oh but as though I ever, ever mean to,' she breathed,
her arm round his neck.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the parlourmaid looked on.</p>
<p>'Why doesn't she go?' whispered Lucy, making the
most of having got his ear.</p>
<p>'Certainly not,' said Wemyss out loud, raising his
head. 'I might want her. Do you like the hall,
little Love?'</p>
<p>'<i>Very</i> much,' she said, loosing him.</p>
<p>'Don't you think it's a very fine staircase?'</p>
<p>'<i>Very</i> fine,' she said.</p>
<p>He gazed about him with pride, standing in the
middle of the Turkey carpet holding her close to
his side.</p>
<p>'Now look at the window,' he said, turning her
round when she had had time to absorb the staircase.
'Look—isn't it a jolly window? No nonsense about
that window. You can really see out of it, and it really
lets in light. Vera'—she winced—'tried to stuff it
all up with curtains. She said she wanted colour, or
something. Having got a beautiful garden to look out
at, what does she try to do but shut most of it out again
by putting up curtains.'</p>
<p>The attempt had evidently not succeeded, for the
window, which was as big as a window in the waiting-room
of a London terminus, had nothing to interfere
with it but the hanging cord of a drawn-up brown holland
blind. Through it Lucy could see the whole half of
the garden on the right side of the front door with the
tossing willow hedge, the meadows, and the cows. The
leafless branches of some creeper beat against it and
made a loud irregular tapping in the pauses of Wemyss's
observations.</p>
<p>'Plate glass,' he said.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy; and something in his voice made
her add in a tone of admiration, 'Fancy.'</p>
<p>Looking at the window they had their backs to the
stairs. Suddenly she heard footsteps coming down
them from the landing above.</p>
<p>'Who's that?' she said quickly, with a little gasp,
before she could think, before she could stop, not
turning her head, her eyes staring at the window.</p>
<p>'Who's what?' asked Wemyss. 'You do think it's
a jolly window, don't you, little Love?'</p>
<p>The footsteps on the stairs stopped, and a gong she
had noticed at the angle of the turn was sounded. Her
body, which had shrunk together, relaxed. What a
fool she was.</p>
<p>'Lunch,' said Wemyss. 'Come along—but isn't it
a jolly window, little Love?'</p>
<p>'<i>Very</i> jolly.'</p>
<p>He turned her round to march her off to the dining-room,
while the housemaid, who had come down from
the landing, continued to beat the gong, though there
they were obeying it under her very nose.</p>
<p>'Don't you think that's a good place to have a
gong?' he asked, raising his voice because the gong,
which had begun quietly, was getting rapidly louder.
'Then when you're upstairs in your sitting-room you'll
hear it just as distinctly as if you were downstairs.
Vera——'</p>
<p>But what he was going to say about Vera was drowned
this time in the increasing fury of the gong.</p>
<p>'Why doesn't she leave off?' Lucy tried to call out
to him, straining her voice to its utmost, for the maid
was very good at the gong and was now extracting
the dreadfullest din out of it.</p>
<p>'Eh?' shouted Wemyss.</p>
<p>In the dining-room, whither they were preceded by
the parlourmaid, who at last had left off standing still
and had opened the door for them, as Lucy could hear
the gong continuing to be beaten though muffled now
by doors and distance, she again said, 'Why doesn't she
leave off?'</p>
<p>Wemyss took out his watch.</p>
<p>'She will in another fifty seconds,' he said.</p>
<p>Lucy's mouth and eyebrows became all inquiry.</p>
<p>'It is beaten for exactly two and a half minutes
before every meal,' he explained.</p>
<p>'Oh?' said Lucy. 'Even when we're visibly
collected?'</p>
<p>'She doesn't know that.'</p>
<p>'But she saw us.'</p>
<p>'But she doesn't know it officially.'</p>
<p>'Oh,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'I had to make that rule,' said Wemyss, arranging
his knives and forks more accurately beside his plate,
'because they would leave off beating it almost as soon
as they'd begun, and then Vera was late and her excuse
was that she hadn't heard. For a time after that I
used to have it beaten all up the stairs right to the
door of her sitting-room. Isn't it a fine gong?
Listen——' And he raised his hand.</p>
<p>'<i>Very</i> fine,' said Lucy, who was thoroughly convinced
there wasn't a finer, more robust gong in
existence.</p>
<p>'There. Time's up,' he said, as three great strokes
were followed by a blessed silence.</p>
<p>He pulled out his watch again. 'Let's see. Yes—to
the tick. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had to
get them to keep time.'</p>
<p>'It's wonderful,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>The dining-room was a narrow room full of a table.
It had a window facing west and a window facing north,
and in spite of the uninterrupted expanses of plate glass
was a bleak, dark room. But then the weather was
bleak and dark, and one saw such a lot of it out of the
two big windows as one sat at the long table and watched
the rolling clouds blowing straight towards one from
the north-west; for Lucy's place was facing the north
window, on Wemyss's left hand. Wemyss sat at the
end of the table facing the west window. The table
was so long that if Lucy had sat in the usual seat of
wives, opposite her husband, communication would
have been difficult,—indeed, as she remarked, she would
have disappeared below the dip of the horizon.</p>
<p>'I like a long table,' said Wemyss to this. 'It looks
so hospitable.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy a little doubtfully, but willing to
admit that its length at least showed a readiness for
hospitality. 'I suppose it does. Or it would if there
were people all round it.'</p>
<p>'People? You don't mean to say you want people
already?'</p>
<p>'Good heavens no,' said Lucy hastily.' Of course
I don't. Why, of course, Everard, I didn't mean that,'
she added, laying her hand on his and smiling at him
so as to dispel the gathering cloud on his face; and once
more she flung all thoughts of the parlourmaid to the
winds. 'You know I don't want a soul in the world
but you.'</p>
<p>'Well, that's what I thought,' said Wemyss, mollified.
'I know all I want is you.'</p>
<p>(Was this same parlourmaid here in Vera's time?
Lucy asked herself very privately and unconsciously
and beneath the concerned attentiveness she was
concentrating on Wemyss.)</p>
<p>'What lovely kingcups!' she said aloud.</p>
<p>'Oh yes, there they are—I hadn't noticed them.
Yes, aren't they? They're my birthday flowers.' And
he repeated his formula: 'It's my birthday and
Spring's.'</p>
<p>But Lucy, of course, didn't know the proper ritual,
it being her first experience of one of Wemyss's birthdays,
besides having wished him his many happy returns
hours ago when he first opened his eyes and found hers
gazing at him with love; so all she did was to make
the natural but unfortunate remark that surely Spring
began on the 21st of March,—or was it the 25th?
No, that was Christmas Day—no, she didn't mean
that——</p>
<p>'You're always saying things and then saying you
didn't mean them,' interrupted Wemyss, vexed, for he
thought that Lucy of all people should have recognised
the allegorical nature of his formula. If it had been
Vera, now,—but even Vera had managed to understand
that much. 'I wish you would begin with what you
do mean, it would be so much simpler. What, pray,
<i>do</i> you mean now?'</p>
<p>'I can't think,' said Lucy timidly, for she had
offended him again, and this time she couldn't even
remotely imagine how.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XVII</h2>
<p>He got over it, however. There was a particularly
well-made soufflé, and this helped. Also Lucy kept on
looking at him very tenderly, and it was the first time
she had sat at his table in his beloved home, realising
the dreams of months that she should sit just there
with him, his little bobbed-haired Love, and gradually
therefore he recovered and smiled at her again.</p>
<p>But what power she had to hurt him, thought
Wemyss; it was so great because his love for her was
so great. She should be very careful how she wielded
it. Her Everard was made very sensitive by his love.</p>
<p>He gazed at her solemnly, thinking this, while the
plates were being changed.</p>
<p>'What is it, Everard?' Lucy asked anxiously.</p>
<p>'I'm only thinking that I love you,' he said, laying
his hand on hers.</p>
<p>She flushed with pleasure, and her face grew instantly
happy. 'My Everard,' she murmured, gazing back at
him, forgetful in her pleasure of the parlourmaid. How
dear he was. How silly she was to be so much distressed
when he was offended. At the core he was so sound
and simple. At the core he was utterly her own dear
lover. The rest was mere incident, merest indifferent
detail.</p>
<p>'We'll have coffee in the library,' he said to the
parlourmaid, getting up when he had finished his lunch
and walking to the door. 'Come along, little Love,'
he called over his shoulder.</p>
<p>The library....</p>
<p>'Can't we—don't we—have coffee in the hall?'
asked Lucy, getting up slowly.</p>
<p>'No,' said Wemyss, who had paused before an
enlarged photograph that hung on the wall between
the two windows, enlarged to life size.</p>
<p>He examined it a moment, and then drew his finger
obliquely across the glass from top to bottom. It then
became evident that the picture needed dusting.</p>
<p>'Look,' he said to the parlourmaid, pointing.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid looked.</p>
<p>'I notice you don't say anything,' he said to her
after a silence in which she continued to look, and Lucy,
taken aback again, stood uncertain by the chair she
had got up from. 'I don't wonder. There's nothing
you can possibly say to excuse such carelessness.'</p>
<p>'Lizzie——' began the parlourmaid.</p>
<p>'Don't put it on to Lizzie.'</p>
<p>The parlourmaid ceased putting it on to Lizzie and
was dumb.</p>
<p>'Come along, little Love,' said Wemyss, turning to
Lucy and holding out his hand. 'It makes one pretty
sick, doesn't it, to see that not even one's own father
gets dusted.'</p>
<p>'Is that your father?' asked Lucy, hurrying to his
side and offering no opinion about dusting.</p>
<p>It could have been no one else's. It was Wemyss
grown very enormous, Wemyss grown very old, Wemyss
displeased. The photograph had been so arranged that
wherever you moved to in the room Wemyss's father
watched you doing it. He had been watching Lucy
from between those two windows all through her first
lunch, and must, flashed through Lucy's brain, have
watched Vera like that all through her last one.</p>
<p>'How long has he been there?' she asked, looking
up into Wemyss's father's displeased eyes which looked
straight back into hers.</p>
<p>'Been there?' repeated Wemyss, drawing her away
for he wanted his coffee. 'How can I remember?
Ever since I've lived here, I should think. He died
five years ago. He was a wonderful old man, nearly
ninety. He used to stay here a lot.'</p>
<p>Opposite this picture hung another, next to the door
that led into the hall,—also a photograph enlarged to
life-size. Lucy had noticed neither of these pictures
when she came in, because the light from the windows
was in her eyes. Now, turning to go out through the
door led by Wemyss, she was faced by this one.</p>
<p>It was Vera. She knew at once; and if she hadn't
she would have known the next minute, because he
told her.</p>
<p>'Vera,' he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, as it were
introducing them.</p>
<p>'Vera,' repeated Lucy under her breath; and she
and Vera—for this photograph too followed one about
with its eye—stared at each other.</p>
<p>It must have been taken about twelve years earlier,
judging from the clothes. She was standing, and in a
day dress that yet had a train to it trailing on the carpet,
and loose, floppy sleeves and a high collar. She looked
very tall, and had long thin fingers. Her dark hair was
drawn up from her ears and piled on the top of her
head. Her face was thin and seemed to be chiefly
eyes,—very big dark eyes that stared out of the absurd
picture in a kind of astonishment, and her mouth had
a little twist in it as though she were trying not to laugh.</p>
<p>Lucy looked at her without moving. So this was
Vera. Of course. She had known, though she had
never constructed any image of her in her mind, had
carefully avoided doing it, that she would be like
that. Only older; the sort of Vera she must have been
at forty when she died,—not attractive like that, not a
young woman. To Lucy at twenty-two, forty seemed
very old; at least, if you were a woman. In regard to
men, since she had fallen in love with some one of forty-five
who was certainly the youngest thing she had ever
come across, she had rearranged her ideas of age, but
she still thought forty very old for a woman. Vera had
been thin and tall and dark in her idea of her, just as
this Vera was thin and tall and dark; but thin bonily,
tall stoopingly, and her dark hair was turning grey.
In her idea of her, too, she was absent-minded and
not very intelligent; indeed, she was rather troublesomely
unintelligent, doing obstinate, foolish things,
and at last doing that fatal, obstinate, foolish thing
which so dreadfully ended her. This Vera was certainly
intelligent. You couldn't have eyes like that and be
a fool. And the expression of her mouth,—what had
she been trying not to laugh at that day? Did she
know she was going to be enlarged and hang for years
in the bleak dining-room facing her father-in-law, each
of them eyeing the other from their walls, while three
times a day the originals sat down beneath their own
pictures at the long table and ate? Perhaps she
laughed, thought Lucy, because else she might have
cried; only that would have been silly, and she couldn't
have been silly,—not with those eyes, not with those
straight, fine eyebrows. But would she, herself, presently
be photographed too and enlarged and hung
there? There was room next to Vera, room for just
one more before the sideboard began. How very odd
it would be if she were hung up next to Vera, and every
day three times as she went out of the room was faced
by Everard's wives. And how quaint to watch one's
clothes as the years went by leaving off being pretty
and growing more absurd. Really for such purposes
one ought to be just wrapped round in a shroud. Fashion
didn't touch shrouds; they always stayed the same.
Besides, how suitable, thought Lucy, gazing into her
dead predecessor's eyes; one would only be taking time
by the forelock....</p>
<p>'Come along.' said Wemyss, drawing her away, 'I
want my coffee. Don't you think it's a good idea,' he
went on, as he led her down the hall to the library door,
'to have life-sized photographs instead of those idiotic
portraits that are never the least like people?'</p>
<p>'Oh, a <i>very</i> good idea,' said Lucy mechanically,
bracing herself for the library. There was only one
room in the house she dreaded going into more than
the library, and that was the sitting-room on the top
floor,—her sitting-room and Vera's.</p>
<p>'Next week we'll go to a photographer's in London
and have my little girl done,' said Wemyss, pushing
open the library door, 'and then I'll have her exactly
as God made her, without some artist idiot or other
coming butting-in with his idea of her. God's idea of
her is good enough for me. They won't have to enlarge
much,' he laughed, 'to get <i>you</i> life-size, you midge.
Vera was five foot ten. Now isn't this a fine room?
Look—there's the river. Isn't it jolly being so close to
it? Come round here—don't knock against my writing-table,
now. Look—there's only the towpath between
the river and the garden. Lord, what a beastly day.
It might just as easily have been a beautiful spring
day and us having our coffee out on the terrace. Don't
you think this is a beautiful look-out,—so typically
English with the beautiful green lawn and the bit of lush
grass along the towpath, and the river. There's no
river like it in the world, is there, little Love. Say you
think it's the most beautiful river in the world'—he
hugged her close—'say you think it's a hundred times
better than that beastly French one we got so sick of
with all those châteaux.'</p>
<p>'Oh, a <i>hundred</i> times better,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>They were standing at the window, with his arm
round her shoulder. There was just room for them
between it and the writing-table. Outside was the
flagged terrace, and then a very green lawn with worms
and blackbirds on it and a flagged path down the middle
leading to a little iron gate. There was no willow
hedge along the river end of the square garden, so as
not to interrupt the view,—only the iron railings and
wire-netting. Terra-cotta vases, which later on would
be a blaze of geraniums, Wemyss explained, stood at
intervals on each side of the path. The river, swollen
and brown, slid past Wemyss's frontage very quickly
that day, for there had been much rain. The clouds
scudding across the sky before the wind were not in
such a hurry but that every now and then they let loose
a violent gust of rain, soaking the flags of the terrace
again just as the wind had begun to dry them up. How
could he stand there, she thought, holding her tight so
that she couldn't get away, making her look out at the
very place on those flags not two yards off....</p>
<p>But the next minute she thought how right he really
was, how absolutely the only way this was to do the
thing. Perfect simplicity was the one way to meet this
situation successfully; and she herself was so far from
simplicity that here she was shrinking, not able to
bear to look, wanting only to hide her face,—oh,
he was wonderful, and she was the most ridiculous of
fools.</p>
<p>She pressed very close to him, and put up her face
to his, shutting her eyes, for so she shut out the desolating
garden with its foreground of murderous flags.</p>
<p>'What is it, little Love?' asked Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Kiss me,' she said; and he laughed and kissed her,
but hastily, because he wanted her to go on admiring
the view.</p>
<p>She still, however, held up her face. 'Kiss my eyes,'
she whispered, keeping them shut. 'They're tired——'</p>
<p>He laughed again, but with a slight impatience, and
kissed her eyes; and then, suddenly struck by her little
blind face so close to his, the strong light from the big
window showing all its delicate curves and delicious
softnesses, his Lucy's face, his own little wife's, he
kissed her really, as she loved him to kiss her, becoming
absorbed only in his love.</p>
<p>'Oh, I love you, love you——' murmured Lucy,
clinging to him, making secret vows of sensibleness, of
wholesomeness, of a determined, unfailing future
simplicity.</p>
<p>'Aren't we happy,' he said, pausing in his kisses to
gaze down at what was now his face, for was it not
much more his than hers? Of course it was his. She
never saw it, except when she specially went to look,
but he saw it all the time; she only had duties in regard
to it, but he was on the higher plane of only having
joys. She washed it, but he kissed it. And he kissed
it when he liked and as much as ever he liked. 'Isn't
it wonderful being married,' he said, gazing down at
this delightful thing that was his very own for ever.</p>
<p>'Oh—wonderful!' murmured Lucy, opening her eyes
and gazing into his.</p>
<p>Her face broke into a charming smile. 'You have
the dearest eyes,' she said, putting up her finger and
gently tracing his eyebrows with it.</p>
<p>Wemyss's eyes, full at that moment of love and
pride, were certainly dear eyes, but a noise at the other
end of the room made Lucy jump so in his arms, gave
her apparently such a fright, that when he turned his
head to see who it was daring to interrupt them, daring
to startle his little girl like that, and beheld the parlourmaid,
his eyes weren't dear at all but very angry.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid had come in with the coffee; and
seeing the two interlaced figures against the light of the
big window had pulled up short, uncertain what to do.
This pulling up had jerked a spoon off its saucer onto
the floor with a loud rattle because of the floor not
having a carpet on it and being of polished oak, and it
was this noise that made Lucy jump so excessively that
her jump actually made Wemyss jump too.</p>
<p>In the parlourmaid's untrained phraseology there
had been a good deal of billing and cooing during
luncheon, and even in the hall before luncheon there
were examples of it, but what she found going on in the
library was enough to make anybody stop dead and
upset things,—it was such, she said afterwards in the
kitchen, that if she didn't know for a fact that they
were really married she wouldn't have believed it.
Married people in the parlourmaid's experience didn't
behave like that. What affection there was was
exhibited before, and not after, marriage. And she went
on to describe the way in which Wemyss—thus briefly
and irreverently did they talk of their master in the
kitchen—had flown at her for having come into the
library. 'After telling me to,' she said. 'After saying,
"We'll 'ave coffee in the library."' And they all
agreed, as they had often before agreed, that if it weren't
that he was in London half the time they wouldn't
stay in the place five minutes.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Wemyss and Lucy were sitting side by
side in two enormous chairs facing the unlit library fire
drinking their coffee. The fire was only lit in the
evenings, explained Wemyss, after the 1st of April;
the weather ought to be warm enough by then to do
without fires in the daytime, and if it wasn't it was its
own look-out.</p>
<p>'Why did you jump so?' he asked. 'You gave me
such a start. I couldn't think what was the matter.'</p>
<p>'I don't know,' said Lucy, faintly flushing. 'Perhaps'—she
smiled at him over the arm of the enormous chair
in which she almost totally disappeared—'because the
maid caught us.'</p>
<p>'Caught us?'</p>
<p>'Being so particularly affectionate.'</p>
<p>'I like that,' said Wemyss. 'Fancy feeling guilty
because you're being affectionate to your own husband.'</p>
<p>'Oh, well,' laughed Lucy, 'don't forget I haven't
had him long.'</p>
<p>'You're such a complicated little thing. I shall
have to take you seriously in hand and teach you to be
natural. I can't have you having all sorts of finicking
ideas about not doing this and not doing the other
before servants. Servants don't matter. I never consider
them.'</p>
<p>'I wish you had considered the poor parlourmaid,'
said Lucy, seeing that he was in an unoffended frame of
mind. 'Why did you give her such a dreadful scolding?'</p>
<p>'Why? Because she made you jump so. You
couldn't have jumped more if you had thought it was
a ghost. I won't have your flesh being made to creep.'</p>
<p>'But it crept much worse when I heard the things you
said to her.'</p>
<p>'Nonsense. These people have to be kept in order.
What did the woman mean by coming in like that?'</p>
<p>'Why, you told her to bring us coffee.'</p>
<p>'But I didn't tell her to make an infernal noise by
dropping spoons all over the place.'</p>
<p>'That was because she got just as great a fright when
she saw us as I did when I heard her.'</p>
<p>'I don't care what she got. Her business is not
to drop things. That's what I pay her for. But look
here—don't you go thinking such a lot of tangled-up
things and arguing. Do, for goodness sake, try and be
simple.'</p>
<p>'I feel <i>very</i> simple,' said Lucy, smiling and putting
out her hand to him, for his face was clouding. 'Do
you know, Everard, I believe what's the matter with
me is that I'm <i>too</i> simple.'</p>
<p>Wemyss roared, and forgot how near he was getting
to being hurt. 'You simple! You're the most
complicated——'</p>
<p>'No I'm not. I've got the untutored mind and
uncontrolled emotions of a savage. That's really why
I jumped.'</p>
<p>'Lord,' laughed Wemyss, 'listen to her how she
talks. Anybody might think she was clever, saying
such big long words, if they didn't know she was just
her Everard's own little wife. Come here, my little
savage—come and sit on your husband's knee and tell
him all about it.'</p>
<p>He held out his arms, and Lucy got up and went
into them and he rocked her and said, 'There, there—was
it a little untutored savage then——'</p>
<p>But she didn't tell him all about it, first because by
now she knew that to tell him all about anything was
asking for trouble, and second because he didn't really
want to know. Everard, she was beginning to realise
with much surprise, preferred not to know. He was
not merely incurious as to other people's ideas and
opinions, he definitely preferred to be unconscious
of them.</p>
<p>This was a great contrast to the restless curiosity
and interest of her father and his friends, to their
insatiable hunger for discussion, for argument; and it
much surprised Lucy. Discussion was the very salt
of life for them,—a tireless exploration of each other's
ideas, a clashing of them together, and out of that clashing
the creation of fresh ones. To Everard, Lucy was
beginning to perceive, discussion merely meant
contradiction, and he disliked contradiction, he disliked
even difference of opinion. 'There's only one way of
looking at a thing, and that's the right way,' as he said,
'so what's the good of such a lot of talk?'</p>
<p>The right way was his way; and though he seemed
by his direct, unswerving methods to succeed in living
mentally in a great calm, and though after the fevers
of her father's set this was to her immensely restful,
was it really a good thing? Didn't it cut one off from
growth? Didn't it shut one in an isolation? Wasn't
it, frankly, rather like death? Besides, she had doubts
as to whether it were true that there was only one way
of looking at a thing, and couldn't quite believe that
his way was invariably the right way. But what did it
matter after all, thought Lucy, snuggled up on his knee
with one arm round his neck, compared to the great,
glorious fact of their love? That at least was indisputable
and splendid. As to the rest, truth would go
on being truth whether Everard saw it or not; and if
she were not going to be able to talk over things with him
she could anyhow kiss him, and how sweet that was,
thought Lucy. They understood each other perfectly
when they kissed. What, indeed, when such sweet
means of communion existed, was the good of a lot
of talk?</p>
<p>'I believe you're asleep' said Wemyss, looking down
at the face on his breast.</p>
<p>'Sound,' said Lucy, smiling, her eyes shut.</p>
<p>'My baby.'</p>
<p>'My Everard.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XVIII</h2>
<p>But this only lasted as long as his pipe lasted. When
that was finished he put her off his knee, and said he was
now ready to gratify her impatience and show her
everything; they would go over the house first, and
then the garden and outbuildings.</p>
<p>No woman was ever less impatient than Lucy.
However, she pulled her hat straight and tried to seem
all readiness and expectancy. She wished the wind
wouldn't howl so. What an extraordinary dreary place
the library was. Well, any place would be dreary at
half-past two o'clock on such an afternoon, without a
fire and with the rain beating against the window, and
that dreadful terrace just outside.</p>
<p>Wemyss stooped to knock out the ashes of his pipe
on the bars of the empty grate, and Lucy carefully kept
her head turned away from the window and the terrace
towards the other end of the room. The other end was
filled with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and the
books, in neat rows and uniform editions, were packed
so tightly in the shelves that no one but an unusually
determined reader would have the energy to wrench
one out. Reading was evidently not encouraged, for not
only were the books shut in behind glass doors, but the
doors were kept locked and the key hung on Wemyss's
watch-chain. Lucy discovered this when Wemyss,
putting his pipe in his pocket, took her by the arm and
walked her down the room to admire the shelves. One
of the volumes caught her eye, and she tried to open
the glass door to take it out and look at it. 'Why,'
she said surprised, 'it's locked.'</p>
<p>'Of course,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Why but then nobody can get at them.'</p>
<p>'Precisely.'</p>
<p>'But——'</p>
<p>'People are so untrustworthy about books. I
took pains to arrange mine myself, and they're all in
first-class-bindings and I don't want them taken out
and left lying anywhere by Tom, Dick, and Harry.
If any one wants to read they can come and ask me.
Then I know exactly what is taken, and can see that it
is put back.' And he held up the key on his watch-chain.</p>
<p>'But doesn't that rather discourage people?' asked
Lucy, who was accustomed to the most careless familiarity
in intercourse with books, to books loose everywhere,
books overflowing out of their shelves, books in
every room, instantly accessible books, friendly books,
books used to being read aloud, with their hospitable
pages falling open at a touch.</p>
<p>'All the better,' said Wemyss. '<i>I</i> don't want
anybody to read my books.'</p>
<p>Lucy laughed, though she was dismayed inside.
'Oh Everard—' she said, 'not even me?'</p>
<p>'You? You're different. You're my own little
girl. Whenever you want to, all you've got to do is to
come and say, "Everard, your Lucy wants to read,"
and I'll unlock the bookcase.'</p>
<p>'But—I shall be afraid I may be disturbing you.'</p>
<p>'People who love each other can't ever disturb
each other.'</p>
<p>'That's true,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'And they shouldn't ever be afraid of it.'</p>
<p>'I suppose they shouldn't,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'So be simple, and when you want a thing just say so.'
Lucy said she would, and promised with many kisses
to be simple, but she couldn't help privately thinking
it a difficult way of getting at a book.</p>
<p>'Macaulay, Dickens, Scott, Thackeray, British Poets,
English Men of Letters, <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i>—I
think there's about everything,' said Wemyss, going
over the gilt names on the backs of the volumes with
much satisfaction as he stood holding her in front of
them. 'Whiteley's did it for me. I said I had room
for so and so many of such and such sizes of the best
modern writers in good bindings. I think they did it
very well, don't you little Love?'</p>
<p>'<i>Very</i> well,' said Lucy, eyeing the shelves doubtfully.</p>
<p>She was of those who don't like the feel of prize
books in their hands, and all Wemyss's books might have
been presented as prizes to deserving schoolboys. They
were handsome; their edges—she couldn't see them,
but she was sure—were marbled. They wouldn't
open easily, and one's thumbs would have to do a lot
of tiring holding while one's eyes tried to peep at the
words tucked away towards the central crease. These
were books with which one took no liberties. She
couldn't imagine idly turning their pages in some lazy
position out on the grass. Besides, their pages wouldn't
be idly turned; they would be, she was sure, obstinate
with expensiveness, stiff with the leather and gold of
their covers.</p>
<p>Lucy stared at them, thinking all this so as not to
think other things. What she wanted to shut out was
the wind sobbing up and down that terrace behind her,
and the consciousness of the fierce intermittent squalls
of rain beating on its flags, and the certainty that upstairs....
Had Everard <i>no</i> imagination, she thought,
with a sudden flare of rebellion, that he should expect
her to use and to like using the very sitting-room where
Vera——</p>
<p>With a quick shiver she grabbed at her thoughts
and caught them just in time.</p>
<p>'Do you like Macaulay?' she asked, lingering in
front of the bookcase, for he was beginning to move her
off towards the door.</p>
<p>'I haven't read him,' said Wemyss, still moving
her.</p>
<p>'Which of all these do you like best?' she asked,
holding back.</p>
<p>'Oh, I don't know,' said Wemyss, pausing a moment,
pleased by her evident interest in his books. 'I haven't
much time for reading, you must remember. I'm
a busy man. By the time I've finished my day's work,
I'm not inclined for much more than the evening paper
and a game of bridge.'</p>
<p>'But what will you do with me, who don't play
bridge?'</p>
<p>'Lord, you don't suppose I shall want to play bridge
now that I've got you?' he said. 'All I shall want is
just to sit and look at you.'</p>
<p>She turned red with swift pleasure, and laughed,
and hugged the arm that was thrust through hers
leading her to the door. How much she adored him;
when he said dear, absurd, simple things like that, how
much she adored him!</p>
<p>'Come upstairs now and take off your hat,' said
Wemyss. 'I want to see what my bobbed hair looks
like in my home. Besides, aren't you dying to see our
bedroom?'</p>
<p>'Dying,' said Lucy, going up the oak staircase with
a stout, determined heart.</p>
<p>The bedroom was over the library, and was the
same size and with the same kind of window. Where
the bookcase stood in the room below, stood the bed:
a double, or even a treble, bed, so very big was it, facing
the window past which Vera—it was no use, she couldn't
get away from Vera—having slept her appointed
number of nights, fell and was finished. But she wasn't
finished. If only she had slipped away out of memory,
out of imagination, thought Lucy ... but she hadn't,
she hadn't—and this was her room, and that intelligent-eyed
thin thing had slept in it for years and years, and
for years and years the looking-glass had reflected her
while she had dressed and undressed, dressed and
undressed before it—regularly, day after day, year after
year—oh, what a trouble—and her thin long hands had
piled up her hair—Lucy could see her sitting there
piling it on the top of her small head—sitting at the
dressing-table in the window past which she was at last
to drop like a stone—horribly—ignominiously—all anyhow—and
everything in the room had been hers, every
single thing in it had been Vera's, including Ev——</p>
<p>Lucy made a violent lunge after her thoughts and
strangled them.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Wemyss had shut the door and was standing
looking at her without moving.</p>
<p>'Well?' he said.</p>
<p>She turned to him nervously, her eyes still wide with
the ridiculous things she had been thinking.</p>
<p>'Well?' he said again.</p>
<p>She supposed he meant her to praise the room, so
she hastily began, saying what a good view there must
be on a fine day, and how very comfortable it was,
such a nice big looking-glass—she loved a big looking-glass—and
such a nice sofa—she loved a nice sofa—and
what a very big bed—and what a lovely carpet——</p>
<p>'Well?' was all Wemyss said when her words came
to an end.</p>
<p>'What is it, Everard?'</p>
<p>'I'm waiting,' he said.</p>
<p>'Waiting?'</p>
<p>'For my kiss.'</p>
<p>She ran to him.</p>
<p>'Yes,' he said, when she had kissed him, looking
down at her solemnly, '<i>I</i> don't forget these things. <i>I</i>
don't forget that this is the first time my own wife
and I have stood together in our very own bedroom.'</p>
<p>'But Everard I didn't forget—I only——'</p>
<p>She cast about for something to say, her arms still
round his neck, for the last thing she could have told
him was what she had been thinking—oh, how he would
have scolded her for being morbid, and oh, how right
he would have been!—and she ended by saying as
lamely and as unfortunately as she had said it in the
château of Amboise—'I only didn't remember.'</p>
<p>Luckily this time his attention had already wandered
away from her. 'Isn't it a jolly room?' he said. 'Who's
got far and away the best bedroom in Strorley? And
who's got a sitting-room all for herself, just as jolly?
And who spoils his little woman?'</p>
<p>Before she could answer, he loosened her hands from
his neck and said, 'Come and look at yourself in the
glass. Come and see how small you are compared to
the other things in the room.' And with his arms round
her shoulders he led her to the dressing-table.</p>
<p>'The other things?' laughed Lucy; but like a
flame the thought was leaping in her brain, 'Now
what shall I do if when I look into this I don't see myself
but Vera? It's <i>accustomed</i> to Vera....'</p>
<p>'Why, she's shutting her eyes. Open them, little
Love,' said Wemyss, standing with her before the glass
and seeing in it that though he held her in front of it
she wasn't looking at the picture of wedded love he and
she made, but had got her eyes tight shut.</p>
<p>With his free hand he took off her hat and threw it
on to the sofa; then he laid his head on hers and said,
'Now look.'</p>
<p>Lucy obeyed; and when she saw the sweet picture
in the glass the face of the girl looking at her broke into
its funny, charming smile, for Everard at that moment
was at his dearest, Everard boyishly loving her, with
his good-looking, unlined face so close to hers and his
proud eyes gazing at her. He and she seemed to set
each other off; they were becoming to each other.</p>
<p>Smiling at him in the glass, a smile tremulous with
tenderness, she put up her hand and stroked his face.
'Do you know who you've married?' she asked, addressing
the man in the glass.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Wemyss, addressing the girl in the glass.</p>
<p>'No you don't,' she said. 'But I'll tell you. You've
married the completest of fools.'</p>
<p>'Now what has the little thing got into its head
this time?' he said, kissing her hair, and watching
himself doing it.</p>
<p>'Everard, you must help me,' she murmured, holding
his face tenderly against hers. 'Please, my beloved,
help me, teach me——'</p>
<p>'That, Mrs. Wemyss, is a very proper attitude in a
wife,' he said. And the four people laughed at each
other, the two Lucys a little quiveringly.</p>
<p>'Now come and I'll introduce you to your sitting-room,'
he said, disengaging himself. 'We'll have tea
up there. The view is really magnificent.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XIX</h2>
<p>The wind made more noise than ever at the top of the
house, and when Wemyss tried to open the door to
Vera's sitting-room it blew back on him.</p>
<p>'Well I'm damned,' he said, giving it a great shove.</p>
<p>'Why?' asked Lucy nervously.</p>
<p>'Come in, come in,' he said impatiently, pressing
the door open and pulling her through.</p>
<p>There was a great flapping of blinds and rattling of
blind cords, a whirl of sheets of notepaper, an extra
wild shriek of the wind, and then Wemyss, hanging on
to the door, shut it and the room quieted down.</p>
<p>'That slattern Lizzie!' he exclaimed, striding across
to the fireplace and putting his finger on the bell-button
and keeping it there.</p>
<p>'What has she done?' asked Lucy, standing where
he had left her just inside the door.</p>
<p>'Done? Can't you see?'</p>
<p>'You mean'—she could hardly get herself to mention
the fatal thing—'you mean—the window?'</p>
<p>'On a day like this!'</p>
<p>He continued to press the bell. It was a very loud
bell, for it rang upstairs as well as down in order to
be sure of catching Lizzie's ear in whatever part of the
house she might be endeavouring to evade it, and Lucy,
as she listened to its strident, persistent summons of a
Lizzie who didn't appear, felt more and more on edge,
felt at last that to listen and wait any longer was
unbearable.</p>
<p>'Won't you wear it out?' she asked, after some
moments of nothing happening and Wemyss still
ringing.</p>
<p>He didn't answer. He didn't look at her. His
finger remained steadily on the button. His face was
extraordinarily like the old man's in the enlarged
photograph downstairs. Lucy wished for only two
things at that moment, one was that Lizzie shouldn't
come, and the other was that if she did she herself
might be allowed to go and be somewhere else.</p>
<p>'Hadn't—hadn't the window better be shut?' she
suggested timidly presently, while he still went on
ringing and saying nothing—'else when Lizzie opens
the door won't all the things blow about again?'</p>
<p>He didn't answer, and went on ringing.</p>
<p>Of all the objects in the world that she could think
of, Lucy most dreaded and shrank from that window;
nevertheless she began to feel that as Everard was
engaged with the bell and apparently wouldn't leave
it, it behoved her to put into practice her resolution not
to be a fool but to be direct and wholesome, and go
and shut it herself. There it was, the fatal window,
huge as the one in the bedroom below and the one in
the library below that, yawning wide open above its
murderous low sill, with the rain flying in on every fresh
gust of wind and wetting the floor and the cushions of
the sofa and even, as she could see, those sheets of
notepaper off the writing-table that had flown in her face
when she came in and were now lying scattered at her
feet. Surely the right thing to do was to shut the window
before Lizzie opened the door and caused a second
convulsion? Everard couldn't, because he was ringing
the bell. She could and she would; yes, she would do
the right thing, and at the same time be both simple
and courageous.</p>
<p>'I'll shut it,' she said, taking a step forward.</p>
<p>She was arrested by Wemyss's voice. 'Confound it!'
he cried. 'Can't you leave it alone?'</p>
<p>She stopped dead. He had never spoken to her
like that before. She had never heard that voice before.
It seemed to hit her straight on the heart.</p>
<p>'Don't interfere,' he said, very loud.</p>
<p>She was frozen where she stood.</p>
<p>'Tiresome woman,' he said, still ringing.</p>
<p>She looked at him. He was looking at her.</p>
<p>'Who?' she breathed.</p>
<p>'You.'</p>
<p>Her heart seemed to stop beating. She gave a little
gasp, and turned her head to right and left like something
trapped, something searching for escape. Everard—where
was her Everard? Why didn't he come and
take care of her? Come and take her away—out of
that room—out of that room——</p>
<p>There were sounds of steps hurrying along the
passage, and then there was a great scream of the wind
and a great whirl of the notepaper and a great blowing
up on end off her forehead of her short hair, and Lizzie
was there panting on the threshold.</p>
<p>'I'm sorry, sir,' she panted, her hand on her chest,
'I was changing my dress——'</p>
<p>'Shut the door, can't you?' cried Wemyss, about
whose ears, too, notepaper was flying. 'Hold on to it—
don't let it go, damn you!'</p>
<p>'Oh—oh——' gasped Lucy, stretching out her hands
as though to keep something off, 'I think I—I think
I'll go downstairs——'</p>
<p>And before Wemyss realised what she was doing, she
had turned and slipped through the door Lizzie was
struggling with and was gone.</p>
<p>'Lucy!' he shouted, 'Lucy! Come back at once!'
But the wind was too much for Lizzie, and the door
dragged itself out of her hands and crashed to.</p>
<p>As though the devil were after her Lucy ran along
the passage. Down the stairs she flew, down past the
bedroom landing, down past the gong landing, down
into the hall and across it to the front door, and tried
to pull it open, and found it was bolted, and tugged
and tugged at the bolts, tugged frantically, getting them
undone at last, and rushing out on to the steps.</p>
<p>There an immense gust of rain caught her full in
the face. Splash—bang—she was sobered. The rain
splashed on her as though a bucket were being emptied
at her, and the door had banged behind her shutting
her out. Suddenly horrified at herself she turned
quickly, as frantic to get in again as she had been to
get out. What was she doing? Where was she running
to? She must get in, get in—before Everard could
come after her, before he could find her standing there
like a drenched dog outside his front door. The wind
whipped her wet hair across her eyes. Where was the
handle? She couldn't find it. Her hair wouldn't keep
out of her eyes; her thin serge skirt blew up like a balloon
and got in the way of her trembling fingers searching
along the door. She must get in—before he came—what
had possessed her? Everard—he couldn't have
meant—he didn't mean—what would he think—what
<i>would</i> he think—oh, where was that handle?</p>
<p>Then she heard heavy footsteps on the other side of
the door, and Wemyss's voice, still very loud, saying
to somebody he had got with him, 'Haven't I given
strict orders that this door is to be kept bolted?'—and
then the sound of bolts being shot.</p>
<p>'Everard! Everard!' Lucy cried, beating on the
door with both hands, 'I'm here—out here—let me in—Everard!
Everard!'</p>
<p>But he evidently heard nothing, for his footsteps went
away again.</p>
<p>Snatching her hair out of her eyes, she looked about
for the bell and reached up to it and pulled it violently.
What she had done was terrible. She must get in at
once, face the parlourmaid's astonishment, run to
Everard. She couldn't imagine his thoughts. Where
did he suppose she was? He must be searching the
house for her. He would be dreadfully upset. Why
didn't the parlourmaid come? Was she changing her
dress too? No—she had waited at lunch all ready in
her black afternoon clothes. Then why didn't she come?</p>
<p>Lucy pulled the bell again and again, at last keeping
it down, using up its electricity as squanderously as
Wemyss had used it upstairs. She was wet to the skin
by this time, and you wouldn't have recognised her
pretty hair, all dark now and sticking together in lank
strands.</p>
<p>Everard—why, of course—Everard had only spoken
like that out of fear—fear and love. The window—of
course he would be terrified lest she too, trying to
shut that fatal window, that great heavy fatal window,
should slip.... Oh, of course, of course—how could
she have misunderstood—in moments of danger, of
dreadful anxiety for one's heart's beloved, one did speak
sharply, one did rap out commands. It was because
he loved her so <i>much</i>.... Oh, how lunatic of her to
have misunderstood!</p>
<p>At last she heard some one coming, and she let go
of the bell and braced herself to meet the astonished
gaze of the parlourmaid with as much dignity as was
possible in one who only too well knew she must be
looking like a drowning cat, but the footsteps grew
heavy as they got nearer, and it was Wemyss who, after
pulling back the bolts, opened the door.</p>
<p>'Oh Everard!' Lucy exclaimed, running in, pursued
to the last by the pelting rain, 'I'm so glad it's you—oh
I'm so sorry I——'</p>
<p>Her voice died away; she had seen his face.</p>
<p>He stooped to bolt the lower bolt.</p>
<p>'Don't be angry, darling Everard,' she whispered,
laying her arm on his stooping shoulder.</p>
<p>Having finished with the bolt Wemyss straightened
himself, and then, putting up his hand to the arm still
round his shoulder, he removed it. 'You'll make my
coat wet,' he said; and walked away to the library
door and went in and shut it.</p>
<p>For a moment she stood where he had left her,
collecting her scattered senses; then she went after
him. Wet or not wet, soaked and dripping as she was,
ridiculous scarecrow with her clinging clothes, her lank
hair, she must go after him, must instantly get the
horror of misunderstanding straight, tell him how she
had meant only to help over that window, tell him how
she had thought he was saying dreadful things to her
when he was really only afraid for her safety, tell him
how silly she had been, silly, silly, not to have followed
his thoughts quicker, tell him he must forgive her, be
patient with her, help her, because she loved him so
much and she knew—oh, she knew—how much he loved
her....</p>
<p>Across the hall ran Lucy, the whole of her one welter
of anxious penitence and longing and love, and when
she got to the door and turned the handle it was locked.</p>
<p>He had locked her out.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XX</h2>
<p>Her hand slid slowly off the knob. She stood quite
still. How <i>could</i> he.... And she knew now that he
had bolted the front door knowing she was out in the
rain. How <i>could</i> he? Her body was motionless as
she stood staring at the locked door, but her brain
was a rushing confusion of questions. Why? Why?
This couldn't be Everard. Who was this man—pitiless,
cruel? Not Everard. Not her lover. Where was he,
her lover and husband? Why didn't he come and take
care of her, and not let her be frightened by this strange
man....</p>
<p>She heard a chair being moved inside the room,
and then she heard the creak of leather as Wemyss sat
down in it, and then there was the rustle of a newspaper
being opened. He was actually settling down
to read a newspaper while she, his wife, his love—wasn't
he always telling her she was his little Love?—was
breaking her heart outside the locked door. Why,
but Everard—she and Everard; they understood each
other; they had laughed, played together, talked
nonsense, been friends....</p>
<p>For an instant she had an impulse to cry out and
beat on the door, not to care who heard, not to care that
the whole house should come and gather round her
naked misery; but she was stopped by a sudden new
wisdom. It shuddered down on her heart, a wisdom
she had never known or needed before, and held her
quiet. At all costs there mustn't be two of them doing
these things, at all costs these things mustn't be doubled,
mustn't have echoes. If Everard was like this he must
be like it alone. She must wait. She must sit quiet
till he had finished. Else—but oh, he <i>couldn't</i> be like
it, it <i>couldn't</i> be true that he didn't love her. Yet if
he did love her, how could he ... how could he....</p>
<p>She leaned her forehead against the door and began
softly to cry. Then, afraid that she might after all
burst out into loud, disgraceful sobbing, she turned and
went upstairs.</p>
<p>But where could she go? Where in the whole
house was any refuge, any comfort? The only person
who could have told her anything, who could have
explained, who <i>knew</i>, was Vera. Yes—she would have
understood. Yes, yes—Vera. She would go to Vera's
room, get as close to her mind as she could,—search,
find something, some clue....</p>
<p>It seemed now to Lucy, as she hurried upstairs, that
the room in the house she had most shrunk from was
the one place where she might hope to find comfort.
Oh, she wasn't frightened any more. Everything was
trying to frighten her, but she wasn't going to be
frightened. For some reason or other things were all
trying together to-day to see if they could crush her,
beat out her spirit. But they weren't going to....</p>
<p>She jerked her wet hair out of her eyes as she
climbed the stairs. It kept on getting into them and
making her stumble. Vera would help her. Vera never
was beaten. Vera had had fifteen years of not being
beaten before she—before she had that accident. And
there must have been heaps of days just like this one,
with the wind screaming and Vera up in her room and
Everard down in his—locked in, perhaps—and yet Vera
had managed, and her spirit wasn't beaten out. For
years and years, panted Lucy—her very thoughts
came in gasps—Vera lived up here winter after winter,
years, years, years, and would have been here now
if she hadn't—oh, if only Vera weren't dead! If
<i>only, only</i> Vera weren't dead! But her mind lived
on—her mind was in that room, in every littlest thing
in it——</p>
<p>Lucy stumbled up the last few stairs completely out
of breath, and opening the sitting-room door stood
panting on the threshold much as Lizzie had done, her
hand on her chest.</p>
<p>This time everything was in order. The window was
shut, the scattered notepaper collected and tidily on
the writing-table, the rain on the floor wiped up, and
a fire had been lit and the wet cushions were drying in
front of it. Also there was Lizzie, engaged in conscience-stricken
activities, and when Lucy came in she was on
her knees poking the fire. She was poking so vigorously
that she didn't hear the door open, especially not with
that rattling and banging of the window going on; and
on getting up and seeing the figure standing there panting,
with strands of lank hair in its eyes and its general
air of neglect and weather, she gave a loud exclamation.</p>
<p>'Lumme!' exclaimed Lizzie, whose origin and
bringing-up had been obscure.</p>
<p>She had helped carry in the luggage that morning,
so she had seen her mistress before and knew what she
was like in her dry state. She never could have
believed, having seen her then all nicely fluffed out,
that there was so little of her. Lizzie knew what long-haired
dogs look like when they are being soaped, and
she was also familiar with cats as they appear after
drowning; yet they too surprised her, in spite of
familiarity, each time she saw them in these circumstances
by their want of real substance, of stuffing.
Her mistress looked just like that,—no stuffing at all;
and therefore Lizzie, the poker she was holding arrested
in mid-air on its way into its corner, exclaimed Lumme.</p>
<p>Then, realising that this weather-beaten figure must
certainly be catching its death of cold, she dropped the
poker and hurrying across the room and talking in
the stress of the moment like one girl to another, she
felt Lucy's sleeve and said, 'Why, you're wet to the
bones. Come to the fire and take them sopping clothes
off this minute, or you'll be laid up as sure as sure——'
and pulled her over to the fire; and having got her
there, and she saying nothing at all and not resisting,
Lizzie stripped off her clothes and shoes and stockings,
repeating at frequent intervals as she did so, 'Dear,
dear,' and repressing a strong desire to beg her not
to take on, lest later, perhaps, her mistress mightn't
like her to have noticed she had been crying. Then
she snatched up a woollen coverlet that lay folded on
the end of the sofa, rolled her tightly round in it, sat
her in a chair right up close to the fender, and still
talking like one girl to another said, 'Now sit there and
don't move while I fetch dry things—I won't be above
a minute—now you promise, don't you——' and hurrying
to the door never remembered her manners at all
till she was through it, whereupon she put in her head
again and hastily said, 'Mum,' and disappeared.</p>
<p>She was away, however, more than a minute. Five
minutes, ten minutes passed and Lizzie, feverishly
unpacking Lucy's clothes in the bedroom below, and
trying to find a complete set of them, and not knowing
what belonged to which, didn't come back.</p>
<p>Lucy sat quite still, rolled up in Vera's coverlet.
Obediently she didn't move, but stared straight into the
fire, sitting so close up to it that the rest of the room
was shut out. She couldn't see the window, or the
dismal rain streaming down it. She saw nothing but
the fire, blazing cheerfully. How kind Lizzie was.
How comforting kindness was. It was a thing she
understood, a normal, natural thing, and it made her
feel normal and natural just to be with it. Lizzie had
given her such a vigorous rub-down that her skin
tingled. Her hair was on ends, for that too had had
a vigorous rubbing from Lizzie, who had taken her
apron to it feeling that this was an occasion on which
one abandoned convention and went in for resource.
And as Lucy sat there getting warmer and warmer,
and more and more pervaded by the feeling of relief
and well-being that even the most wretched feel if they
take off all their clothes, her mind gradually calmed
down, it left off asking agonised questions, and
presently her heart began to do the talking.</p>
<p>She was so much accustomed to find life kind, that
given a moment of quiet like this with somebody being
good-natured and back she slipped to her usual state,
which was one of affection and confidence. Lizzie hadn't
been gone five minutes before Lucy had passed from
sheer bewildered misery to making excuses for Everard;
in ten minutes she was seeing good reasons for what he
had done; in fifteen she was blaming herself for most
of what had happened. She had been amazingly idiotic
to run out of the room, and surely quite mad to run
out of the house. It was wrong, of course, for him to
bolt her out, but he was angry, and people did things
when they were angry that horrified them afterwards.
Surely people who easily got angry needed all the sympathy
and understanding one could give them,—not
to be met by despair and the loss of faith in them of
the person they had hurt. That only turned passing,
temporary bad things into a long unhappiness. She
hadn't known he had a temper. She had only, so far,
discovered his extraordinary capacity for being offended.
Well, if he had a temper how could he help it? He
was born that way, as certainly as if he had been born
lame. Would she not have been filled with tenderness
for his lameness if he had happened to be born like that?
Would it ever have occurred to her to mind, to feel it
as a grievance?</p>
<p>The warmer Lucy got the more eager she grew to
justify Wemyss. In the middle of the reasons she
was advancing for his justification, however, it suddenly
struck her that they were a little smug. All that about
people with tempers needing sympathy,—who was she,
with her impulses and impatiences—with her, as she
now saw, devastating impulses and impatiences—to
take a line of what was very like pity. Pity! Smug,
odious word; smug, odious thing. Wouldn't she hate
it if she thought he pitied her for her failings? Let
him be angry with her failings, but not pity her. She
and her man, they needed no pity from each other;
they had love. It was impossible that anything either
of them did or was should <i>really</i> touch that.</p>
<p>Very warm now in Vera's blanket, her face flushed
by the fire, Lucy asked herself what could really put
out that great, glorious, central blaze. All that was
needed was patience when he.... She gave herself
a shake,—there she was again, thinking smugly. She
wouldn't think at all. She would just take things as
they came, and love, and love.</p>
<p>Then the vision of Everard, sitting solitary with his
newspaper and by this time, too, probably thinking
only of love, and anyhow not happy, caused one of
those very impulses to lay hold of her which she had a
moment before been telling herself she would never give
way to again. She was aware one had gripped her,
but this was a good impulse,—this wasn't a bad one like
running out into the rain: she would go down and have
another try at that door. She was warmed through
now and quite reasonable, and she felt she couldn't
another minute endure not being at peace with Everard.
How silly they were. It was ridiculous. It was like
two children fighting. Lizzie was so long bringing her
clothes; she couldn't wait, she must sit on Everard's
knee again, feel his arms round her, see his eyes looking
kind. She would go down in her blanket. It wrapped
her up from top to toe. Only her feet were bare; but
they were quite warm, and anyhow feet didn't matter.</p>
<p>So Lucy padded softly downstairs, making hardly
a sound, and certainly none that could be heard above
the noise of the wind by Lizzie in the bedroom, frantically
throwing clothes about.</p>
<p>She knocked at the library door.</p>
<p>Wemyss's voice said, 'Come in.'</p>
<p>So he had unlocked it. So he had hoped she would
come.</p>
<p>He didn't, however, look round. He was sitting
with his back to the door at the writing-table in the
window, writing.</p>
<p>'I want my flowers in here,' he said, without turning
his head.</p>
<p>So he had rung. So he thought it was the parlourmaid.
So he hadn't unlocked the door because he
hoped she would come.</p>
<p>But his flowers,—he wanted his birthday flowers in
there because they were all that were left to him of his
ruined birthday.</p>
<p>When she heard this order Lucy's heart rushed out
to him. She shut the door softly and with her bare
feet making no sound went up behind him.</p>
<p>He thought the parlourmaid had shut the door, and
gone to carry out his order. Feeling an arm put round
his shoulder he thought the parlourmaid hadn't gone
to carry out his order, but had gone mad instead.</p>
<p>'Good God!' he exclaimed, jumping up.</p>
<p>At the sight of Lucy in her blanket, with her bare
feet and her confused hair, his face changed. He stared
at her without speaking.</p>
<p>'I've come to tell you—I've come to tell you——'
she began.</p>
<p>Then she faltered, for his mouth was a mere hard line.</p>
<p>'Everard, darling,' she said entreatingly, lifting her
face to his, 'let's be friends—please let's be friends—I'm
so sorry—so sorry——'</p>
<p>His eyes ran over her. It was evident that all she
had on was that blanket. A strange fury came into
his face, and he turned his back on her and marched
with a heavy tread to the door, a tread that made Lucy,
for some reason she couldn't at first understand, think
of Elgar. Why Elgar? part of her asked, puzzled,
while the rest of her was blankly watching Wemyss.
Of course: the march: <i>Pomp and Circumstance</i>.</p>
<p>At the door he turned and said, 'Since you thrust
yourself into my room when I have shown you I don't
desire your company you force me to leave it.'</p>
<p>Then he added, his voice sounding queer and through
his teeth, 'You'd better go and put your clothes on.
I assure you I'm proof against sexual allurements.'</p>
<p>Then he went out.</p>
<p>Lucy stood looking at the door. Sexual allurements?
What did he mean? Did he think—did he mean——</p>
<p>She flushed suddenly, and gripping her blanket tight
about her she too marched to the door, her eyes bright
and fixed.</p>
<p>Considering the blanket, she walked upstairs with a
good deal of dignity, and passed the bedroom door
just as Lizzie, her arms full of a complete set of clothing,
came out of it.</p>
<p>'Lumme!' once more exclaimed Lizzie, who seemed
marked down for shocks; and dropped a hairbrush and
a shoe.</p>
<p>Disregarding her, Lucy proceeded up the next flight
with the same dignity, and having reached Vera's room
crossed to the fire, where she stood in silence while
Lizzie, who had hurried after her and was reproaching
her for having gone downstairs like that, dressed her
and brushed her hair.</p>
<p>She was quite silent. She didn't move. She was
miles away from Lizzie, absorbed in quite a new set
of astonished, painful thoughts. But at the end, when
Lizzie asked her if there was anything more she could
do, she looked at her a minute and then, having realised
her, put out her hand and laid it on her arm.</p>
<p>'Thank you <i>very</i> much for everything,' she said
earnestly.</p>
<p>'I'm terribly sorry about that window, mum,' said
Lizzie, who was sure she had been the cause of trouble.
'I don't know what come over me to forget it.'</p>
<p>Lucy smiled faintly at her. 'Never mind,' she said;
and she thought that if it hadn't been for that window
she and Everard—well, it was no use thinking like that;
perhaps there would have been something else.</p>
<p>Lizzie went. She was a recent acquisition, and was
the only one of the servants who hadn't known the late
Mrs. Wemyss, but she told herself that anyhow she
preferred this one. She went; and Lucy stood where
she had left her, staring at the floor, dropping back
into her quite new set of astonished, painful thoughts.</p>
<p>Everard,—that was an outrage, that about sexual
allurements; just simply an outrage. She flushed at
the remembrance of it; her whole body seemed to
flush hot. She felt as though never again would she
be able to bear him making love to her. He had spoilt
that. But that was a dreadful way to feel, that was
destructive of the very heart of marriage. No, she
mustn't let herself,—she must stamp that feeling out;
she must forget what he had said. He couldn't really
have meant it. He was still in a temper. She oughtn't
to have gone down. But how could she know? All
this was new to her, a new side of Everard. Perhaps,
she thought, watching the reflection of the flames
flickering on the shiny, slippery oak floor, only people
with tempers should marry people with tempers. They
would understand each other, say the same sorts of
things, tossing them backwards and forwards like a
fiery, hissing ball, know the exact time it would last,
and be saved by their vivid emotions from the deadly
hurt, the deadly loneliness of the one who couldn't
get into a rage.</p>
<p>Loneliness.</p>
<p>She lifted her head and looked round the room.</p>
<p>No, she wasn't lonely. There was still——</p>
<p>Suddenly she went to the bookshelves, and began
pulling out the books quickly, hungrily reading their
names, turning over their pages in a kind of starving
hurry to get to know, to get to understand, Vera....</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXI</h2>
<p>Meanwhile Wemyss had gone into the drawing-room
till such time as his wife should choose to allow him to
have his own library to himself again.</p>
<p>For a long while he walked up and down it thinking
bitter things, for he was very angry. The drawing-room
was a big gaunt room, rarely used of recent years.
In the early days, when people called on the newly
arrived Wemysses, there had been gatherings in it,—retaliatory
festivities to the vicar, to the doctor, to
the landlord, with a business acquaintance or two of
Wemyss's, wife appended, added to fill out. These
festivities, however, died of inanition. Something was
wanting, something necessary to nourish life in them.
He thought of them as he walked about the echoing
room from which the last guest had departed years ago.
Vera, of course. Her fault that the parties had left off.
She had been so slack, so indifferent. You couldn't
expect people to come to your house if you took no
pains to get them there. Yet what a fine room for
entertaining. The grand piano, too. Never used.
And Vera who made such a fuss about music, and
pretended she knew all about it.</p>
<p>The piano was clothed from head to foot in a heavy
red baize cover, even its legs being buttoned round in
what looked like Alpine Sport gaiters, and the baize
flap that protected the keys had buttons all along it from
one end to the other. In order to play, these buttons
had first to be undone,—Wemyss wasn't going to have
the expensive piano not taken care of. It had been
his wedding present to Vera—how he had loved that
woman!—and he had had the baize clothes made
specially, and had instructed Vera that whenever the
piano was not in use it was to have them on, properly
fastened.</p>
<p>What trouble he had had with her at first about it.
She was always forgetting to button it up again. She
would be playing, and get up and go away to lunch,
or tea, or out into the garden, and leave it uncovered
with the damp and dust getting into it, and not only
uncovered but with its lid open. Then, when she found
that he went in to see if she had remembered, she did
for a time cover it up in the intervals of playing, but
never buttoned all its buttons; invariably he found that
some had been forgotten. It had cost £150. Women
had no sense of property. They were unfit to have
the charge of valuables. Besides, they got tired of
them. Vera had actually quite soon got tired of the
piano. His present. That wasn't very loving of her.
And when he said anything about it she wouldn't
speak. Sulked. How profoundly he disliked sulking.
And she, who had made such a fuss about music when
first he met her, gave up playing, and for years no one
had touched the piano. Well, at least it was being
taken care of.</p>
<p>From habit he stooped and ran his eye up its gaiters.</p>
<p>All buttoned.</p>
<p>Stay—no; one buttonhole gaped.</p>
<p>He stooped closer and put out his hand to button
it, and found the button gone. No button. Only an
end of thread. How was that?</p>
<p>He straightened himself, and went to the fireplace
and rang the bell. Then he waited, looking at his
watch. Long ago he had timed the distances between
the different rooms and the servants' quarters, allowing
for average walking and one minute's margin for
getting under way at the start, so that he knew
exactly at what moment the parlourmaid ought to
appear.</p>
<p>She appeared just as time was up and his finger was
moving towards the bell again.</p>
<p>'Look at that piano-leg,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid, not knowing which leg, looked at
all three so as to be safe.</p>
<p>'What do you see?' he asked.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid was reluctant to say. What she
saw was piano-legs, but she felt that wasn't the right
answer.</p>
<p>'What do you <i>not</i> see?' Wemyss asked, louder.</p>
<p>This was much more difficult, because there were
so many things she didn't see; her parents, for
instance.</p>
<p>'Are you deaf, woman?' he inquired.</p>
<p>She knew the answer to that, and said it quickly.
'No sir,' she said.</p>
<p>'Look at that piano-leg, I say,' said Wemyss, pointing
with his pipe.</p>
<p>It was, so to speak, the off fore-leg at which he
pointed, and the parlourmaid, relieved to be given a
clue, fixed her eye on it earnestly.</p>
<p>'What do you see?' he asked. 'Or, rather, what
do you not see?'</p>
<p>The parlourmaid looked hard at what she saw,
leaving what she didn't see to take care of itself. It
seemed unreasonable to be asked to look at what she
didn't see. But though she looked, she could see
nothing to justify speech. Therefore she was silent.</p>
<p>'Don't you see there's a button off?'</p>
<p>The parlourmaid, on looking closer, did see that, and
said so.</p>
<p>'Isn't it your business to attend to this room?'</p>
<p>She admitted that it was.</p>
<p>'Buttons don't come off of themselves,' Wemyss
informed her.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid, this not being a question, said
nothing.</p>
<p>'Do they?' he asked loudly.</p>
<p>'No sir,' said the parlourmaid; though she could
have told him many a story of things buttons did do
of themselves, coming off in your hand when you hadn't
so much as begun to touch them. Cups, too. The
way cups would fall apart in one's hand——</p>
<p>She, however, merely said, 'No sir.'</p>
<p>'Only wear and tear makes them come off,' Wemyss
announced; and continuing judicially, emphasising his
words with a raised forefinger, he said: 'Now attend
to me. This piano hasn't been used for years. Do
you hear that? Not for years. To my certain knowledge
not for years. Therefore the cover cannot have
been unbuttoned legitimately, it cannot have been
unbuttoned by any one authorised to unbutton it.
Therefore——'</p>
<p>He pointed his finger straight at her and paused.
'Do you follow me?' he asked sternly.</p>
<p>The parlourmaid hastily reassembled her wandering
thoughts. 'Yes sir,' she said.</p>
<p>'Therefore some one unauthorised has unbuttoned
the cover, and some one unauthorised has played on the
piano. Do you understand?'</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said the parlourmaid.</p>
<p>'It is hardly credible,' he went on, 'but nevertheless
the conclusion can't be escaped, that some one has
actually taken advantage of my absence to play on that
piano. Some one in this house has actually dared——'</p>
<p>'There's the tuner,' said the parlourmaid tentatively,
not sure if that would be an explanation, for Wemyss's
lucid sentences, almost of a legal lucidity, invariably
confused her, but giving the suggestion for what it was
worth. 'I understood the orders was to let the tuner
in once a quarter, sir. Yesterday was his day. He
played for a hour. And 'ad the baize and everything
off, and the lid leaning against the wall.'</p>
<p>True. True. The tuner. Wemyss had forgotten
the tuner. The tuner had standing instructions to come
and tune. Well, why couldn't the fool-woman have
reminded him sooner? But the tuner having tuned
didn't excuse the parlourmaid's not having sewn on
the button the tuner had pulled off.</p>
<p>He told her so.</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' she said.</p>
<p>'You will have that button on in five minutes,' he
said, pulling out his watch. 'In five minutes exactly
from now that button will be on. I shall be staying
in this room, so shall see for myself that you carry out
my orders.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said the parlourmaid.</p>
<p>He walked to the window and stood staring at the
wild afternoon. She remained motionless where she was.</p>
<p>What a birthday he was having. And with what joy
he had looked forward to it. It seemed to him very
like the old birthdays with Vera, only so much more
painful because he had expected so much. Vera had
got him used to expecting very little; but it was Lucy,
his adored Lucy, who was inflicting this cruel disappointment
on him. Lucy! Incredible. And she to come
down in that blanket, tempting him, very nearly getting
him that way rather than by the only right and decent
way of sincere and obvious penitence. Why, even
Vera had never done a thing like that, not once in all
the years.</p>
<p>'Let's be friends,' says Lucy. Friends! Yes, she
did say something about sorry, but what about that
blanket? Sorrow with no clothes on couldn't possibly
be genuine. It didn't go together with that kind of
appeal. It was not the sort of combination one expected
in a wife. Why couldn't she come down and
apologise properly dressed? God, her little shoulder
sticking out—how he had wanted to seize and kiss
it ... but then that would have been giving in, that
would have meant her triumph. Her triumph, indeed—when
it was she, and she only, who had begun the whole
thing, running out of the room like that, not obeying
him when he called, humiliating him before that
damned Lizzie....</p>
<p>He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned
away with a jerk from the window.</p>
<p>There, standing motionless, was the parlourmaid.</p>
<p>'What? You still here?' he exclaimed. 'Why
the devil don't you go and fetch that button?'</p>
<p>'I understood your orders was none of us is to leave
rooms without your permission, sir.'</p>
<p>'You'd better be quick then,' he said, looking at
his watch. 'I gave you five minutes, and three of them
have gone.'</p>
<p>She disappeared; and in the servants' sitting-room,
while she was hastily searching for her thimble and a
button that would approximately do, she told the
others what they already knew but found satisfaction
in repeating often, that if it weren't that Wemyss was
most of the week in London, not a day, not a minute,
would she stay in the place.</p>
<p>'There's the wages,' the cook reminded her.</p>
<p>Yes; they were good; higher than anywhere she
had heard of. But what was the making of the place
was the complete freedom from Monday morning every
week to Friday tea-time. Almost anything could be
put up with from Friday tea-time till Monday morning,
seeing that the rest of the week they could do exactly
as they chose, with the whole place as good as belonging
to them; and she hurried away, and got back to the
drawing-room thirty seconds over time.</p>
<p>Wemyss, however, wasn't there with his watch. He
was on his way upstairs to the top of the house, telling
himself as he went that if Lucy chose to take possession
of his library he would go and take possession of her
sitting-room. It was only fair. But he knew she wasn't
now in the library. He knew she wouldn't stay there
all that time. He wanted an excuse to himself for going
to where she was. She must beg his pardon properly.
He could hold out—oh, he could hold out all right for
any length of time, as she'd find out very soon if she
tried the sulking game with him—but to-day it was
their first day in his home; it was his birthday; and
though nothing could be more monstrous than the way
she had ruined everything, yet if she begged his pardon
properly he would forgive her, he was ready to take her
back the moment she showed real penitence. Never
was a woman loved as he loved Lucy. If only she
would be penitent, if only she would properly and
sincerely apologise, then he could kiss her again. He
would kiss that little shoulder of hers, make her pull
her blouse back so that he could see it as he saw it down
in the library, sticking out of that damned blanket—God,
how he loved her....</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXII</h2>
<p>The first thing he saw when he opened the door of the
room at the top of the house was the fire.</p>
<p>A fire. He hadn't ordered a fire. He must look into
that. That officious slattern Lizzie——</p>
<p>Then, before he had recovered from this, he had
another shock. Lucy was on the hearthrug, her head
leaning against the sofa, sound asleep.</p>
<p>So that's what she had been doing,—just going
comfortably to sleep, while he——</p>
<p>He shut the door and walked over to the fireplace
and stood with his back to it looking down at her.
Even his heavy tread didn't wake her. He had shut
the door in the way that was natural, and had walked
across the room in the way that was natural, for he
felt no impulse in the presence of sleep to go softly.
Besides, why should she sleep in broad daylight?
Wemyss was of opinion that the night was for that.
No wonder she couldn't steep at night if she did it in
the daytime. There she was, sleeping soundly,
completely indifferent to what he might be doing. Would
a really loving woman be able to do that? Would a
really devoted wife?</p>
<p>Then he noticed that her face, the side of it he could
see, was much swollen, and her nose was red. At least,
he thought, she had had some contrition for what she
had done before going to sleep. It was to be hoped
she would wake up in a proper frame of mind. If so,
even now some of the birthday might be saved.</p>
<p>He took out his pipe and filled it slowly, his eyes
wandering constantly to the figure on the floor.
Fancy that thing having the power to make or mar his
happiness. He could pick that much up with one hand.
It looked like twelve, with its long-stockinged relaxed
legs, and its round, short-haired head, and its swollen
face of a child in a scrape. Make or mar. He lit his
pipe, repeating the phrase to himself, struck by it,
struck by the way it illuminated his position of bondage
to love.</p>
<p>All his life, he reflected, he had only asked to be
allowed to lavish love, to make a wife happy. Look
how he had loved Vera: with the utmost devotion till
she had killed it, and nothing but trouble as a reward.
Look how he loved that little thing on the floor.
Passionately. And in return, the first thing she did on
being brought into his home as his bride was to quarrel
and ruin his birthday. She knew how keenly he had
looked forward to his birthday, she knew how the
arrangements of the whole honeymoon, how the very
date of the wedding, had hinged on this one day; yet
she had deliberately ruined it. And having ruined it,
what did she care? Comes up here, if you please, and
gets a book and goes comfortably to sleep over it in
front of the fire.</p>
<p>His mouth hardened still more. He pulled the arm-chair
up and sat down noisily in it, his eyes cold with
resentment.</p>
<p>The book Lucy had been reading had dropped out
of her hand when she fell asleep, and lay open on the
floor at his feet. If she used books in such a way,
Wemyss thought, he would be very careful how he let
her have the key of his bookcase. This was one of
Vera's,—Vera hadn't taken any care of her books either;
she was always reading them. He slanted his head sideways
to see the title, to see what it was Lucy had
considered more worth her attention than her conduct
that day towards her husband. <i>Wuthering Heights</i>.
He hadn't read it, but he fancied he had heard of it as
a morbid story. She might have been better employed,
on their first day at home, than in shutting herself away
from him reading a morbid story.</p>
<p>It was while he was looking at her with these thoughts
stonily in his eyes that Lucy, wakened by the smell of
his pipe, opened hers. She saw Everard sitting close
to her, and had one of those moments of instinctive
happiness, of complete restoration to unshadowed
contentment, which sometimes follow immediately on
waking up, before there has been time to remember.
It seems for a wonderful instant as though all in the
world were well. Doubts have vanished. Pain is gone.
And sometimes the moment continues even beyond
remembrance.</p>
<p>It did so now with Lucy. When she opened her
eyes and saw Everard, she smiled at him a smile of
perfect confidence. She had forgotten everything. She
woke up after a deep sleep and saw him, her dear love,
sitting beside her. How natural to be happy. Then,
the expression on his face bringing back remembrance,
it seemed to her in that first serene sanity, that
clear-visioned moment of spirit unfretted by body, that they
had been extraordinarily silly, taking everything the
other one said and did with a tragicness....</p>
<p>Only love filled Lucy after the deep, restoring sleep.
'Dearest one,' she murmured drowsily, smiling at him,
without changing her position.</p>
<p>He said nothing to that; and presently, having
woken up more, she got on to her knees and pulled
herself across to him and curled up at his feet, her head
against his knee.</p>
<p>He still said nothing. He waited. He would give her
time. Her words had been familiar, but not penitent.
They had hardly been the right beginning for an expression
of contrition; but he would see what she said next.</p>
<p>What she said next was, 'Haven't we been silly,'—and,
more familiarity, she put one arm round his knees
and held them close against her face.</p>
<p>'We?' said Wemyss. 'Did you say we?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy, her cheek against his knee. 'We've
been wasting time.'</p>
<p>Wemyss paused before he made his comment on
this. 'Really,' he then said, 'the way you include me
shows very little appreciation of your conduct.'</p>
<p>'Well, <i>I've</i> been silly then,' she said, lifting her head
and smiling up at him.</p>
<p>She simply couldn't go on with indignations. Perhaps
they were just ones. It didn't matter if they were.
Who wanted to be in the right in a dispute with one's
lover? Everybody, oh, but everybody who loved, would
passionately want always to have been in the wrong,
never, never to have been right. That one's beloved
should have been unkind,—who wanted that to be
true? Who wouldn't do anything sooner than have
not been mistaken about it? Vividly she saw Everard
as he was before their marriage; so dear, so boyish,
such fun, her playmate. She could say anything to
him then. She had been quite fearless. And vividly,
too, she saw him as he was when first they met, both
crushed by death,—how he had comforted her, how he
had been everything that was wonderful and tender.
All that had happened since, all that had happened on
this particular and most unfortunate day, was only a
sort of excess of boyishness: boyishness on its
uncontrolled side, a wave, a fit of bad temper provoked by
her not having held on to her impulses. That locking
her out in the rain,—a schoolboy might have done that
to another schoolboy. It meant nothing, except that
he was angry. That about sexual allure——oh, well.</p>
<p>'I've been very silly,' she said earnestly.</p>
<p>He looked down at her in silence. He wanted more
than that. That wasn't nearly enough. He wanted
much more of humbleness before he could bring himself
to lift her on to his knee, forgiven. And how much he
wanted her on his knee.</p>
<p>'Do you realise what you've done?' he asked.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy. 'And I'm so sorry. Won't we
kiss and be friends?'</p>
<p>'Not yet, thank you. I must be sure first that you
understand how deliberately wicked you've been.'</p>
<p>'Oh, but I haven't been deliberately wicked!'
exclaimed Lucy, opening her eyes wide with astonishment.
'Everard, how can you say such a thing?'</p>
<p>'Ah, I see. You are still quite impenitent, and I
am sorry I came up.'</p>
<p>He undid her arm from round his knees, put her on one
side, and got out of the chair. Rage swept over him again.</p>
<p>'Here I've been sitting watching you like a dog,' he
said, towering over her, 'like a faithful dog while you
slept, waiting patiently till you woke up and only
wanting to forgive you, and you not only callously
sleep after having behaved outrageously and allowed
yourself to exhibit temper before the whole house on
our very first day together in my home—well knowing,
mind you, what day it is—but when I ask you for some
sign, some word, some assurance that you are ashamed
of yourself and will not repeat your conduct, you merely
deny that you have done anything needing forgiveness.'</p>
<p>He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, his face twitching
with anger, and wished to God he could knock the
opposition out of Lucy as easily.</p>
<p>She, on the floor, sat looking up at him, her mouth
open. What could she do with Everard? She didn't
know. Love had no effect; saying she was sorry had
no effect.</p>
<p>She pushed her hair nervously behind her ears with
both hands. 'I'm sick of quarrels,' she said.</p>
<p>'So am I,' said Wemyss, going towards the door
thrusting his pipe into his pocket. 'You've only got
yourself to thank for them.'</p>
<p>She didn't protest. It seemed useless. She said,
'Forgive me, Everard.'</p>
<p>'Only if you apologise.'</p>
<p>'Yes.'</p>
<p>'Yes what?' He paused for her answer.</p>
<p>'I do apologise.'</p>
<p>'You admit you've been deliberately wicked?'</p>
<p>'Oh yes.'</p>
<p>He continued towards the door.</p>
<p>She scrambled to her feet and ran after him. 'Please
don't go,' she begged, catching his arm. 'You know I
can't bear it, I can't bear it if we quarrel——'</p>
<p>'Then what do you mean by saying "Oh yes," in
that insolent manner?'</p>
<p>'Did it seem insolent? I didn't mean—oh, I'm so
tired of this——'</p>
<p>'I daresay. You'll be tireder still before you've
done. <i>I</i> don't get tired, let me tell you. You can go
on as long as you choose,—it won't affect me.'</p>
<p>'Oh do, do let's be friends. I don't want to go on.
I don't want anything in the world except to be friends.
Please kiss me, Everard, and say you forgive me——'</p>
<p>He at least stood still and looked at her.</p>
<p>'And do believe I'm so, so sorry——'</p>
<p>He relented. He wanted, extraordinarily, to kiss
her. 'I'll accept it if you assure me it is so,' he said.</p>
<p>'And do, do let's be happy. It's your birthday——'</p>
<p>'As though I've forgotten that.'</p>
<p>He looked at her upturned face; her arm was round
his neck now. 'Lucy, I don't believe you understand
my love for you,' he said solemnly.</p>
<p>'No,' said Lucy truthfully, 'I don't think I do.'</p>
<p>'You'll have to learn.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy; and sighed faintly.</p>
<p>'You mustn't wound such love.'</p>
<p>'No,' said Lucy. 'Don't let us wound each other
ever any more, darling Everard.'</p>
<p>'I'm not talking of each other. I'm talking at this
moment of myself in relation to you. One thing at a
time, please.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy. 'Kiss me, won't you, Everard?
Else I shan't know we're really friends.'</p>
<p>He took her head in his hands, and bestowed a solemn
kiss of pardon on her brow.</p>
<p>She tried to coax him back to cheerfulness. 'Kiss
my eyes too,' she said, smiling at him, 'or they'll feel
neglected.'</p>
<p>He kissed her eyes.</p>
<p>'And now my mouth, please, Everard.'</p>
<p>He kissed her mouth, and did at last smile.</p>
<p>'And now won't we go to the fire and be cosy?'
she asked, her arm in his.</p>
<p>'By the way, who ordered the fire?' he inquired
in his ordinary voice.</p>
<p>'I don't know. It was lit when I came up. Oughtn't
it to have been?'</p>
<p>'Not without orders. It must have been that
Lizzie. I'll ring and find out——'</p>
<p>'Oh, don't ring!' exclaimed Lucy, catching his hand,—she
felt she couldn't bear any more ringing. 'If you
do she'll come, and I want us to be alone together.'</p>
<p>'Well, whose fault is it we haven't been alone together
all this time?' he asked.</p>
<p>'Ah, but we're friends now—you mustn't go back
to that any more,' she said, anxiously smiling and
drawing his hand through her arm.</p>
<p>He allowed her to lead him to the arm-chair, and
sitting in it did at last feel justified in taking her on his
knee.</p>
<p>'How my own Love spoils things,' he said, shaking
his head at her with fond solemnity when they were
settled in the chair.</p>
<p>And Lucy, very cautious now, only said gently,
'But I never <i>mean</i> to.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXIII</h2>
<p>She sat after that without speaking on his knee, his arms
round her, her head on his breast.</p>
<p>She was thinking.</p>
<p>Try as she might to empty herself of everything
except acceptance and love, she found that only her
body was controllable. That lay quite passive in
Wemyss's arms; but her mind refused to lie passive,
it would think. Strange how tightly one's body could
be held, how close to somebody else's heart, and yet
one wasn't anywhere near the holder. They locked
you up in prisons that way, holding your body tight
and thinking they had got you, and all the while your
mind—you—was as free as the wind and the sunlight.
She couldn't help it, she struggled hard to feel as she
had felt when she woke up and saw him sitting near her;
but the way he had refused to be friends, the complete
absence of any readiness in him to meet her, not half,
nor even a quarter, but a little bit of the way, had for
the first time made her consciously afraid of him.</p>
<p>She was afraid of him, and she was afraid of herself
in relation to him. He seemed outside anything of
which she had experience. He appeared not to be—he
anyhow had not been that day—generous. There
seemed no way, at any point, by which one could reach
him. What was he <i>really</i> like? How long was it
going to take her really to know him? Years? And
she herself,—she now knew, now that she had made
their acquaintance, that she couldn't at all bear scenes.
Any scenes. Either with herself, or in her presence
with other people. She couldn't bear them while they
were going on, and she couldn't bear the exhaustion
of the long drawn-out making up at the end. And
she not only didn't see how they were to be avoided—for
no care, no caution would for ever be able to watch
what she said, or did, or looked, or, equally important,
what she didn't say, or didn't do, or didn't look—but
she was afraid, afraid with a most dismal foreboding,
that some day after one of them, or in the middle of one
of them, her nerve would give out and she would collapse.
Collapse deplorably; into just something that howled
and whimpered.</p>
<p>This, however, was horrible. She mustn't think
like this. Sufficient unto the day, she thought, trying
to make herself smile, is the whimpering thereof.
Besides, she wouldn't whimper, she wouldn't go to
pieces, she would discover a way to manage. Where
there was so much love there must be a way to manage.</p>
<p>He had pulled her blouse back, and was kissing her
shoulder and asking her whose very own wife she was.
But what was the good of love-making if it was immediately
preceded or followed or interrupted by anger?
She was afraid of him. She wasn't in this kissing
at all. Perhaps she had been afraid of him unconsciously
for a long while. What was that abjectness
on the honeymoon, that anxious desire to please, to
avoid offending, but fear? It was love afraid; afraid
of getting hurt, of not going to be able to believe whole-heartedly,
of not going to be able—this was the worst—to
be proud of its beloved. But now, after her experiences
to-day, she had a fear of him more separate,
more definite, distinct from love. Strange to be afraid
of him and love him at the same time. Perhaps if she
didn't love him she wouldn't be afraid of him. No,
she didn't think she would then, because then nothing
that he said would reach her heart. Only she couldn't
imagine that. He <i>was</i> her heart.</p>
<p>'What are you thinking of?' asked Wemyss, who having
finished with her shoulder noticed how quiet she was.</p>
<p>She could tell him truthfully; a moment sooner
and she couldn't have. 'I was thinking,' she said,
'that you are my heart.'</p>
<p>'Take care of your heart then, won't you?' said
Wemyss.</p>
<p>'We both will,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Of course,' said Wemyss. 'That's understood.
Why state it?'</p>
<p>She was silent a minute. Then she said, 'Isn't it
nearly tea-time?'</p>
<p>'By Jove, yes,' he exclaimed, pulling out his watch.
'Why, long past. I wonder what that fool—get up,
little Love—' he brushed her off his lap—'I'll ring and
find out what she means by it.'</p>
<p>Lucy was sorry she had said anything about tea.
However, he didn't keep his finger on the bell this time,
but rang it normally. Then he stood looking at his
watch.</p>
<p>She put her arm through his. She longed to say,
'Please don't scold her.'</p>
<p>'Take care,' he said, his eyes on his watch. 'Don't
shake me——'</p>
<p>She asked what he was doing.</p>
<p>'Timing her,' he said. 'Sh—sh—don't talk. I
can't keep count if you talk.'</p>
<p>She became breathlessly quiet and expectant. She
listened anxiously for the sound of footsteps. She did
hope Lizzie would come in time. Lizzie was so nice,—it
would be dreadful if she got a scolding. Why didn't
she come? There—what was that? A door going
somewhere. Would she do it? Would she?</p>
<p>Running steps came along the passage outside.
Wemyss put his watch away. 'Five seconds to spare,'
he said. 'That's the way to teach them to answer bells,'
he added with satisfaction.</p>
<p>'Did you ring, sir?' inquired Lizzie, opening the door.</p>
<p>'Why is tea late?'</p>
<p>'It's in the library, sir.'</p>
<p>'Kindly attend to my question. I asked why
tea was late.'</p>
<p>'It wasn't late to begin with, sir,' said Lizzie.</p>
<p>'Be so good as to make yourself clear.'</p>
<p>Lizzie, who had felt quite clear, here became befogged.
She did her best, however. 'It's got late through
waiting to be 'ad, sir,' she said.</p>
<p>'I'm afraid I don't follow you. Do you?' he asked,
turning to Lucy.</p>
<p>She started. 'Yes,' she said.</p>
<p>'Really. Then you are cleverer than I am,' said
Wemyss.</p>
<p>Lizzie at this—for she didn't want to make any more
trouble for the young lady—made a further effort to
explain. 'It was punctual in the library, sir, at 'alf-past
four if you'd been there to 'ave it. The tea was
punctual, sir, but there wasn't no one to 'ave it.'</p>
<p>'And pray by whose orders was it in the library?'</p>
<p>'I couldn't say, sir. Chesterton——'</p>
<p>'Don't put it on to Chesterton.'</p>
<p>'I was thinking,' said Lizzie, who was more stout-hearted
than the parlourmaid and didn't take cover
quite so frequently in dumbness, 'I was thinking
p'raps Chesterton knew. I don't do the tea, sir.'</p>
<p>'Send Chesterton,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>Lizzie disappeared with the quickness of relief.
Lucy, with a nervous little movement, stooped and
picked up <i>Wuthering Heights</i>, which was still lying face
downward on the floor.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Wemyss. 'I like the way you treat books.'</p>
<p>She put it back on its shelf. 'I went to sleep, and
it fell down,' she said. 'Everard,' she went on quickly,
'I must go and get a handkerchief. I'll join you in
the library.'</p>
<p>'I'm not going into the library. I'm going to have
tea here. Why should I have tea in the library?'</p>
<p>'I only thought as it was there——'</p>
<p>'I suppose I can have tea where I like in my own
house?'</p>
<p>'But of course. Well, then, I'll go and get a handkerchief
and come back here.'</p>
<p>'You can do that some other time. Don't be so
restless.'</p>
<p>'But I—I <i>want</i> a handkerchief this minute,'
said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Nonsense; here, have mine,' said Wemyss; and
anyhow it was too late to escape, for there in the door
stood Chesterton.</p>
<p>She was the parlourmaid. Her name has not till
now been mentioned. It was Chesterton.</p>
<p>'Why is tea in the library?' Wemyss asked.</p>
<p>'I understood, sir, tea was always to be in the library,'
said Chesterton.</p>
<p>'That was while I was by myself. I suppose it
wouldn't have occurred to you to inquire whether I
still wished it there now that I am not by myself.'</p>
<p>This floored Chesterton. Her ignorance of the right
answer was complete. She therefore said nothing,
and merely stood.</p>
<p>But he didn't let her off. 'Would it?' he asked
suddenly.</p>
<p>'No sir,' she said, dimly feeling that 'Yes sir' would
land her in difficulties.</p>
<p>'No. Quite so. It wouldn't. Well, you will now
go and fetch that tea and bring it up here. Stop a
minute, stop a minute—don't be in such a hurry, please.
How long has it been made?'</p>
<p>'Since half-past four, sir.'</p>
<p>'Then you will make fresh tea, and you will
make fresh toast, and you will cut fresh bread and
butter.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir.'</p>
<p>'And another time you will have the goodness to
ascertain my wishes before taking upon yourself to put
the tea into any room you choose to think fit.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir.'</p>
<p>She waited.</p>
<p>He waved.</p>
<p>She went.</p>
<p>'That'll teach her,' said Wemyss, looking refreshed
by the encounter. 'If she thinks she's going to get out
of bringing tea up here by putting it ready somewhere
else she'll find she's mistaken. Aren't they a set?
<i>Aren't</i> they a set, little Love?'</p>
<p>'I—don't know,' said Lucy nervously.</p>
<p>'You don't know!'</p>
<p>'I mean, I don't know them yet. How can I know
them when I've only just come?'</p>
<p>'You soon will, then. A lazier set of careless,
lying——'</p>
<p>'Do tell me what that picture is, Everard,' she
interrupted, quickly crossing the room and standing in
front of it. 'I've been wondering and wondering.'</p>
<p>'You can see what it is. It's a picture.'</p>
<p>'Yes. But where's the place?'</p>
<p>'I've no idea. It's one of Vera's. She didn't
condescend to explain it.'</p>
<p>'You mean she painted it?'</p>
<p>'I daresay. She was always painting.'</p>
<p>Wemyss, who had been filling his pipe, lit it and
stood smoking in front of the fire, occasionally looking
at his watch, while Lucy stared at the picture. Lovely,
lovely to run through that door out into the open, into
the warmth and sunshine, further and further away....</p>
<p>It was the only picture in the room; indeed, the
room was oddly bare,—a thin room, with no carpet on
its slippery floor, only some infrequent rugs, and no
curtains. But there had been curtains, for there were
the rods with rings on them, so that somebody must have
taken Vera's curtains away. Lucy had been strangely
perturbed when she noticed this. It was Vera's room.
Her curtains oughtn't to have been touched.</p>
<p>The long wall opposite the fireplace had nothing at
all on its sand-coloured surface from the door to the
window except a tall narrow looking-glass in a queerly-carved
black frame, and the picture. But how that
one picture glowed. What glorious weather they were
having in it! It wasn't anywhere in England, she was
sure. It was a brilliant, sunlit place, with a lot of almond
trees in full blossom,—an orchard of them, apparently,
standing in grass that was full of little flowers, very
gay little flowers, of kinds she didn't know. And
through the open door in the wall there was an amazing
stretch of hot, vivid country. It stretched on and on
till it melted into an ever so far away lovely blue. There
was an effect of immense spaciousness, of huge freedom.
One could feel oneself running out into it with one's
face to the sun, flinging up one's arms in an ecstasy of
release, of escape....</p>
<p>'It's somewhere abroad,' she said, after a silence.</p>
<p>'I daresay,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Used you to travel much?' she asked, still examining
the picture, fascinated.</p>
<p>'She refused to.'</p>
<p>'She refused to?' echoed Lucy, turning round.</p>
<p>She looked at him wonderingly. That seemed not
only unkind of Vera, but extraordinarily—yes, energetic.
The exertion required for refusing Everard something
he wanted was surely enormous, was surely greater than
any but the most robust-minded wife could embark
upon. She had had one small experience of what
disappointing him meant in that question of Christmas,
and she hadn't been living with him then, and she had
had all the nights to recover in; yet the effect of that
one experience had been to make her give in at once
when next he wanted something, and it was because
of last Christmas that she was standing married in that
room instead of being still, as both she and her Aunt Dot
had intended, six months off it.</p>
<p>'Why did she refuse?' she asked, wondering.</p>
<p>Wemyss didn't answer for a moment. Then he said,
'I was going to say you had better ask her, but you
can't very well do that, can you.'</p>
<p>Lucy stood looking at him. 'Yes,' she said, 'she
does seem extraordinarily near, doesn't she. This
room is full——'</p>
<p>'Now Lucy I'll have none of that. Come here.'</p>
<p>He held out his hand. She crossed over obediently
and took it.</p>
<p>He pulled her close and ruffled her hair. He was
in high spirits again. His encounters with the servants
had exhilarated him.</p>
<p>'Who's my duddely-umpty little girl?' he asked.
'Tell me who's my duddely-umpty little girl. Quick.
Tell me——' And he caught her round the waist and
jumped her up and down.</p>
<p>Chesterton, bringing in the tea, arrived in the middle
of a jump.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXIV</h2>
<p>There appeared to be no tea-table. Chesterton, her
arms stretched taut holding the heavy tray, looked
round. Evidently tea up there wasn't usual.</p>
<p>'Put it in the window,' said Wemyss, jerking his
head towards the writing-table.</p>
<p>'Oh——' began Lucy quickly; and stopped.</p>
<p>'What's the matter?' asked Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Won't it—be draughty?'</p>
<p>'Nonsense. Draughty. Do you suppose I'd tolerate
windows in my house that let in draughts?'</p>
<p>Chesterton, resting a corner of the tray on the table,
was sweeping a clear space for it with her hand. Not
that much sweeping was needed, for the table was big
and all that was on it was the notepaper which earlier
in the afternoon had been scattered on the floor, a
rusty pen or two, some pencils whose ends had been
gnawed as the pencils of a child at its lessons are gnawed,
a neglected-looking inkpot, and a grey book with
<i>Household Accounts</i> in dark lettering on its cover.</p>
<p>Wemyss watched her while she arranged the tea-things.</p>
<p>'Take care, now—take care,' he said, when a cup
rattled in its saucer.</p>
<p>Chesterton, who had been taking care, took more
of it; and <i>le trop</i> being <i>l'ennemi du bien</i> she was so
unfortunate as to catch her cuff in the edge of the plate
of bread and butter.</p>
<p>The plate tilted up; the bread and butter slid off;
and only by a practised quick movement did she stop
the plate from following the bread and butter and
smashing itself on the floor.</p>
<p>'There now,' said Wemyss. 'See what you've done.
Didn't I tell you to be careful? It isn't,' he said,
turning to Lucy, 'as if I hadn't <i>told</i> her to be careful.'</p>
<p>Chesterton, on her knees, was picking up the bread
and butter which lay—a habit she had observed in bread
and butter under circumstances of this kind—butter
downwards.</p>
<p>'You will fetch a cloth,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Yes sir.'</p>
<p>'And you will cut more bread and butter.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir.'</p>
<p>'That makes two plates of bread and butter wasted
to-day entirely owing to your carelessness. They shall be
stopped out of your——Lucy, where are you going?'</p>
<p>'To fetch a handkerchief. I must have a handkerchief,
Everard. I can't for ever use yours.'</p>
<p>'You'll do nothing of the kind. Lizzie will bring
you one. Come back at once. I won't have you
running in and out of the room the whole time. I
never knew any one so restless. Ring the bell and tell
Lizzie to get you one. What is she for, I should like
to know?'</p>
<p>He then resumed and concluded his observations to
Chesterton. 'They shall be stopped out of your wages.
That,' he said, 'will teach you.'</p>
<p>And Chesterton, who was used to this, and had long
ago arranged with the cook that such stoppages should
be added on to the butcher's book, said, 'Yes sir.'</p>
<p>When she had gone—or rather withdrawn, for a
plain word like gone doesn't justly describe the noiseless
decorum with which Chesterton managed the doors of
her entrances and exits—and when Lizzie, too, had gone
after bringing a handkerchief, Lucy supposed they
would now have tea; she supposed the moment had at
last arrived for her to go and sit in that window.</p>
<p>The table was at right angles to it, so that sitting at
it you had nothing between one side of you and the
great pane of glass that reached nearly to the floor.
You could look sheer down on to the flags below. She
thought it horrible, gruesome to have tea there, and the
very first day, before she had had a moment's time to
get used to things. Such detachment on the part of
Everard was either just stark wonderful—she had
already found noble explanations for it—or it was so
callous that she had no explanation for it at all; none,
that is, that she dared think of. Once more she decided
that his way was really the best and simplest way to
meet the situation. You took the bull by the horns.
You seized the nettle. You cleared the air. And
though her images, she felt, were not what they
might be, neither was anything else that day what it
might be. Everything appeared to reflect the confusion
produced by Wemyss's excessive lucidity of speech.</p>
<p>'Shall I pour out the tea?' she asked presently,
preparing, then, to take the bull by the horns; for he
remained standing in front of the fire smoking in silence.
'Just think,' she went on, making an effort to be gay,
'this is the first time I shall pour out tea in my——'</p>
<p>She was going to say 'My own home,' but the words
wouldn't come off her tongue. Wemyss had repeatedly
during the day spoken of his home, but not once had
he said 'our' or 'your'; and if ever a house didn't feel
as if it in the very least belonged, too, to her, it was
this one.</p>
<p>'Not yet,' he said briefly.</p>
<p>She wondered. 'Not yet?' she repeated.</p>
<p>'I'm waiting for the bread and butter.'</p>
<p>'But won't the tea get cold?'</p>
<p>'No doubt. And it'll be entirely that fool's fault.'</p>
<p>'But——' began Lucy, after a silence.</p>
<p>'Buts again?'</p>
<p>'I was only thinking that if we had it now it wouldn't
be cold.'</p>
<p>'She must be taught her lesson.'</p>
<p>Again she wondered. 'Won't it rather be a lesson
to us?' she asked.</p>
<p>'For God's sake, Lucy, don't argue. Things have
to be done properly in my house. You've had no
experience of a properly managed household. All that
set you were brought up in—why, one only had to look
at them to see what a hugger-mugger way they probably
lived. It's entirely the careless fool's own fault that the
tea will be cold. <i>I</i> didn't ask her to throw the bread
and butter on the floor, did I?'</p>
<p>And as she said nothing, he asked again. 'Did I?'
he asked.</p>
<p>'No,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Well then,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>They waited in silence.</p>
<p>Chesterton arrived. She put the fresh bread and
butter on the table, and then wiped the floor with a
cloth she had brought.</p>
<p>Wemyss watched her closely. When she had done—and
Chesterton being good at her work, scrutinise as he
might he could see no sign on the floor of overlooked
butter—he said, 'You will now take the teapot down
and bring some hot tea.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Chesterton, removing the teapot.</p>
<p>A line of a hymn her nurse used to sing came into
Lucy's head when she saw the teapot going. It was:</p>
<p>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What various hindrances we meet—</span><br />
</p>
<p>and she thought the next line, which she didn't remember,
must have been:</p>
<p>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Before at tea ourselves we seat.</span><br />
</p>
<p>But though one portion of her mind was repeating
this with nervous levity, the other was full of concern
for the number of journeys up and down all those stairs
the parlourmaid was being obliged to make. It was—well,
thoughtless of Everard to make her go up and
down so often. Probably he didn't realise—of course
he didn't—how very many stairs there were. When
and how could she talk to him about things like this?
When would he be in such a mood that she would be
able to do so without making them worse? And how,
in what words sufficiently tactful, sufficiently gentle,
would she be able to avoid his being offended? She
must manage somehow. But tact—management—prudence—all
these she had not yet in her life needed.
Had she the smallest natural gift for them? Besides,
each of them applied to love seemed to her an insult.
She had supposed that love, real love, needed none of
these protections. She had thought it was a simple,
sturdy growth that could stand anything.... Why,
here was the parlourmaid already, teapot and all.
How very quick she had been!</p>
<p>Chesterton, however, hadn't so much been quick as
tactful, managing, and prudent. She had been practising
these qualities on the other side of the door, whither
she had taken the teapot and quietly waited with it
a few minutes, and whence she now brought it back.
She placed it on the table with admirable composure;
and when Wemyss, on her politely asking whether there
were anything else he required, said, 'Yes. You will
now take away that toast and bring fresh,' she took the
toast also only as far as the other side of the door, and
waited with it there a little.</p>
<p>Lucy now hoped they would have tea. 'Shall I
pour it out?' she asked after a moment a little anxiously,
for he still didn't move and she began to be afraid the
toast might be going to be the next hindrance; in which
case they would go round and round for the rest of the
day, never catching up the tea at all.</p>
<p>But he did go over and sit down at the table, followed
by her who hardly now noticed its position, so much
surprised and absorbed was she by his methods of
housekeeping.</p>
<p>'Isn't it monstrous,' he said, sitting down heavily,
'how we've been kept waiting for such a simple thing
as tea. I tell you they're the most slovenly——'</p>
<p>There was Chesterton again, bearing the toast-rack
balanced on the tip of a respectful ringer.</p>
<p>This time even Lucy realised that it must be the same
toast, and her hand, lifted in the act of pouring out tea,
trembled, for she feared the explosion that was bound
to come.</p>
<p>How extraordinary. There was no explosion. Everard
hadn't—it seemed incredible—noticed. His attention
was so much fixed on what she was doing with his
cup, he was watching her so carefully lest she should
fill it a hair's-breadth fuller than he liked, that all he said
to Chesterton as she put the toast on the table was,
'Let this be a lesson to you.' But there was no gusto
in it; it was quite mechanical.</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Chesterton.</p>
<p>She waited.</p>
<p>He waved.</p>
<p>She went.</p>
<p>The door hadn't been shut an instant before Wemyss
exclaimed, 'Why, if that slovenly hussy hasn't
forgotten——' And too much incensed to continue he
stared at the tea-tray.</p>
<p>'What? What?' asked Lucy startled, also staring
at the tea-tray.</p>
<p>'Why, the sugar.'</p>
<p>'Oh, I'll call her back—she's only just gone——'</p>
<p>'Sit down, Lucy.'</p>
<p>'But she's just outside——'</p>
<p>'Sit <i>down</i>, I tell you.'</p>
<p>Lucy sat.</p>
<p>Then she remembered that neither she nor Everard
ever had sugar in their tea, so naturally there was no
point in calling Chesterton back.</p>
<p>'Oh, of course,' she said, smiling nervously, for
what with one thing and another she was feeling
shattered, 'how stupid of me. We don't want sugar.'</p>
<p>Wemyss said nothing. He was studying his watch,
timing Chesterton. Then when the number of seconds
needed to reach the kitchen had run out, he got up and
rang the bell.</p>
<p>In due course Lizzie appeared. It seemed that the
rule was that this particular bell should be answered
by Lizzie.</p>
<p>'Chesterton,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>In due course Chesterton appeared. She was less
composed than when she brought back the teapot, than
when she brought back the toast. She tried to hide it,
but she was out of breath.</p>
<p>'Yes sir?' she said.</p>
<p>Wemyss took no notice, and went on drinking his
tea.</p>
<p>Chesterton stood.</p>
<p>After a period of silence Lucy thought that perhaps
it was expected of her as mistress of the house to tell
her about the sugar; but then as they neither of them
wanted any....</p>
<p>After a further period of silence, during which she
anxiously debated whether it was this that they were
all waiting for, she thought that perhaps Everard hadn't
heard the parlourmaid come in; so she said—she was
ashamed to hear how timidly it came out—'Chesterton
is here, Everard.'</p>
<p>He took no notice, and went on eating bread and
butter.</p>
<p>After a further period of anxious inward debate she
concluded that it must after all be expected of her, as
mistress of the house, to talk of the sugar; and the
sugar was to be talked of not because they needed it
but on principle. But what a roundabout way; how
fatiguing and difficult. Why didn't Everard say what
he wanted, instead of leaving her to guess?</p>
<p>'I think——' she stammered, flushing, for she was
now very timid indeed, 'you've forgotten the sugar,
Chesterton.'</p>
<p>'Will you not interfere!' exclaimed Wemyss very
loud, putting down his cup with a bang.</p>
<p>The flush on Lucy's face vanished as if it had been
knocked out. She sat quite still. If she moved, or
looked anywhere but at her plate, she knew she would
begin to cry. The scenes she had dreaded had not
included any with herself in the presence of servants.
It hadn't entered her head that these, too, were possible.
She must hold on to herself; not move; not look.
She sat absorbed in that one necessity, fiercely
concentrated. Chesterton must have gone away and come
back again, for presently she was aware that sugar was
being put on the tea-tray; and then she was aware that
Everard was holding out his cup.</p>
<p>'Give me some more tea, please,' he said, 'and for
God's sake don't sulk. If the servants forget their
duties it's neither your nor my business to tell them
what they've forgotten,—they've just got to look and
see, and if they don't see they've just got to stand there
looking till they do. It's the only way to teach them.
But for you to get sulking on the top of it——'</p>
<p>She lifted the teapot with both hands, because one
hand by itself too obviously shook. She succeeded in
pouring out the tea without spilling it, and in stopping
almost at the very moment when he said, 'Take care,
take care—you're filling it too full.' She even succeeded
after a minute or two in saying, holding carefully on to
her voice to keep it steady, 'I'm not—sulking. I've—got
a headache.'</p>
<p>And she thought desperately, 'The only thing to be
done with marriage is to let it wash over one.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXV</h2>
<p>For the rest of that day she let it wash; unresistingly.
She couldn't think any more. She couldn't feel any
more,—not that day. She really had a headache; and
when the dusk came, and Wemyss turned on the lights,
it was evident even to him that she had, for there was
no colour at all in her face and her eyes were puffed
and leaden.</p>
<p>He had one of his sudden changes. 'Come here,'
he said, reaching out and drawing her on to his knee;
and he held her face against his breast, and felt full of
maternal instincts, and crooned over her. 'Was it a
poor little baby,' he crooned. 'Did it have a headache
then——' And he put his great cool hand on her hot
forehead and kept it there.</p>
<p>Lucy gave up trying to understand anything at all
any more. These swift changes,—she couldn't keep up
with them; she was tired, tired....</p>
<p>They sat like that in the chair before the fire, Wemyss
holding his hand on her forehead and feeling full of
maternal instincts, and she an unresisting blank, till he
suddenly remembered he hadn't shown her the drawing-room
yet. The afternoon had not proceeded on the
lines laid down for it in his plans, but if they were
quick there was still time for the drawing-room before
dinner.</p>
<p>Accordingly she was abruptly lifted off his knee.
'Come along, little Love,' he said briskly. 'Come along.
Wake up. I want to show you something.'</p>
<p>And the next thing she knew was that she was
going downstairs, and presently she found herself
standing in a big cold room, blinking in the bright
lights he had switched on at the door.</p>
<p>'This,' he said, holding her by the arm, 'is the
drawing-room. Isn't it a fine room.' And he explained
the piano, and told her how he had found a button off,
and he pointed out the roll of rugs in a distant corner
which, unrolled, decorated the parquet floor, and he
drew her attention to the curtains,—he had no objections
to curtains in a drawing-room, he said, because a drawing-room
was anyhow a room of concessions; and he asked
her at the end, as he had asked her at the beginning, if
she didn't think it a fine room.</p>
<p>Lucy said it was a very fine room.</p>
<p>'You'll remember to put the cover on properly when
you've finished playing the piano, won't you,' he said.</p>
<p>'Yes I will,' said Lucy. 'Only I don't play,' she
added, remembering she didn't.</p>
<p>'That's all right then,' he said, relieved.</p>
<p>They were still standing admiring the proportions
of the room, its marble fireplace and the brilliancy of its
lighting—'The test of good lighting,' said Wemyss,
'is that there shouldn't be a corner of a room in which
a man of eighty can't read his newspaper'—when the
gong began.</p>
<p>'Good Lord,' he said, looking at his watch, 'it'll
be dinner in ten minutes. Why, we've had nothing
at all of the afternoon, and I'd planned to show you so
many things. Ah,' he said, turning and shaking his
head at her, his voice changing to sorrow, 'whose fault
has that been?'</p>
<p>'Mine,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face,
gazing at it and shaking his head slowly. The light,
streaming into her swollen eyes, hurt them and made
her blink.</p>
<p>'Ah, my Lucy,' he said fondly, 'little waster of
happiness—isn't it better simply to love your Everard
than make him unhappy?'</p>
<p>'Much better,' said Lucy, blinking.</p>
<p>There was no dressing for dinner at The Willows, for
that, explained Wemyss, was the great joy of home,
that you needn't ever do anything you don't want to
in it, and therefore, he said, ten minutes' warning was
ample for just washing one's hands. They washed
their hands together in the big bedroom, because Wemyss
disapproved of dressing-rooms at home even more
strongly than on honeymoons in hotels. 'Nobody's
going to separate me from my own woman,' he said,
drying his hands and eyeing her with proud possessiveness
while she dried hers; their basins stood side
by side on the brown mottled marble of the washstand.
'Are they,' he said, as she dried in silence.</p>
<p>'No,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'How's the head?' he said.</p>
<p>'Better,' she said.</p>
<p>'Who's got a forgiving husband?' he said.</p>
<p>'I have,' she said.</p>
<p>'Smile at me,' he said.</p>
<p>She smiled at him.</p>
<p>At dinner it was Vera who smiled, her changeless
little strangled smile, with her eyes on Lucy. Lucy's
seat had its back to Vera, but she knew she had only
to turn her head to see her eyes fixed on her, smiling.
No one else smiled; only Vera.</p>
<p>Lucy bent her head over her plate, trying to escape
the unshaded light that beat down on her eyes, sore
with crying, and hurt. In front of her was the bowl of
kingcups, the birthday flowers. Just behind Wemyss
stood Chesterton, in an attitude of strained attention.
Dimly through Lucy's head floated thoughts: Seeing
that Everard invariably spent his birthdays at The
Willows, on that day last year at that hour Vera was
sitting where she, Lucy, now was, with the kingcups
glistening in front of her, and Everard tucking his table
napkin into his waistcoat, and Chesterton waiting till
he was quite ready to take the cover off the soup; just
as Lucy was seeing these things this year Vera saw them
last year; Vera still had three months of life ahead of
her then, three more months of dinners, and Chesterton,
and Everard tucking in his napkin. How queer.
What a dream it all was. On that last of his birthdays
at which Vera would ever be present, did any thought
of his next birthday cross her mind? How strange
it would have seemed to her if she could have seen
ahead, and seen her, Lucy, sitting in her chair. The
same chair; everything just the same; except the wife.
'<i>Souvent femme varie</i>,' floated vaguely across her
tired brain. She ate her soup sitting all crooked with
fatigue ... life was exactly like a dream....</p>
<p>Wemyss, absorbed in the scrutiny of his food
and the behaviour of Chesterton, had no time
to notice anything Lucy might be doing. It was
the rule that Chesterton, at meals, should not for an
instant leave the room. The furthest she was allowed
was a door in the dark corner opposite the door into the
hall, through which at intervals Lizzie's arm thrust
dishes. It was the rule that Lizzie shouldn't come into
the room, but, stationary on the other side of this door,
her function was to thrust dishes through it; and to her
from the kitchen, pattering ceaselessly to and fro, came
the tweeny bringing the dishes. This had all been
thought out and arranged very carefully years ago by
Wemyss, and ought to have worked without a hitch;
but sometimes there were hitches, and Lizzie's arm was
a minute late thrusting in a dish. When this happened
Chesterton, kept waiting and conscious of Wemyss
enormously waiting at the end of the table, would put
her head round the door and hiss at Lizzie, who then
hurried to the kitchen and hissed at the tweeny, who for
her part didn't dare hiss at the cook.</p>
<p>To-night, however, nothing happened that was not
perfect. From the way Chesterton had behaved about
the tea, and the way Lizzie had behaved about the
window, Wemyss could see that during his four weeks'
absence his household had been getting out of hand,
and he was therefore more watchful than ever, determined
to pass nothing over. On this occasion he
watched in vain. Things went smoothly from start
to finish. The tweeny ran, Lizzie thrust, Chesterton
deposited, dead on time. Every dish was hot and
punctual, or cold and punctual, according to what was
expected of it; and Wemyss going out of the dining-room
at the end, holding Lucy by the arm, couldn't
but feel he had dined very well. Perhaps, though, his
father's photograph hadn't been dusted,—it would
be just like them to have disregarded his instructions.
He went back to look, and Lucy, since he was holding
her by the arm, went too. No, they had even done
that; and there was nothing further to be said except,
with great sternness to Chesterton, eyeing her threateningly,
'Coffee at once.'</p>
<p>The evening was spent in the library reading Wemyss's
school reports, and looking at photographs of him in
his various stages,—naked and crowing; with ringlets,
in a frock; in knickerbockers, holding a hoop; a stout
schoolboy; a tall and slender youth; thickening;
still thickening; thick,—and they went to bed at ten
o'clock.</p>
<p>Somewhere round midnight Lucy discovered that
the distances of the treble bed softened sound; either
that, or she was too tired to hear anything, for she
dropped out of consciousness with the heaviness of a
released stone.</p>
<p>Next day it was finer. There were gleams of sun;
and though the wind still blew, the rain held off except
for occasional spatterings. They got up very late—breakfast
on Sundays at The Willows was not till eleven—and
went and inspected the chickens. By the time they
had done that, and walked round the garden, and stood
on the edge of the river throwing sticks into it and
watching the pace at which they were whirled away on
its muddy and disturbed surface, it was luncheon time.
After luncheon they walked along the towpath, one
behind the other because it was narrow and the grass
at the sides was wet. Wemyss walked slowly, and the
wind was cold. Lucy kept close to his heels, seeking
shelter under, as it were, his lee. Talk wasn't possible
because of the narrow path and the blustering wind,
but every now and then Wemyss looked down over his
shoulder at her. 'Still there?' he asked; and Lucy
said she was.</p>
<p>They had tea punctually at half-past four up in
Vera's sitting-room, but without, this time, a fire—Wemyss
had rectified Lizzie's tendency to be officious—and
after tea he took her out again to show her how his
electricity was made, while the gardener who saw to the
machinery, and the boy who saw to the gardener, stood
by in attendance.</p>
<p>There was a cold sunset,—a narrow strip of gold
below heavy clouds, like a sullen, half-open eye. The
prudent cows dotted the fields motionlessly, lying on
their dry bite of grass. The wind blew straight across
from the sunset through Lucy's coat, wrap herself in it
as tightly as she might, while they loitered among
outhouses and examined the durability of the railings.
Her headache, in spite of her good night, hadn't gone,
and by dinner time her throat felt sore. She said
nothing to Wemyss, because she was sure she would
be well in the morning. Her colds never lasted.
Besides she knew, for he had often told her, how much
he was bored by the sick.</p>
<p>At dinner her cheeks were very red and her eyes
very bright.</p>
<p>'Who's my pretty little girl,' said Wemyss, struck
by her.</p>
<p>Indeed he was altogether pleased with her. She
had been his own Lucy throughout the day, so gentle
and sweet, and hadn't once said But, or tried to go out
of rooms. Unquestioningly acquiescent she had been;
and now so pretty, with the light full on her, showing
up her lovely colouring.</p>
<p>'Who's my pretty little girl,' he said again, laying
his hand on hers, while Chesterton looked down her nose.</p>
<p>Then he noticed she had a knitted scarf round her
shoulders, and he said, 'Whatever have you got that
thing on in here for?'</p>
<p>'I'm cold,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Cold! Nonsense. You're as warm as a toast.
Feel my hand compared to yours.'</p>
<p>Then she did tell him she thought she had caught
cold, and he said, withdrawing his hand and his face
falling, 'Well, if you have it's only what you deserve
when you recollect what you did yesterday.'</p>
<p>'I suppose it is,' agreed Lucy; and assured him her
colds were all over in twenty-four hours.</p>
<p>Afterwards in the library when they were alone, she
asked if she hadn't better sleep by herself in case he
caught her cold, but Wemyss wouldn't hear of such a
thing. Not only, he said, he never caught colds and
didn't believe any one else who was sensible ever did, but
it would take more than a cold to separate him from his
wife. Besides, though of course she richly deserved a
cold after yesterday—'Who's a shameless little baggage,'
he said, pinching her ear, 'coming down with only a
blanket on——' somehow, though he had been so angry
at the time, the recollection of that pleased him—he
could see no signs of her having got one. She didn't
sneeze, she didn't blow her nose——</p>
<p>Lucy agreed, and said she didn't suppose it was
anything really, and she was sure she would be all
right in the morning.</p>
<p>'Yes—and you know we catch the early train up,'
said Wemyss. 'Leave here at nine sharp, mind.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy. And presently, for she was
feeling very uncomfortable and hot and cold in
turns, and had a great longing to creep away and
be alone for a little while, she said that perhaps,
although she knew it was very early, she had better
go to bed.</p>
<p>'All right,' said Wemyss, getting up briskly. 'I'll
come too.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXVI</h2>
<p>He found her, however, very trying that night, the way
she would keep on turning round, and it reached such
a pitch of discomfort to sleep with her, or rather
endeavour to sleep with her, for as the night went on she
paid less and less attention to his requests that she
should keep still, that at about two o'clock, staggering
with sleepiness, he got up and went into a spare room,
trailing the quilt after him and carrying his pillows,
and finished the night in peace.</p>
<p>When he woke at seven he couldn't make out at
first where he was, nor why, on stretching out his arm,
he found no wife to be gathered in. Then he remembered,
and he felt most injured that he should have been turned
out of his own bed. If Lucy imagined she was going
to be allowed to develop the same restlessness at night
that was characteristic of her by day, she was mistaken;
and he got up to go and tell her so.</p>
<p>He found her asleep in a very untidy position, the
clothes all dragged over to her side of the bed and
pulled up round her. He pulled them back again,
and she woke up, and he got into bed and said,
'Come here,' stretching out his arm, and she didn't
come.</p>
<p>Then he looked at her more closely, and she, looking
at him with heavy eyes, said something husky. It
was evident she had a very tiresome cold.</p>
<p>'What an untruth you told me,' he exclaimed,
'about not having a cold in the morning!'</p>
<p>She again said something husky. It was evident
she had a very tiresome sore throat.</p>
<p>'It's getting on for half-past seven,' said Wemyss.
'We've got to leave the house at nine sharp, mind.'</p>
<p>Was it possible that she wouldn't leave the house
at nine sharp? The thought that she wouldn't was too
exasperating to consider. He go up to London alone?
On this the first occasion of going up after his marriage?
He be alone in Lancaster Gate, just as if he hadn't
a wife at all? What was the good of a wife if she didn't
go up to London with one? And all this to come upon
him because of her conduct on his birthday.</p>
<p>'Well,' he said, sitting up in bed and looking down
at her, 'I hope you're pleased with the result of your
behaviour.'</p>
<p>But it was no use saying things to somebody who
merely made husky noises.</p>
<p>He got out of bed and jerked up the blinds. 'Such
a beautiful day, too,' he said indignantly.</p>
<p>When at a quarter to nine the station cab arrived,
he went up to the bedroom hoping that he would find
her after all dressed and sensible and ready to go, but
there she was just as he had left her when he went to
have his breakfast, dozing and inert in the tumbled bed.</p>
<p>'You'd better follow me by the afternoon train,'
he said, after staring down at her in silence. 'I'll
tell the cab. But in any case,' he said, as she didn't
answer, 'in <i>any</i> case, Lucy, I expect you to-morrow.'</p>
<p>She opened her eyes and looked at him languidly.</p>
<p>'Do you hear?' he said.</p>
<p>She made a husky noise.</p>
<p>'Good-bye,' he said shortly, stooping and giving
the top of her head a brief, disgusted kiss. The way
the consequences of folly fell always on somebody else
and punished him.... Wemyss could hardly give his
<i>Times</i> the proper attention in the train for thinking of it.</p>
<p>That day Miss Entwhistle, aware of the return from
the honeymoon on the Friday, and of the week-end to
be spent at The Willows, and of the coming up to
Lancaster Gate early on the Monday morning for the
inside of the week, waited till twelve o'clock, so as to
allow plenty of time for Wemyss no longer to be in the
house, and then telephoned. Lucy and she were to
lunch together. Lucy had written to say so, and Miss
Entwhistle wanted to know if she wouldn't soon be
round. She longed extraordinarily to fold that darling
little child in her arms again. It seemed an eternity
since she saw her radiantly disappearing in the taxi;
and the letters she had hoped to get during the honeymoon
hadn't been letters at all, but picture postcards.</p>
<p>A man's voice answered her,—not Wemyss's. It was,
she recognised, the voice of the pale servant, who with
his wife attended to the Lancaster Gate house. They
inhabited the basement, and emerged from it up into
the light only if they were obliged. Bells obliged them
to emerge, and Wemyss's bath and breakfast, and after
his departure to his office the making of his bed; but
then the shades gathered round them again till next
morning, because for a long while now once he had left
the house he hadn't come back till after they were in
bed. His re-marriage was going to disturb them, they
were afraid, and the pale wife had forebodings about
meals to be cooked; but at the worst the disturbance
would only be for the three inside days of the week, and
anything could be borne when one had from Friday to
Monday to oneself; and as the morning went on, and no
one arrived from Strorley, they began to take heart, and
had almost quite taken it when the telephone bell rang.</p>
<p>It didn't do it very often, for Wemyss had his other
addresses, at the office, at the club, so that Twite,
wanting in practice, was not very good at dealing with
it. Also the shrill bell vibrating through the empty
house, so insistent, so living, never failed to agitate
both Twites. It seemed to them uncanny; and Mrs.
Twite, watching Twite being drawn up by it out of his
shadows, like some quiet fish sucked irresistibly up to
gasp on the surface, was each time thankful that she
hadn't been born a man.</p>
<p>She always went and listened at the bottom of the
kitchen stairs, not knowing what mightn't happen to
Twite up there alone with that voice, and on this
occasion she heard the following:</p>
<p>'No, ma'am, not yet, ma'am.'</p>
<p>'I couldn't say, ma'am.'</p>
<p>'No, no news, ma'am.'</p>
<p>'Oh yes, ma'am, on Friday night.'</p>
<p>'Yes, ma'am, first thing Saturday.'</p>
<p>'Yes, it is, ma'am—very strange, ma'am.'</p>
<p>And then there was silence. He was writing, she
knew, on the pad provided by Wemyss for the purpose.</p>
<p>This was the most trying part of Twite's duties.
Any message had to be written down and left on the
hall table, complete with the time of its delivery, for
Wemyss to see when he came in at night. Twite was
not a facile writer. Words confused him. He was
never sure how they were spelt. Also he found it very
difficult to remember what had been said, for there was
a hurry and an urgency about a voice on the telephone
that excited him and prevented his giving the message
his undivided attention. Besides, when was a message
not a message? Wemyss's orders were to write down
messages. Suppose they weren't messages, must he
still write? Was this, for instance, a message?</p>
<p>He thought he had best be on the safe side, and
laboriously wrote it down.</p>
<blockquote><p>Miss Henwissel rang up sir to know if you was come
and if so when you was coming and what orders we ad
and said it was very strange 12.15.</p></blockquote>
<p>He had only just put this on the table and was about
to descend to his quiet shades when off the thing started
again.</p>
<p>This time it was Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Back to-night late as usual,' he said.</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Twite. 'There's just been a——'</p>
<p>But he addressed emptiness.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Miss Entwhistle, after a period of reflection,
was ringing up Strorley 19. The voice of Chesterton,
composed and efficient, replied; and the effect of her
replies was to make Miss Entwhistle countermand lunch
and pack a small bag and go to Paddington.</p>
<p>Trains to Strorley at that hour were infrequent and
slow, and it wasn't till nearly five that she drove down
the oozy lane in the station cab and, turning in at the
white gate, arrived at The Willows. That sooner or
later she would have to arrive at The Willows now that
she was related to it by marriage was certain, and she
had quite made up her mind, during her four weeks'
peace since the wedding, that she was going to dismiss
all foolish prejudices against the place from her mind
and arrive at it, when she did arrive, with a stout heart
and an unclouded countenance. After all, there was
much in that <i>mot</i> of her nephew's: 'Somebody has died
everywhere.' Yet, as the cab heaved her nearer to the
place along the oozy lane, she did wish that it wasn't
in just this house that Lucy lay in bed. Also she had
misgivings at being there uninvited. In a case of serious
illness naturally such misgivings wouldn't exist; but
the maid's voice on the telephone had only said
Mrs. Wemyss had a cold and was staying in bed, and
Mr. Wemyss had gone up to London by the usual train.
It couldn't be much that was wrong, or he wouldn't
have gone. Hadn't she, she thought uneasily as she
found herself uninvited within Wemyss's gates, perhaps
been a little impulsive? Yet the idea of that child
alone in the sinister house——</p>
<p>She peered out of the cab window. Not at all
sinister, she said, correcting herself severely; all most
neat. Perfect order. Shrubs as they should be. Strong
railings. Nice cows.</p>
<p>The cab stopped. Chesterton came down the steps
and opened its door. Nice parlourmaid. Most normal.</p>
<p>'How is Mrs. Wemyss?' asked Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'About the same I believe, ma'am,' said Chesterton;
and inquired if she should pay the man.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle paid the man, and then proceeded
up the steps followed by Chesterton carrying her bag.
Fine steps. Handsome house.</p>
<p>'Does she know I'm coming?'</p>
<p>'I believe the housemaid did mention it, ma'am.'</p>
<p>Nice roomy hall. With a fire it might be quite
warm. Fine windows. Good staircase.</p>
<p>'Do you wish for tea, ma'am?'</p>
<p>'No thank you. I should like to go up at once, if
I may.'</p>
<p>'If you please, ma'am.'</p>
<p>At the turn of the stairs, where the gong was, Miss
Entwhistle stood aside and let Chesterton precede her.
'Perhaps you had better go and tell Mrs. Wemyss I am
here,' she said.</p>
<p>'If you please, ma'am.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle waited, gazing at the gong with the
same benevolence she had brought to bear on everything
else. Fine gong. She also gazed at the antlers on the
wall, for the wall continued to bristle with antlers right
up to the top of the house. Magnificent collection.</p>
<p>'If you please, ma'am,' said Chesterton, reappearing,
tiptoeing gingerly to the head of the stairs.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle went up. Chesterton ushered her
into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle knew Lucy was small, but not how
small till she saw her in the treble bed. There really did
appear to be nothing of her except a little round head.
'Why, but you've shrunk!' was her first exclamation.</p>
<p>Lucy, who was tucked up to her chin by Lizzie,
besides having a wet bandage encased in flannel round
her throat, could only move her eyes and smile. She
was on the side of the bed farthest from the door, and
Miss Entwhistle had to walk round it to reach her.
She was still hoarse, but not as voiceless as when Wemyss
left in the morning, for Lizzie had been diligently plying
her with things like hot honey, and her face, as her eyes
followed Miss Entwhistle's approach, was one immense
smile. It really seemed too wonderful to be with Aunt
Dot again; and there was a peace about being ill, a
relaxation from strain, that had made her quiet day,
alone in bed, seem sheer bliss. It was so plain that she
couldn't move, that she couldn't do anything, couldn't
get up and go in trains, that her conscience was at rest
in regard to Everard; and she lay in the blessed silence
after he left, not minding how much her limbs ached
because of the delicious tranquillity of her mind. The
window was open, and in the garden the birds were
busy. The wind had dropped. Except for the birds
there was no sound. Divine quiet. Divine peace. The
luxury of it after the week-end, after the birthday, after
the honeymoon, was extraordinary. Just to be in bed by
oneself seemed an amazingly felicitous condition.</p>
<p>'Lovely of you to come,' she said hoarsely, smiling
broadly and looking so unmistakably contented that
Miss Entwhistle, as she bent over her and kissed her hot
forehead, thought, 'It's a success. He's making her
happy.'</p>
<p>'You darling little thing,' she said, smoothing back
her hair. 'Fancy seeing you again like this!'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Lucy, heavy-eyed and smiling. 'Lovely,'
she whispered, 'to see you. Tea, Aunt Dot?'</p>
<p>It was evidently difficult for her to speak, and her
forehead was extremely hot.</p>
<p>'No, I don't want tea.'</p>
<p>'You'll stay?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Miss Entwhistle, sitting down by the
pillow and continuing to smooth back her hair. 'Of
course I'll stay. How did you manage to catch such a
cold, I wonder?'</p>
<p>She was left to wonder, undisturbed by any explanations
of Lucy's. Indeed it was as much as Lucy could
manage to bring out the most necessary words. She
lay contentedly with her eyes shut, having her hair
stroked back, and said as little as possible.</p>
<p>'Everard—' said Miss Entwhistle, stroking gently,
'is he coming back to-night?'</p>
<p>'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly.</p>
<p>Aunt Dot stroked in silence.</p>
<p>'Has your temperature been taken?' she asked
presently.</p>
<p>'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly.</p>
<p>'Oughtn't you—' after another pause 'to see a
doctor?'</p>
<p>'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly. Delicious, simply
delicious, to lie like that having one's hair stroked back
by Aunt Dot, the dear, the kind, the comprehensible.</p>
<p>'So sweet of you to come,' she whispered again.</p>
<p>Well, thought Miss Entwhistle as she sat there softly
stroking and watching Lucy's face of complete content
while she dozed off even after she was asleep the
corners of her mouth still were tucked up in a smile—it
was plain that Everard was making the child happy.
In that case he certainly must be all that Lucy had
assured her he was, and she, Miss Entwhistle, would
no doubt very quickly now get fond of him. Of course
she would. No doubt whatever. And what a comfort,
what a relief, to find the child happy. Backgrounds
didn't matter where there was happiness. Houses,
indeed. What did it matter if they weren't the sort
of houses you would, left to yourself, choose so long as
in them dwelt happiness? What did it matter what
their past had been so long as their present was
illuminated by contentment? And as for furniture,
why, that only became of interest, of importance, when
life had nothing else in it. Loveless lives, empty lives,
filled themselves in their despair with beautiful furniture.
If you were really happy you had antlers.</p>
<p>In this spirit, while she stroked and Lucy slept,
Miss Entwhistle's eye, full of benevolence, wandered
round the room. The objects in it, after her own small
bedroom in Eaton Terrace and its necessarily small
furniture, all seemed to her gigantic. Especially the
bed. She had never seen a bed like it before, though
she had heard of such beds in history. Didn't Og the
King of Bashan have one? But what an excellent
plan, for then you could get away from each other.
Most sensible. Most wholesome. And a certain bleakness
about the room would soon go when Lucy's little
things got more strewn about,—her books, and photographs,
and pretty dressing-table silver.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle's eye arrived at and dwelt on the
dressing-table. On it were two oval wooden-backed
brushes without handles. Hairbrushes. Men's. Also
shaving things. And, hanging over one side of the
looking-glass, were three neckties.</p>
<p>She quickly recovered. Most friendly. Most companionable.
But a feeling of not being in Lucy's room
at all took possession of her, and she fidgeted a little.
With no business to be there whatever, she was in a
strange man's bedroom. She averted her eyes from
Wemyss's toilet arrangements, they were the last
things she wanted to see; and, in averting them, they
fell on the washstand with its two basins and on an
enormous red-brown indiarubber sponge. No such
sponge was ever Lucy's. The conclusion was forced
upon her that Lucy and Everard washed side by side.</p>
<p>From this, too, she presently recovered. After all,
marriage was marriage, and you did things in marriage
that you would never dream of doing single. She
averted her eyes from the washstand. The last thing
she wanted to do was to become familiar with Wemyss's
sponge.</p>
<p>Her eyes, growing more and more determined in
their benevolence, gazed out of the window. How the
days were lengthening. And really a beautiful look-out,
with the late afternoon light reflected on the hills
across the river. Birds, too, twittering in the garden,—everything
most pleasant and complete. And such a nice
big window. Lots of air and light. It reached nearly
to the floor. Two housemaids at least, and strong ones,
would be needed to open or shut it,—ah no, there were
cords. A thought struck her: This couldn't be the
room, that couldn't be the window, where——</p>
<p>She averted her eyes from the window, and fixed
them on what seemed to be the only satisfactory resting-place
for them, the contented face on the pillow. Dear
little loved face. And the dear, pretty hair,—how
pretty young hair was, so soft and thick. No, of course
it wasn't the window; that tragic room was probably
not used at all now. How in the world had the child
got such a cold. She could hear by her breathing that
her chest was stuffed up, but evidently it wasn't worrying
her, or she wouldn't in her sleep look so much pleased.
Yes; that room was either shut up now and never used,
or—she couldn't help being struck by yet another
thought—it was a spare room. If so, Miss Entwhistle
said to herself, it would no doubt be her fate to sleep
in it. Dear me, she thought, taken aback.</p>
<p>But from this also she presently recovered; and
remembering her determination to eject all prejudices
merely remarked to herself, 'Well, well.' And, after a
pause, was able to add benevolently, 'A house of varied
interest.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXVII</h2>
<p>Later on in the dining-room, when she was reluctantly
eating the meal prepared for her—Lucy still slept, or
she would have asked to be allowed to have a biscuit
by her bedside—Miss Entwhistle said to Chesterton,
who attended her, Would she let her know when Mr.
Wemyss telephoned, as she wished to speak to him.</p>
<p>She was feeling more and more uneasy as time passed
as to what Everard would think of her uninvited presence
in his house. It was natural; but would he think so?
What wasn't natural was for her to feel uneasy, seeing
that the house was also Lucy's, and that the child's
face had hardly had room enough on it for the width
of her smile of welcome. There, however, it was,—Miss
Entwhistle felt like an interloper. It was best to face
things. She not only felt like an interloper but, in
Everard's eyes, she was an interloper. This was the
situation: His wife had a cold—a bad cold, but not
anything serious; nobody had sent for his wife's aunt;
nobody had asked her to come; and here she was. If
that, in Everard's eyes, wasn't being an interloper Miss
Entwhistle was sure he wouldn't know one if he saw one.</p>
<p>In her life she had read many books, and was familiar
with those elderly relatives frequently to be met in
them, and usually female, who intrude into a newly
married <i>ménage</i> and make themselves objectionable to
one of the parties by sympathising with the other one.
There was no cause for sympathy here, and if there ever
should be Miss Entwhistle would certainly never
sympathise except from a neutral place. She wouldn't
come into a man's house, and in the very act of being
nourished by his food sympathise with his wife; she
would sympathise from London. Her honesty of
intention, her single-mindedness, were, she knew, complete.
She didn't feel, she knew she wasn't, in the
least like these relatives in books, and yet as she sat
in Everard's chair—obviously it was his; the upholstered
seat was his very shape, inverted—she was afraid,
indeed she was certain, he would think she was one
of them.</p>
<p>There she was, she thought, come unasked, sitting
in his place, eating his food. He usedn't to like her;
would he like her any the better for this? From a
desire not to have meals of his she had avoided tea,
but she hadn't been able to avoid dinner, and with each
dish set before her—dishes produced surprisingly, as
she couldn't but observe, at the end of an arm thrust
to the minute through a door—she felt more and more
acutely that she was in his eyes, if he could only see her,
an interloper. No doubt it was Lucy's house too, but
it didn't feel as if it were, and she would have given
much to be able to escape back to London that night.</p>
<p>But whatever Everard thought of her intrusion she
wasn't going to leave Lucy. Not alone in that house;
not to wake up to find herself alone in that house.
Besides, who knew how such a chill would develop?
There ought of course to have been a doctor. When
Everard rang up, as he would be sure to the last thing
to ask how Lucy was, she would go to the telephone,
announce her presence, and inquire whether it wouldn't
be as well to have a doctor round in the morning.</p>
<p>Therefore she asked Chesterton to let her know when
Mr. Wemyss telephoned; and Chesterton, surprised,
for it was not Wemyss's habit to telephone to The
Willows, all his communications coming on postcards,
paused just an instant before replying, 'If you please,
ma'am.'</p>
<p>Chesterton wondered what Wemyss was expected to
telephone about. It wouldn't have occurred to her
that it might be about the new Mrs. Wemyss's health,
because he had not within her recollection ever telephoned
about the health of a Mrs. Wemyss. Sometimes
the previous Mrs. Wemyss's health gave way enough
for her to stay in bed, but no telephoning from London
had in consequence taken place. Accordingly she
wondered what message could be expected.</p>
<p>'What time would Mr. Wemyss be likely to ring
up?' asked Miss Entwhistle presently, more for the sake
of saying something than from a desire to know. She
was going to that telephone, but she didn't want to,
she was in no hurry for it, it wasn't impatience to meet
Wemyss's voice making her talk to Chesterton; what
was making her talk was the dining-room.</p>
<p>For not only did its bareness afflict her, and its
glaring light, and its long empty table, and the way
Chesterton's footsteps echoed up and down the
uncarpeted floor, but there on the wall was that poor
thing looking at her, she had no doubt whatever as to
who it was standing up in that long slim frock looking
at her, and she was taken aback. In spite of her determination
to like all the arrangements, it did seem to her
tactless to have her there, especially as she had that trick
of looking so very steadily at one; and when she turned
her eyes away from the queer, suppressed smile, she
didn't like what she saw on the other wall either,—that
enlarged old man, that obvious progenitor.</p>
<p>Having caught sight of both these pictures, which
at night were much more conspicuous than by day,
owing to the brilliant unshaded lighting, Miss Entwhistle
had no wish to look at them again, and carefully looked
either at her plate or at Chesterton's back as she hurried
down the room to the dish being held out at the end
of the remarkable arm; but being nevertheless much
disturbed by their presence, and by the way she knew
they weren't taking their eyes off her however carefully
she took hers off them, she asked Chesterton what time
Wemyss would be likely to telephone merely in order
to hear the sound of a human voice.</p>
<p>Chesterton then informed her that her master never
did telephone to The Willows, so that she was unable
to say what time he would.</p>
<p>'But,' said Miss Entwhistle, surprised, 'you have a
telephone.'</p>
<p>'If you please, ma'am,' said Chesterton.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle didn't like to ask what, then, the
telephone was for, because she didn't wish to embark
on anything even remotely approaching a discussion of
Everard's habits, so she wondered in silence.</p>
<p>Chesterton, however, presently elucidated. She
coughed a little first, conscious that to volunteer a
remark wasn't quite within her idea of the perfect
parlourmaid, and then she said, 'It's owing to local
convenience, ma'am. We find it indispensable in the
isolated situation of the 'ouse. We gives our orders
to the tradesmen by means of the telephone. Mr.
Wemyss installed it for that purpose, he says, and
objects to trunk calls because of the charges and the
waste of Mr. Wemyss's time at the other end, ma'am.'</p>
<p>'Oh,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'If you please, ma'am,' said Chesterton.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle said nothing more. With her eyes
fixed on her plate in order to avoid those other eyes,
she wondered what she had better do. It was half-past
eight, and Everard hadn't rung up. If he were
going to be anxious enough not to mind the trunk-call
charge he would have been anxious enough before
this. That he hadn't rung up showed he regarded
Lucy's indisposition as slight. What, then, would he
say to her uninvited presence there? Nothing, she was
afraid, that would be really hospitable. And she had
just eaten a pudding of his. It seemed to curdle up
within her.</p>
<p>'No, <i>no</i> coffee, thank you,' she said hastily, on
Chesterton's inquiring if she wished it served in the
library. She had had dinner because she couldn't help
herself, urged to it by the servants, but she needn't
proceed to extras. And the library,—wasn't it in the
library that Everard was sitting the day that poor
smiling thing ... yes, she remembered Lucy telling
her so. No, she would not have coffee in the library.</p>
<p>But now about telephoning. Really the only thing
to do, the only way of dignity, was to ring him up.
Useless waiting any more for him to do it; evidently he
wasn't going to. She would ring him up, tell him she
was there, and ask—she clung particularly to the doctor
idea, because his presence would justify hers if the
doctor hadn't better look in in the morning.</p>
<p>Thus it was that, sitting quiet in their basement,
the Twites were startled about nine o'clock that evening
by the telephone bell. It sounded more uncanny than
ever up there, making all that noise by itself in the
dark; and when, hurrying up anxiously to it, Twite
applied his ear, all that happened was that an extremely
short-tempered voice told him to hold on.</p>
<p>Twite held on, listening hard and hearing nothing.</p>
<p>'Say 'Ullo, Twite,' presently advised Mrs. Twite
from out of the anxious silence at the foot of the kitchen
stairs.</p>
<p>''Ullo,' said Twite half-heartedly.</p>
<p>'Must be a wrong number,' said Mrs. Twite, after
more silence. ''Ang it up, and come and finish your
supper.'</p>
<p>A very small voice said something very far away.
Twite strained every nerve to hear. He hadn't yet had
to face a trunk call, and he thought the telephone was
fainting.</p>
<p>''Ullo?' he said anxiously, trying to make the word
sound polite.</p>
<p>'It's a wrong number,' said Mrs. Twite, after further
waiting. ''Ang it up.'</p>
<p>The voice, incredibly small, began to talk again, and
Twite, unable to hear a word, kept on saying with
increasing efforts to sound polite, ''Ullo?'Ullo?'</p>
<p>''Ang it up,' said Mrs. Twite, who from the bottom
of the stairs was always brave.</p>
<p>'That's what it is,' said Twite at last, exhausted.
'It's a wrong number.' And he went to the writing-pad
and wrote:</p>
<blockquote><p>A wrong number rang up sir believed to be a lady 9.10.</p></blockquote>
<p>So Miss Entwhistle at the other end was defeated,
and having done her best and not succeeded she decided
to remain quiescent, at any rate till the morning.
Quiescent and uncritical. She wouldn't worry; she
wouldn't criticise; she would merely think of Everard
in those terms of amiability which were natural to her.</p>
<p>But while she was waiting for the call in the cold
hall there had been a moment when her fixed benevolence
did a little loosen. Chesterton, seeing that she shivered,
had suggested the library for waiting in, where she said
there was a fire, but Miss Entwhistle preferred to be cold
in the hall than warm in the library; and standing in
that bleak place she saw a line of firelight beneath a
door, which she then knew must be the library.
Accordingly she then also knew that Lucy's bedroom was
exactly above the library, for looking up she could see
its door from where she stood; so that it was out of
that window.... Her benevolence for a moment did
become unsteady. He let the child sleep there, he
made the child sleep there....</p>
<p>She soon, however, had herself in hand again. Lucy
didn't mind, so why should she? Lucy was asleep there
at that moment, with a look of complete content on her
face. But there was one thing Miss Entwhistle decided
she would do: Lucy shouldn't wake up by any chance
in the night and find herself in that room alone,—window
or no window, she would sleep there with her.</p>
<p>This was a really heroic decision, and only love for
Lucy made it possible. Apart from the window and
what she believed had happened at it, apart from the
way that poor thing's face in the photograph haunted
her, there was the feeling that it wasn't Lucy's bedroom
at all but Everard's. It was oddly disagreeable to
Miss Entwhistle to spend the night, for instance, with
Wemyss's sponge. She debated in the spare-room when
she was getting ready for bed—a small room on the
other side of the house, with a nice high window-sill—whether
she wouldn't keep her clothes on. At
least then she would feel more strange, at least she
would feel less at home. But how tiring. At her age,
if she sat up all night—and in her clothes no lying down
could be comfortable—she would be the merest rag next
morning, and quite unable to cope on the telephone with
Everard. And she really must take out her hairpins;
she couldn't sleep a wink with them all pressing on her
head. Yet the familiarity of being in that room among
the neckties without her hairpins.... She hesitated,
and argued, and all the while she was slowly taking out
her hairpins and taking off her clothes.</p>
<p>At the last moment, when she was in her nightgown
and her hair was neatly plaited and she was looking the
goodest of tidy little women, her courage failed her.
No, she couldn't go. She would stay where she was,
and ring and ask that nice housemaid to sleep with Mrs.
Wemyss in case she wanted anything in the night.</p>
<p>She did ring; but by the time Lizzie came Miss
Entwhistle, doubting the sincerity of her motives, had
been examining them. Was it really the neckties?
Was it really the sponge? Wasn't it, at bottom, really
the window?</p>
<p>She was ashamed. Where Lucy could sleep she could
sleep. 'I rang,' she said, 'to ask you to be so kind
as to help me carry my pillow and blankets into Mrs.
Wemyss's room. I'm going to sleep on the sofa there.'</p>
<p>'Yes ma'am,' said Lizzie, picking them up. 'The
sofa's very short and 'aid, ma'am. 'Adn't you better
sleep in the bed?'</p>
<p>'No,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'There's plenty of room, ma'am. Mrs. Wemyss
wouldn't know you was in it, it's such a large bed.'</p>
<p>'I will sleep on the sofa,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXVIII</h2>
<p>In London Wemyss went through his usual day, except
that he was kept longer than he liked at his office by
the accumulation of business and by having a prolonged
difference of opinion, ending in dismissal, with a typist
who had got out of hand during his absence to the
extent of answering him back. It was five before he
was able to leave—and even then he hadn't half finished,
but he declined to be sacrificed further—and proceed
as usual to his club to play bridge. He had a great
desire for bridge after not having played for so long,
and it was difficult, doing exactly the things he had
always done, for him to remember that he was married.
In fact he wouldn't have remembered if he hadn't felt
so indignant; but all day underneath everything he
did, everything he said and thought, lay indignation,
and so he knew he was married.</p>
<p>Being extremely methodical he had long ago divided
his life inside and out into compartments, each strictly
separate, each, as it were, kept locked till the proper
moment for its turn arrived, when he unlocked it and
took out its contents,—work, bridge, dinner, wife, sleep,
Paddington, The Willows, or whatever it was that it
contained. Having finished with the contents, the
compartment was locked up and dismissed from his
thoughts till its turn came round again. A honeymoon
was a great shake-up, but when it occurred he arranged
the date of its cessation as precisely as the date of its
inauguration. On such a day, at such an hour, it would
come to an end, the compartments would once more be
unlocked, and regularity resumed. Bridge was the one
activity which, though it was taken out of its compartment
at the proper time, didn't go into it again with any
sort of punctuality. Everything else, including his wife,
was locked up to the minute; but bridge would stay
out till any hour. On each of the days in London, the
Mondays to Fridays, he proceeded punctually to his
office, and from thence punctually to his club and bridge.
He always lunched and dined at his club. Other men,
he was aware, dined not infrequently at home, but the
explanation of that was that their wives weren't Vera.</p>
<p>The moment, then, that Wemyss found himself once
more doing the usual things among the usual surroundings,
he felt so exactly as he used to that he wouldn't
have remembered Lucy at all if it hadn't been for that
layer of indignation at the bottom of his mind. Going
up the steps of his club he was conscious of a sense of
hard usage, and searching for its cause remembered
Lucy. His wife now wasn't Vera, and yet he was to
dine at his club exactly as if she were. His wife was
Lucy; who, instead of being where she ought to be,
eagerly awaiting his return to Lancaster Gate—it was one
of his legitimate grievances against Vera that she didn't
eagerly await—she was having a cold at Strorley. And
why was she having a cold at Strorley? And why
was he, a newly-married man, deprived of the
comfort of his wife and going to spend the evening
exactly as he had spent all the evenings for months
past?</p>
<p>Wemyss was very indignant, but he was also very
desirous of bridge. If Lucy had been waiting for him he
would have had to leave off bridge before his desire for
it had been anything like sated,—whatever wives one
had they shackled one,—and as it was he could play
as long as he wanted to and yet at the same time remain
justly indignant. Accordingly he wasn't nearly as
unhappy as he thought he was; not, at any rate, till the
moment came for going solitary to bed. He detested
sleeping by himself. Even Vera had always slept with
him.</p>
<p>Altogether Wemyss felt that he had had a bad day,
what with the disappointment of its beginning, and the
extra work at the office, and no decent lunch 'Positively
only time to snatch a bun and a glass of milk,'
he announced, amazed, to the first acquaintance he met
in the club. 'Just fancy, only time to snatch——' but
the acquaintance had melted away and losing rather
heavily at bridge, and going back to Lancaster Gate to
find from the message left by Twite that that annoying
aunt of Lucy's had cropped up already.</p>
<p>Usually Wemyss was amused by Twite's messages,
but nothing about this one amused him. He threw
down the wrong number one impatiently,—Twite was
really a hopeless imbecile; he would dismiss him; but
the other one he read again. 'Wanted to know all
about us, did she. Said it was very strange, did she.
Like her impertinence,' he thought. She had lost no
time in cropping up, he thought. Of how completely
Miss Entwhistle had, in fact, cropped he was of course
unaware.</p>
<p>Yes, he had had a bad day, and he was going to have
a lonely night. He went upstairs feeling deeply hurt,
and winding his watch.</p>
<p>But after much solid sleep he felt better; and at
breakfast he said to Twite, who always jumped when
he addressed him, 'Mrs. Wemyss will be coming up
to-day.'</p>
<p>Twite's brain didn't work very fast owing to the way
it spent most of its time dormant in a basement, and
for a moment he thought—it startled him that his
master had forgotten the lady was dead. Ought he to
remind him? What a painful dilemma.... However,
he remembered the new Mrs. Wemyss just in time
not to remind him, and to say 'Yes sir,' without too
perceptible a pause. His mind hadn't room in it to
contain much, and it assimilated slowly that which it
contained. He had only been in Wemyss's service
three months before the Mrs. Wemyss he found there
died. He was just beginning to assimilate her when
she ceased to be assimilatable, and to him and his wife
in their quiet subterraneous existence it had seemed as
if not more than a week had passed before there was
another Mrs. Wemyss. Far was it from him to pass
opinions on the rapid marriages of gentlemen, but he
couldn't keep up with these Mrs. Wemysses. His mind,
he found, hadn't yet really realised the new one. He
knew she was there somewhere, for he had seen her
briefly on the Saturday morning, and he knew she
would presently begin to disturb him by needing meals,
but he easily forgot her. He forgot her now, and
consequently for a moment had the dreadful thought
described above.</p>
<p>'I shall be in to dinner,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Twite.</p>
<p>Dinner. There usedn't to be dinner. His master
hadn't been in once to dinner since Twite knew him.
A tray for the lady, while there was a lady; that was
all. Mrs. Twite could just manage a tray. Since the
lady had left off coming up to town owing to her
accident, there hadn't been anything. Only quiet.</p>
<p>He stood waiting, not having been waved out of the
room, and anxiously watching Wemyss's face, for he
was a nervous man.</p>
<p>Then the telephone bell rang.</p>
<p>Wemyss, without looking up, waved him out to it
and went on with his breakfast; and after a minute,
noticing that he neither came back nor could be heard
saying anything beyond a faint, propitiatory ''Ullo,'
called out to him.</p>
<p>'What is it?' Wemyss called out.</p>
<p>'I can't hear, sir,' Twite's distressed voice answered
from the hall.</p>
<p>'Fool,' said Wemyss, appearing, table-napkin in hand.</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Twite.</p>
<p>He took the receiver from him, and then the Twites—Mrs.
Twite from the foot of the kitchen stairs and Twite
lingering in the background because he hadn't yet been
waved away—heard the following:</p>
<p>'Yes yes. Yes, speaking. Hullo. Who is it?'</p>
<p>'What? I can't hear. What?'</p>
<p>'Miss who? En—oh, good-morning, How distant
your voice sounds.'</p>
<p>'What? Where? <i>Where</i>?'</p>
<p>'Oh really.'</p>
<p>Here the person at the other end talked a great deal.</p>
<p>'Yes. Quite. But then you see she wasn't.'</p>
<p>More prolonged talk from the other end.</p>
<p>'What? She isn't coming up? Indeed she is.
She's expected. I've ordered——'</p>
<p>'What? I can't hear. The doctor? You're sending
for the doctor?'</p>
<p>'I daresay. But then you see I consider it isn't.'</p>
<p>'I daresay, I daresay. No, of course I can't.
How can I leave my work——'</p>
<p>'Oh, very well, very well. I daresay. No doubt.
She's to come up for all that as arranged, tell her, and
if she needs doctors there are more of them here anyhow
than—what? Can't possibly?'</p>
<p>'I suppose you know you're taking a great deal upon
yourself unasked——'</p>
<p>'What? What?'</p>
<p>A very rapid clear voice cut in. 'Do you want
another three minutes?' it asked.</p>
<p>He hung up the receiver with violence. 'Oh, damn
the woman, damn the woman,' he said, so loud that the
Twites shook like reeds to hear him.</p>
<p>At the other end Miss Entwhistle was walking away
lost in thought. Her position was thoroughly
unpleasant. She disliked extraordinarily that she should
at that moment contain an egg and some coffee which
had once been Wemyss's. She would have breakfasted
on a cup of tea only, if it hadn't been that Lucy was
going to need looking after that day, and the looker-after
must be nourished. As she went upstairs again,
a faint red spot on each cheek, she couldn't help
being afraid that she and Everard would have to
exercise patience before they got to be fond of each
other. On the telephone he hardly did himself justice,
she thought.</p>
<p>Lucy hadn't had a good night. She woke up suddenly
from what was apparently a frightening dream soon
after Miss Entwhistle had composed herself on the
sofa, and had been very restless and hot for a long time.
There seemed to be a great many things about the room
that she didn't like. One of them was the bed. Probably
the poor little thing was bemused by her dream
and her feverishness, but she said several things about
the bed which showed that it was on her mind. Miss
Entwhistle had warmed some milk on a spirit-lamp
provided by Lizzie, and had given it to her and soothed
her and petted her. She didn't mention the window, for
which Miss Entwhistle was thankful; but when first
she woke up from her frightening dream and her aunt
hurried across to her, she had stared at her and actually
called her Everard—her, in her meek plaits. When this
happened Miss Entwhistle made up her mind that the
doctor should be sent for the first thing in the morning.
About six she tumbled into an uncomfortable sleep
again, and Miss Entwhistle crept out of the room and
dressed. Certainly she was going to have a doctor
round, and hear what he had to say; and as soon as she
was strengthened by breakfast she would do her duty
and telephone to Everard.</p>
<p>This she did, with the result that she returned to
Lucy's room with a little red spot on each cheek; and
when she looked at Lucy, still uneasily sleeping and
breathing as though her chest were all sore, the idea
that she was to get up and travel to London made the
red spots on Miss Entwhistle's cheeks burn brighter.
She calmed down, however, on remembering that
Everard couldn't see how evidently poorly the child
was, and told herself that if he could he would be all
tenderness. She told herself this, but she didn't believe
it; and then she was vexed that she didn't believe it.
Lucy loved him. Lucy had looked perfectly pleased
and content yesterday before she became so ill. One
mustn't judge a man by his way with a telephone.</p>
<p>At ten o'clock the doctor came. He had been in
Strorley for years, and was its only doctor. He was
one of those guests who used to dine at The Willows
in the early days of Wemyss's possession of it. Occasionally
he had attended the late Mrs. Wemyss; and
the last time he had been in the house was when he was
sent for suddenly on the day of her death. He, in
common with the rest of Strorley, had heard of Wemyss's
second marriage, and he shared the general shocked
surprise. Strorley, which looked such an unconscious
place, such a torpid, unconscious riverside place, was
nevertheless intensely sensitive to shocks, and it hadn't
at all recovered from the shock of that poor Mrs. Wemyss's
death and the very dreadful inquest, when the fresh
shock of another Mrs. Wemyss arriving on the scene
made it, as it were, reel anew, and made it reel worse.
Marriage so quickly on the heels of that terrible death?
The Wemysses were only week-enders and summer
holiday people, so that it wasn't quite so scandalous to
have them in Strorley as it would have been if they were
unintermittent residents, yet it was serious enough.
That inquest had been in all the newspapers. To have
a house in one's midst which produced doubtful coroner's
verdicts was a blot on any place, and the new Mrs.
Wemyss couldn't possibly be anything but thoroughly
undesirable. Of course no one would call on her.
Impossible. And when the doctor was rung up and
asked to come round, he didn't tell his wife where he was
going, because he didn't wish for trouble.</p>
<p>Chesterton—how well he remembered Chesterton;
but after all, it was only the other day that he was there
last—ushered him into the library, and he was standing
gloomily in front of the empty grate, looking neither to
the right nor to the left for he disliked the memories
connected with the flags outside the window, and wishing
he had a partner because then he would have sent him
instead, when a spare little lady, bland and pleasant,
came in and said she was the patient's aunt. An educated
little lady; not at all the sort of relative he would
have expected the new Mrs. Wemyss to have.</p>
<p>There was a general conviction in Strorley that
the new Mrs. Wemyss must have been a barmaid, a
typist, or a nursery governess,—was, that is, either very
bold, very poor, or very meek. Else how could she have
married Wemyss? And this conviction had reached and
infected even the doctor, who was a busy man off whom
gossip usually slid. When, however, he saw Miss
Entwhistle he at once was sure that there was nothing
in it. This wasn't the aunt of either the bold, the poor,
or the meek; this was just a decent gentlewoman.
He shook hands with her, really pleased to see her.
Everybody was always pleased to see Miss Entwhistle,
except Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Nothing serious, I hope?' asked the doctor.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle said she didn't think there was,
but that her nephew——</p>
<p>'You mean Mr. Wemyss?'</p>
<p>She bowed her head. She did mean Mr. Wemyss.
Her nephew. Her nephew, that is, by marriage.</p>
<p>'Quite,' said the doctor.</p>
<p>Her nephew naturally wanted his wife to go up and
join him in London.</p>
<p>'Naturally,' said the doctor.</p>
<p>And she wanted to know when she would be fit to go.</p>
<p>'Then let us go upstairs and I'll tell you,' said the
doctor.</p>
<p>This was a very pleasant little lady, he thought as
he followed her up the well-known stairs, to have become
related to Wemyss immediately on the top of all that
affair. Now he would have said himself that after such
a ghastly thing as that most women——</p>
<p>But here they arrived in the bedroom and his sentence
remained unfinished, because on seeing the small
head on the pillow of the treble bed he thought, 'Why,
he's married a child. What an extraordinary thing.'</p>
<p>'How old is she?' he asked Miss Entwhistle, for
Lucy was still uneasily sleeping; and when she told
him he was surprised.</p>
<p>'It's because she's out of proportion to the bed,'
explained Miss Entwhistle in a whisper. 'She doesn't
usually look so inconspicuous.'</p>
<p>The whispering and being looked at woke Lucy,
and the doctor sat down beside her and got to business.
The result was what Miss Entwhistle expected: she
had a very violent feverish cold, which might turn into
anything if she were not kept in bed. If she were,
and with proper looking after, she would be all right
in a few days. He laughed at the idea of London.</p>
<p>'How did you come to get such a violent chill?'
he asked Lucy.</p>
<p>'I don't—know,' she answered.</p>
<p>'Well, don't talk,' he said, laying her hand down
on the quilt—he had been holding it while his sharp
eyes watched her—and giving it a brief pat of farewell.
'Just lie there and get better. I'll send something for
your throat, and I'll look in again to-morrow.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle went downstairs with him feeling
as if she had buckled him on as a shield, and would be
able, clad in such armour, to face anything Everard
might say.</p>
<p>'She likes that room?' he asked abruptly, pausing
a moment in the hall.</p>
<p>'I can't quite make out,' said Miss Entwhistle.
'We haven't had any talk at all yet. It was from that
window, wasn't it, that——?'</p>
<p>'No. The one above;'</p>
<p>'The one above? Oh really.'</p>
<p>'Yes. There's a sitting-room. But I was thinking
whether being in the same bed—well, good-bye. Cheer
her up. She'll want it when she's better. She'll feel
weak. I'll be round to-morrow.'</p>
<p>He went out pulling on his gloves, followed to the
steps by Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>On the steps he paused again. 'How does she like
being here?' he asked.</p>
<p>'I don't know,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'We haven't
talked at all yet.'</p>
<p>She looked at him a moment, and then added, 'She's
very much in love.'</p>
<p>'Ah. Yes. Really. I see. Well, good-bye.'</p>
<p>He turned to go.</p>
<p>'It's wonderful, wonderful,' he said, pausing once
more.</p>
<p>'What is wonderful?'</p>
<p>'What love will do.'</p>
<p>'It is indeed,' agreed Miss Entwhistle, thinking of all
it had done to Lucy.</p>
<p>He seemed as if he were going to say something more,
but thought better of it and climbed into his dogcart
and was driven away.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXIX</h2>
<p>Two days went by undisturbed by the least manifestation
from Wemyss. Miss Entwhistle wrote to him on
each of the afternoons, telling him of Lucy's progress
and of what the doctor said about her, and on each of
the evenings she lay down on the sofa to sleep feeling
excessively insecure, for how very likely that he would
come down by some late train and walk in, and then
there she would be. In spite of that, she would have
been very glad if he had walked in, it would have
seemed more natural; and she couldn't help wondering
whether the little thing in the bed wasn't thinking so
too. But nothing happened. He didn't come, he
didn't write, he made no sign of any sort. 'Curious,'
said Miss Entwhistle to herself; and forbore to criticise
further.</p>
<p>They were peaceful days. Lucy was getting better
all the time, though still kept carefully in bed by the
doctor, and Miss Entwhistle felt as much justified in
being in the house as Chesterton or Lizzie, for she was
performing duties under a doctor's directions. Also
the weather was quiet and sunshiny. In fact, there
was peace.</p>
<p>On Thursday the doctor said Lucy might get up for
a few hours and sit on the sofa; and there, its asperities
softened by pillows, she sat and had tea, and through
the open window came the sweet smells of April. The
gardener was mowing the lawn, and one of the smells
was of the cut grass; Miss Entwhistle had been out
for a walk, and found some windflowers and some
lovely bright green moss, and put them in a bowl;
the doctor had brought a little bunch of violets out
of his garden; the afternoon sun lay beautifully on
the hills across the river; the river slid past the end
of the garden tranquilly; and Miss Entwhistle, pouring
out Lucy's tea and buttering her toast, felt that she
could at that moment very nearly have been happy,
in spite of its being The Willows she was in, if there
hadn't, in the background, brooding over her day and
night, been that very odd and disquieting silence of
Everard's.</p>
<p>As if Lucy knew what she was thinking, she
said—it was the first time she had talked of him—'You
know, Aunt Dot, Everard will have been fearfully
busy this week, because of having been away so
long.'</p>
<p>'Oh of course,' agreed Miss Entwhistle with much
heartiness. 'I'm sure the poor dear has been run off
his legs.'</p>
<p>'He didn't—he hasn't——'</p>
<p>Lucy flushed and broke off.</p>
<p>'I suppose,' she began again after a minute, 'there's
been nothing from him? No message, I mean? On
the telephone or anything?'</p>
<p>'No, I don't think there has—not since our talk the
first day,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'Oh? Did he telephone the first day?' asked Lucy
quickly. 'You never told me.'</p>
<p>'You were asleep nearly all that day. Yes,' said
Miss Entwhistle, clearing her throat, 'we had a—we
had quite a little talk.'</p>
<p>'What did he say?'</p>
<p>'Well, he naturally wanted you to be well enough
to go up to London, and of course he was very sorry
you couldn't.'</p>
<p>Lucy looked suddenly much happier.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Miss Entwhistle, as though in answer
to the look.</p>
<p>'He hates writing letters, you know, Aunt Dot,'
Lucy said presently.</p>
<p>'Men do,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'It's very curious,'
she continued brightly, 'but men <i>do</i>.'</p>
<p>'And he hates telephoning. It was wonderful for
him to have telephoned that day.'</p>
<p>'Men,' said Miss Entwhistle, 'are very funny about
some things.'</p>
<p>'To-day is Thursday, isn't it,' said Lucy. 'He
ought to be here by one o'clock to-morrow.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle started. 'To-morrow?' she repeated.
'Really? Does he? I mean, ought he?
Somehow I had supposed Saturday. The week-end
somehow suggests Saturdays to me.'</p>
<p>'No. He—we,' Lucy corrected herself, 'come down
on Fridays. He's sure to be down in time for lunch.'</p>
<p>'Oh is he?' said Miss Entwhistle, thinking a great
many things very quickly. 'Well, if it is his habit,'
she went on, 'I am sure too that he will. Do you
remember how we set our clocks by him when he came
to tea in Eaton Terrace?'</p>
<p>Lucy smiled, and the remembrance of those days
of love, and of all his dear, funny ways, flooded her heart
and washed out for a moment the honeymoon, the
birthday, everything that had happened since.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle couldn't but notice the unmistakable
love-look. '<i>Oh</i> I'm so glad you love each other
so much,' she said with all her heart. 'You know,
Lucy, I was afraid that perhaps this house——'</p>
<p>She stopped, because adequately to discuss The
Willows in all its aspects needed, she felt, perfect health
on both sides.</p>
<p>'Yes, I don't think a house matters when people
love each other,' said Lucy.</p>
<p>'Not a bit. Not a bit,' agreed Miss Entwhistle.
Not even, she thought robustly, when it was a house
with a recent dreadful history. Love—she hadn't herself
experienced it, but what was an imagination for
except to imagine with?—love was so strong an armour
that nothing could reach one and hurt one through it.
That was why lovers were so selfish. They sat together
inside their armour perfectly safe, entirely untouchable,
completely uninterested in what happened to the rest of
the world. 'Besides,' she went on aloud, 'you'll alter it.'</p>
<p>Lucy's smile at that was a little sickly. Aunt Dot's
optimism seemed to her extravagant. She was unable
to see herself altering The Willows.</p>
<p>'You'll have all your father's furniture and books
to put about,' said Aunt Dot, continuing in optimism.
'Why, you'll be able to make the place really quite—quite——'</p>
<p>She was going to say habitable, but ate another
piece of toast instead.</p>
<p>'Yes, I expect I'll have the books here, anyhow,'
said Lucy. 'There's a sitting-room upstairs with room
in it.'</p>
<p>'Is there?' said Miss Entwhistle, suddenly very
attentive.</p>
<p>'Lots of room. It's to be my sitting-room, and the
books could go there. Except that—except that——'</p>
<p>'Except what?' asked Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'I don't know. I don't much want to alter that
room. It was Vera's.'</p>
<p>'I should alter it beyond recognition,' said Miss
Entwhistle firmly.</p>
<p>Lucy was silent. She felt too flabby, after her three
days with a temperature, to engage in discussion with
anybody firm.</p>
<p>'That's to say,' said Miss Entwhistle, 'if you like
having the room at all. I should have thought——'</p>
<p>'Oh yes, I like having the room,' said Lucy,
flushing.</p>
<p>Then it was Miss Entwhistle who was silent; and
she was silent because she didn't believe Lucy really
could like having the actual room from which that
unfortunate Vera met her death. It wasn't natural.
The child couldn't mean it. She needed feeding up.
Perhaps they had better not talk about rooms; not
till Lucy was stronger. Perhaps they had better not
talk at all, because everything they said was bound in
the circumstances to lead either to Everard or Vera.</p>
<p>'Wouldn't you like me to read aloud to you a little
while before you go back to bed?' she asked, when
Lizzie came in to clear away the tea-things.</p>
<p>Lucy thought this a very good idea. 'Oh do, Aunt
Dot,' she said; for she too was afraid of what talking
might lead to. Aunt Dot was phenomenally quick.
Lucy felt she couldn't bear it, she simply couldn't bear
it, if Aunt Dot were to think that perhaps Everard....
So she said quite eagerly, 'Oh do, Aunt Dot,' and not
until she had said it did she remember that the books
were locked up, and the key was on Everard's watch-chain.
Then she sat looking up at Aunt Dot with a
startled, conscience-stricken face.</p>
<p>'What is it, Lucy?' asked Miss Entwhistle, wondering
why she had turned red.</p>
<p>Just in time Lucy remembered that there were Vera's
books. 'Do you mind very much going up to the
sitting-room?' she asked. 'Vera's books——'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle did mind very much going up to
the sitting-room, and saw no reason why Vera's books
should be chosen. Why should she have to read Vera's
books? Why did Lucy want just those, and look so
odd and guilty about it? Certainly the child needed
feeding up. It wasn't natural, it was unwholesome,
this queer attraction she appeared to feel towards Vera.</p>
<p>She didn't say anything of this, but remarked that
there was a room called the library in the house which
suggested books, and hadn't she better choose something
from out of that,—go down, instead of go up.</p>
<p>Lucy, painfully flushed, looked at her. Nothing
would induce her to tell her about the key. Aunt Dot
would think it so ridiculous.</p>
<p>'Yes, but Everard——' she stammered. 'They're
rather special books—he doesn't like them taken out
of the room——'</p>
<p>'Oh,' said Miss Entwhistle, trying hard to avoid
any opinion of any sort.</p>
<p>'But I don't see why you should go up all those
stairs, Aunt Dot darling,' Lucy went on. 'Lizzie will,
won't you, Lizzie? Bring down some of the books—any
of them. An armful.'</p>
<p>Lizzie, thus given <i>carte blanche</i>, brought down the
six first books from the top shelf, and set them on the
table beside Lucy.</p>
<p>Lucy recognised the cover of one of them at once,
it was <i>Wuthering Heights</i>.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle took it up, read its title in silence,
and put it down again.</p>
<p>The next one was Emily Brontë's collected poems.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle took it up, read its title in silence,
and put it down again.</p>
<p>The third one was Thomas Hardy's <i>Time's Laughing-Stocks</i>.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle took it up, read its title in silence,
and put it down again.</p>
<p>The other three were Baedekers.</p>
<p>'Well, I don't think there's anything I want to read
here,' she said.</p>
<p>Lizzie asked if she should take them away then, and
bring some more; and presently she reappeared with
another armful.</p>
<p>These were all Baedekers.</p>
<p>'Curious,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>Then Lucy remembered that she, too, beneath her
distress on Saturday when she pulled out one after the
other of Vera's books in her haste to understand her,
to get comfort, to get, almost she hoped, counsel, had
felt surprise at the number of Baedekers. The greater
proportion of the books in Vera's shelves were guide-books
and time-tables. But there had been other things,—'If
you were to bring some out of a different part of
the bookcase,' she suggested to Lizzie; who thereupon
removed the Baedekers, and presently reappeared with
more books.</p>
<p>This time they were miscellaneous, and Miss Entwhistle
turned them over with a kind of reverential
reluctance. That poor thing; this day last year she
was probably reading them herself. It seemed sacrilege
for two strangers.... Merciful that one couldn't see
into the future. What would the poor creature have
thought of the picture presented at that moment,—the
figure in the blue dressing-gown, sitting in the middle
of all the things that had been hers such a very little
while before? Well, perhaps she would have been glad
they weren't hers any longer, glad that she had finished,
was done with them. These books suggested such
tiredness, such a—yes, such a wish for escape....
There was more Hardy,—all the poems this time in
one volume. There was Pater—<i>The Child in the House</i>
and <i>Emerald Uthwart</i>—Miss Entwhistle, familiar with
these, shook her head: that peculiar dwelling on death
in them, that queer, fascinated inability to get away
from it, that beautiful but sick wistfulness no, she
certainly wouldn't read these. There was a book called
<i>In the Strange South Seas</i>; and another about some
island in the Pacific; and another about life in the
desert; and one or two others, more of the flamboyant
guide-book order, describing remote, glowing places....</p>
<p>Suddenly Miss Entwhistle felt uncomfortable. She
put down the book she was holding, and folded her
hands in her lap and gazed out of the window at the
hills on the other side of the river. She felt as if she
had been prying, and prying unpardonably. The books
people read,—was there ever anything more revealing?
No, she refused to examine Vera's books further. And
apart from that horrible feeling of prying upon somebody
defenceless, upon somebody pitiful, she didn't
wish to allow the thought these books suggested to
get any sort of hold on her mind. It was essential,
absolutely essential, that it shouldn't. And if Lucy
ever——</p>
<p>She got up and went to the window. Lucy's eyes
followed her, puzzled. The gardener was still mowing the
lawn, working very hard at it as though he were working
against time. She watched his back, bent with hurry
as he and the boy laboriously pushed and pulled the
machine up and down; and then she caught sight of
the terrace just below, and the flags.</p>
<p>This was a dreadful house. Whichever way one
looked one was entangled in a reminder. She turned
away quickly, and there was that little loved thing in
her blue wrapper, propped up on Vera's pillows, watching
her with puzzled anxiety. Nothing could harm that
child, she was safe, so long as she loved and believed
in Everard; but suppose some day—suppose gradually—suppose
a doubt should creep into her mind whether
perhaps, after all, Vera's fall ... suppose a question
should get into her head whether perhaps, after all,
Vera's death——?</p>
<p>Aunt Dot knew Lucy's face so well that it seemed
absurd to examine it now, searching for signs in its
features and expression of enough character, enough
nerves, enough—this, if there were enough of it, might
by itself carry her through—sense of humour. Yes, she
had a beautiful sweep of forehead; all that part of her
face was lovely—so calm and open, with intelligent,
sweet eyes. But were those dear eyes intelligent
enough? Was not sweetness really far more manifest
in them than intelligence? After that her face went
small, and then, looking bigger than it was because of
her little face, was her kind, funny mouth. Generous;
easily forgiving; quick to be happy; quick to despair,—Aunt
Dot, looking anxiously at it, thought she saw
all this in the shape of Lucy's mouth. But had the
child strength? Had she the strength that would be
needed equally—supposing that doubt and that question
should ever get into her head—for staying or for
going; for staying or for running ... oh, but running,
running, for her very <i>life</i>....</p>
<p>With a violent effort Miss Entwhistle shook herself
free from these thoughts. Where in heaven's name
was her mind wandering to? It was intolerable, this
tyranny of suggestion in everything one looked at here,
in everything one touched. And Lucy, who was watching
her and who couldn't imagine why Aunt Dot should
be so steadfastly gazing at her mouth, naturally asked,
'Is anything the matter with my face?'</p>
<p>Then Miss Entwhistle managed to smile, and came
and sat down again beside the sofa. 'No,' she said,
taking her hand. 'But I don't think I want to read
after all. Let us talk.'</p>
<p>And holding Lucy's hand, who looked a little afraid
at first but soon grew content on finding what the talk
was to be about, she proceeded to discuss supper, and
whether a poached egg or a cup of beef-tea contained
the greater amount of nourishment.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXX</h2>
<p>Also she presently told her, approaching it with caution,
for she was sure Lucy wouldn't like it, that as Everard
was coming down next day she thought it better to go
back to Eaton Terrace in the morning.</p>
<p>'You two love-birds won't want me,' she said gaily,
expecting and prepared for opposition; but really, as
the child was getting well so quickly, there was no
reason why she and Everard should be forced to begin
practising affection for each other here and now. Besides,
in the small bag she brought there had only been a
nightgown and her washing things, and she couldn't
go on much longer on only that.</p>
<p>To her surprise Lucy not only agreed but looked
relieved. Miss Entwhistle was greatly surprised, and
also greatly pleased. 'She adores him,' she thought,
'and only wants to be alone with him. If Everard
makes her as happy as all that, who cares what he is
like to me or to anybody else in the world?'</p>
<p>And all the horrible, ridiculous things she had been
thinking half an hour before were blown away like so
many cobwebs.</p>
<p>Just before half-past seven, while she was in her
room on the other side of the house tidying herself
before facing Chesterton and the evening meal she
had reduced it to the merest skeleton of a meal, but
Chesterton insisted on waiting, and all the usual ceremonies
were observed—she was startled by the sound
of wheels on the gravel beneath the window. It could
only be Everard. He had come.</p>
<p>'Dear me,' said Miss Entwhistle to herself,—and she
who had planned to be gone so neatly before his arrival!</p>
<p>It would be idle to pretend that she wasn't very much
perturbed,—she was; and the brush with which she
was tidying her pretty grey hair shook in her hand.
Dinner alone with Everard,—well, at least let her be
thankful that he hadn't arrived a few minutes later
and found her actually sitting in his chair. What
would have happened if he had? Miss Entwhistle,
for all her dismay, couldn't help laughing. Also, she
encouraged herself for the encounter by remembering
the doctor. Behind his authority she was secure. She
had developed, since Tuesday, from an uninvited visitor
into an indispensable adjunct. Not a nurse; Lucy
hadn't at any moment been positively ill enough for a
nurse; but an adjunct.</p>
<p>She listened, her brush suspended. There was no
mistaking it: it was certainly Everard, for she heard
his voice. The wheels of the cab, after the interval
necessary for ejecting him, turned round again on the
drive, crunching much less, and went away, and presently
there was his well-known deliberate, heavy tread coming
up the uncarpeted staircase. Thank God for bedrooms,
thought Miss Entwhistle, fervently brushing. Where
would one be without them and bathrooms,—places of
legitimate lockings-in, places even the most indignant
host was bound to respect?</p>
<p>Now this wasn't the proper spirit in which to go down
and begin getting fond of Everard and giving him the
opportunity of getting fond of her, as she herself presently
saw. Besides, at that very moment Lucy was probably
in his arms, all alight with joyful surprise, and if
he could make Lucy so happy there must be enough of
good in him to enable him to fulfil the very mild requirements
of Lucy's aunt. Just bare pleasantness, bare
decency would be enough. She stoutly assured herself of
her certainty of being fond of Everard if only he would
let her. Sufficiently fond of him, that is; she didn't
suppose any affection she was going to feel for him
would ever be likely to get the better of her reason.</p>
<p>Immediately on Wemyss's arrival the silent house
had burst into feverish life. Doors banged, feet ran;
and now Lizzie came hurrying along the passage, and
knocked at the door and told her breathlessly that
dinner would be later not for at least another half
hour, because Mr. Wemyss had come unexpectedly,
and cook had to——</p>
<p>She didn't finish the sentence, she was in such a
hurry to be off.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle, her simple preparations being complete,
had nothing left to do but sit in one of those
wicker work chairs with thin, hard, cretonne-covered
upholstery, which are sometimes found in inhospitable
spare-rooms and wait.</p>
<p>She found this bad for her <i>morale</i>. There wasn't
a book in the room, or she would have distracted her
thoughts by reading. She didn't want dinner. She
would have best liked to get into the bed she hadn't
yet slept once in, and stay there till it was time to go
home, but her pride blushed scarlet at such a cowardly
desire. She arranged herself, therefore, in the chair,
and, since she couldn't read, tried to remember something
to say over to herself instead, some poem, or
verse of a poem, to take her attention off the coming
dinner; and she was shocked to find, as she sat there
with her eyes shut to keep out the light that glared
on her from the middle of the ceiling, that she could
remember nothing but fragments: loose bits floating
derelict round her mind, broken spars that didn't even
belong, she was afraid, to any really magnificent whole.
How Jim would have scolded her,—Jim who forgot
nothing that was beautiful.</p>
<p>
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">By nature cool, in pious habits bred,</span><br />
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">She looked on husbands with a virgin's dread....</span><br />
</p>
<p>Now where did that come from? And why should it
come at all?</p>
<p>
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">Such was the tone and manners of them all</span><br />
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">No married lady at the house would call....</span><br />
</p>
<p>And that, for instance? She couldn't remember ever
having read any poem that could contain these lines,
yet she must have; she certainly hadn't invented them.</p>
<p>And this,—an absurd German thing Jim used to
quote and laugh at:</p>
<p>
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">Der Sultan winkt, Zuleika schweigt,</span><br />
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">Und zeigt sich gänzlich abgeneigt....</span><br />
</p>
<p>Why should a thing like that rise now to the surface
of her mind and float round on it, while all the noble
verse she had read and enjoyed, which would have been
of such use and support to her at this juncture, was
nowhere to be found, not a shred of it, in any corner
of her brain?</p>
<p>What a brain, thought Miss Entwhistle, disgusted,
sitting up very straight in the wickerwork chair, her
hands folded in her lap, her eyes shut; what a
contemptible, anæmic brain, deserting her like this, only
able to throw up to the surface when stirred, out of
all the store of splendid stuff put so assiduously into
it during years and years of life, couplets.</p>
<p>A sound she hadn't yet heard began to crawl round
the house, and, even while she wondered what it was,
increased and increased till it seemed to her at last as
if it must fill the universe and reach to Eaton Terrace.</p>
<p>It was that gong. Become active. Heavens, and
what activity. She listened amazed. The time it went
on! It went on and on, beating in her ears like the
crack of doom.</p>
<p>When the three great final strokes were succeeded
by silence, she got up from her chair. The moment had
come. A last couplet floated through her brain,—her
brain seemed to clutch at it:</p>
<p>
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">Betwixt the stirrup and the ground</span><br />
<span style="margin: 2.5em 8em;">She mercy sought, she mercy found....</span><br />
</p>
<p>Now where did that come from? she asked herself
distractedly, nervously passing one hand over her
already perfectly tidy hair and opening the door with
the other.</p>
<p>There was Wemyss, opening Lucy's door at the
same moment.</p>
<p>'Oh how do you do, Everard,' said Miss Entwhistle,
advancing with all the precipitate and affectionate
politeness of one who is greeting not only a host but a
nephew.</p>
<p>'Quite well thank you,' was Everard's slightly
unexpected reply; but logical, perfectly logical.</p>
<p>She held out her hand and he shook it, and then proceeded
past her to her bedroom door, which she had left
open, and switched off the light, which she had left on.</p>
<p>'Oh I'm sorry,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'That,' she thought, 'is one to Everard.'</p>
<p>She waited for his return, and then walked, followed
by him in silence, down the stairs.</p>
<p>'How do you find Lucy?' she asked when they
had got to the bottom. She didn't like Everard's
silences; she remembered several of them during that
difference of opinion he and she had had about where
Christmas should be spent. They weighed on her;
and she had the sensation of wriggling beneath them
like an earwig beneath a stone, and it humiliated her to
wriggle.</p>
<p>'Just as I expected,' he said. 'Perfectly well.'</p>
<p>'Oh no—not perfectly well,' exclaimed Miss Entwhistle,
a vision of the blue-wrapped little figure sitting
weakly up against the pillows that afternoon before
her eyes. 'She is better to-day, but not nearly well.'</p>
<p>'You asked me what I thought, and I've told you,'
said Wemyss.</p>
<p>No, it wouldn't be an impulsive affection, hers and
Everard's, she felt; it would, when it did come, be the
result of slow and careful preparation,—line upon line,
here a little and there a little.</p>
<p>'Won't you go in?' he asked; and she perceived
he had pushed the dining-room door open and was
holding it back with his arm while she, thinking this,
lingered.</p>
<p>'That,' she thought, 'is another to Everard,'—her
second bungle; first the light left on in her room, now
keeping him waiting.</p>
<p>She hurried through the door, and then, vexed with
herself for hurrying, walked to her chair with almost
an excess of deliberation.</p>
<p>'The doctor——' she began, when they were in their
places, and Chesterton was hovering in readiness to
snatch the cover off the soup the instant Wemyss had
finished arranging his table-napkin.</p>
<p>'I wish to hear nothing about the doctor,' he
interrupted.</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle gave herself pains to be undaunted,
and said with almost an excess of naturalness, 'But
I'd like to tell you.'</p>
<p>'It is no concern of mine,' he said.</p>
<p>'But you're her husband, you know,' said Miss
Entwhistle, trying to sound pleasant.</p>
<p>'I gave no orders,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'But he had to be sent for. The child——'</p>
<p>'So you say. So you said on the telephone. And
I told you then you were taking a great deal on yourself,
unasked.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle hadn't supposed that any one ever
talked like this before servants. She now knew that
she had been mistaken.</p>
<p>'He's your doctor,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'My doctor?'</p>
<p>'I regard him entirely as your doctor.'</p>
<p>'I wish, Everard,' said Miss Entwhistle politely,
after a pause, 'that I understood.'</p>
<p>'You sent for him on your own responsibility,
unasked. You must take the consequences.'</p>
<p>'I don't know what you mean by the consequences,'
said Miss Entwhistle, who was getting further and further
away from that beginning of affection for Everard to
which she had braced herself.</p>
<p>'The bill,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Oh,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>She was so much surprised that she could only
ejaculate just that. Then the idea that she was
in the act of being nourished by Wemyss's soup
seemed to her so disagreeable that she put down
her spoon.</p>
<p>'Certainly if you wish it,' she said.</p>
<p>'I do,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>The conversation flagged.</p>
<p>Presently, sitting up very straight, refusing to take
any notice of the variety and speed of the thoughts
rushing round inside her and determined to behave as if
she weren't minding anything, she said in a very clear
little voice which she strove to make sound pleasant,
'Did you have a good journey down?'</p>
<p>'No,' said Wemyss, waving the soup away.</p>
<p>This as an answer, though no doubt strictly truthful,
was too bald for much to be done with it. Miss Entwhistle
therefore merely echoed, as she herself felt
foolishly, 'No?'</p>
<p>And Wemyss confirmed his first reply by once more
saying, 'No.'</p>
<p>The conversation flagged.</p>
<p>'I suppose,' she then said, making another effort,
'the train was very full.'</p>
<p>As this was not a question he was silent, and allowed
her to suppose.</p>
<p>The conversation flagged.</p>
<p>'Why is there no fish?' he asked Chesterton, who
was offering him cutlets.</p>
<p>'There was no time to get any, sir,' said Chesterton.</p>
<p>'He might have known that,' thought Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>'You will tell the cook that I consider I have not
dined unless there is fish.'</p>
<p>'Yes sir,' said Chesterton.</p>
<p>'Goose,' thought Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>It was easier, and far less nerve-racking, to regard him
indulgently as a goose than to let oneself get angry. He
was like a great cross schoolboy, she thought, sitting there
being rude; but unfortunately a schoolboy with power.</p>
<p>He ate the cutlets in silence. Miss Entwhistle
declined them. She had missed her chance, she thought,
when the cab was beneath her window and all she had
to do was to lean out and say, 'Wait a minute.' But
then Lucy,—ah yes, Lucy. The minute she thought
of Lucy she felt she absolutely must be friends with
Everard. Incredible as it seemed to her, and always
had seemed from the first, that Lucy should love him,
there it was,—she did. It couldn't be possible to love
him without any reason. Of course not. The child
knew. The child was wise and tender. Therefore
Miss Entwhistle made another attempt at resuscitating
conversation.</p>
<p>Watching her opportunity when Chesterton's back
was receding down the room towards the outstretched
arm at the end, for she didn't mind what Wemyss said
quite so acutely if Chesterton wasn't looking, she said
with as natural a voice as she could manage, 'I'm very
glad you've come, you know. I'm sure Lucy has been
missing you very much.'</p>
<p>'Lucy can speak for herself,' he said.</p>
<p>Then Miss Entwhistle concluded that conversation
with Everard was too difficult. Let it flag. She couldn't,
whatever he might feel able to do, say anything that
wasn't polite in the presence of Chesterton. She
doubted whether, even if Chesterton were not there,
she would be able to; and yet continued politeness
appeared in the face of his answers impossible. She
had best be silent, she decided; though to withdraw
into silence was of itself a humiliating defeat.</p>
<p>When she was little Miss Entwhistle used to be
rude. Between the ages of five and ten she frequently
made faces at people. But not since then. Ten
was the latest. After that good manners descended
upon her, and had enveloped her ever since. Nor had
any occasion arisen later in her life in which she had
even been tempted to slough them. Urbane herself,
she dwelt among urbanities; kindly, she everywhere
met kindliness. But she did feel now that it might,
if only she could so far forget herself, afford her solace
were she able to say, straight at him, 'Wemyss.'</p>
<p>Just that word. No more. For some reason she
was dying to call him Wemyss without any Mr. She
was sure that if she might only say that one word,
straight at him, she would feel better; as much relieved
as she did when she was little and made faces.</p>
<p>Dreadful; dreadful. She cast down her eyes, overwhelmed
by the nature of her thoughts, and said No
thank you to the pudding.</p>
<p>'It is clear,' thought Wemyss, observing her silence
and her refusal to eat, 'where Lucy gets her sulking from.'</p>
<p>No more words were spoken till, dinner being over,
he gave the order for coffee in the library.</p>
<p>'I'll go and say good-night to Lucy,' said Miss
Entwhistle as they got up.</p>
<p>'You'll be so good as to do nothing of the sort,'
said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'I—beg your pardon?' inquired Miss Entwhistle,
not quite sure she could have heard right.</p>
<p>At this point they were both just in front of Vera's
portrait on their way to the door, and she was looking
at each of them, impartially strangling her smile.</p>
<p>'I wish to speak to you in the library,' said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'But suppose I don't wish to be spoken to in the
library?' leapt to the tip of Miss Entwhistle's tongue.</p>
<p>There, however, was Chesterton,—checking, calming.</p>
<p>So she said, instead, 'Do.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXXI</h2>
<p>She hadn't been into the library yet. She knew the
dining-room, the hall, the staircase, Lucy's bedroom,
the spare-room, the antlers, and the gong; but she
didn't know the library. She had hoped to go away
without knowing it. However, she was not to be
permitted to.</p>
<p>The newly-lit wood fire blazed cheerfully when they
went in, but its amiable light was immediately quenched
by the electric light Wemyss switched on at the door.
From the middle of the ceiling it poured down so strongly
that Miss Entwhistle wished she had brought her sun-shade.
The blinds were drawn, and there in front of the
window was the table where Everard had sat writing—she
remembered every word of Lucy's account of it
on that July afternoon of Vera's death. It was now
April; still well over three months to the first anniversary
of that dreadful day, and here he was married
again, and to, of all people in the world, her Lucy.
There were so many strong, robust-minded young
women in the world, so many hardened widows, so
many thick-skinned persons of mature years wanting a
comfortable home, who wouldn't mind Everard because
they wouldn't love him and therefore wouldn't feel,—why
should Fate have ordered that it should just be
her Lucy? No, she didn't like him, she couldn't like
him. He might, and she hoped he was, be all Lucy
said, be wonderful and wholesome and natural and all
the rest of it, but if he didn't seem so to her what, as
far as she was concerned, was the good of it?</p>
<p>The fact is that by the time Miss Entwhistle got into
the library she was very angry. Even the politest
worm, she said to herself, the most conciliatory, sensible
worm, fully conscious that wisdom points to patience,
will nevertheless turn on its niece's husband if trodden
on too heavily. The way Wemyss had ordered her
not to go up to Lucy.... Particularly enraging to
Miss Entwhistle was the knowledge of her weak position,
uninvited in his house.</p>
<p>Wemyss, standing on the hearthrug in front of the
blaze, filled his pipe. How well she knew that attitude
and that action. How often she had seen both in her
drawing-room in London. And hadn't she been kind
to him? Hadn't she always, when she was hostess
and he was guest, been hospitable and courteous?
No, she didn't like him.</p>
<p>She sat down in one of the immense chairs, and had
the disagreeable sensation that she was sitting down
in Wemyss hollowed out. The two little red spots
were brightly on her cheekbones,—had been there,
indeed, ever since the beginning of dinner.</p>
<p>Wemyss filled his pipe with his customary deliberation,
saying nothing. 'I believe he's enjoying himself,'
flashed into her mind. 'Enjoying being in a temper,
and having me to bully.'</p>
<p>'Well?' she asked, suddenly unbearably irritated.</p>
<p>'Oh it's no good taking that tone with me,' he said,
continuing carefully to fill his pipe.</p>
<p>'Really, Everard,' she said, ashamed of him, but also
ashamed of herself. She oughtn't to have let go her grip
on herself and said, 'Well?' with such obvious irritation.</p>
<p>The coffee came.</p>
<p>'No thank you,' said Miss Entwhistle.</p>
<p>He helped himself.</p>
<p>The coffee went.</p>
<p>'Perhaps,' said Miss Entwhistle in a very polite
voice when the door had been shut by Chesterton,
'you'll tell me what it is you wish to say.'</p>
<p>'Certainly. One thing is that I've ordered the cab
to come round for you to-morrow in time for the early
train.'</p>
<p>'Oh thank you, Everard. That is most thoughtful,'
said Miss Entwhistle. 'I had already told Lucy, when
she said you would be down to-morrow, that I would
go home early.'</p>
<p>'That's one thing,' said Wemyss, taking no notice
of this and going on carefully filling his pipe. 'The
other is, that I don't wish you to see Lucy again, either
to-night or before you go.'</p>
<p>She looked at him in astonishment. 'But why
not?' she asked.</p>
<p>'I'm not going to have her upset.'</p>
<p>'But my dear Everard, don't you see it will upset
her much more if I don't say good-bye to her? It
won't upset her at all if I do, because she knows I'm
going to-morrow anyhow. Why, what will the child
think?'</p>
<p>'Oblige me by allowing me to be the best judge of
my own affairs.'</p>
<p>'Do you know I very much doubt if you're that,'
said Miss Entwhistle earnestly, really moved by his
inability to perceive consequences. Here he had got
everything, everything to make him happy for the rest
of his life,—the wife he loved adoring him, believing in
him, blotting out by her mere marrying him every
doubt as to the exact manner of Vera's death, and all
he had to do was to be kind and ordinarily decent.
And poor Everard—it was absurd of her to mind for
him, but she did in fact at that moment mind for him,
he seemed such a pathetic human being, blindly bent
on ruining his own happiness—would spoil it all,
inevitably smash it all sooner or later, if he wasn't able
to see, wasn't able to understand....</p>
<p>Wemyss considered her remark so impertinent that
he felt he would have been amply justified in requesting
her to leave his house then and there, dark or no dark,
train or no train. And so he would have done, if he
hadn't happened to prefer a long rather than a short
scene.</p>
<p>'I didn't ask you into my library to hear your opinion
of my character,' he said, lighting his pipe.</p>
<p>'Well then,' said Miss Entwhistle, for there was too
much at stake for her to allow herself either to be silenced
or goaded, 'let me tell you a few things about Lucy's.'</p>
<p>'About Lucy's?' echoed Wemyss, amazed at such
effrontery. 'About my wife's?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Miss Entwhistle, very earnestly. 'It's the
sort of character that takes things to heart, and she'll
be miserable—miserable, Everard, and worry and worry
if I just disappear as you wish me to without a word.
Of course I'll go, and I promise I'll never come again
unless you ask me to. But don't, because you're angry,
insist on something that will make Lucy extraordinarily
unhappy. Let me say good-night to her now, and
good-bye to-morrow morning. I tell you she'll be
terribly worried if I don't. She'll think'—Miss Entwhistle
tried to smile—'that you've turned me out. And
then, you see, if she thinks that, she won't be able——'
Miss Entwhistle hesitated. 'Well, she won't be able
to be proud of you. And that, my dear Everard—'
she looked at him with a faint smile of deprecation and
apology that she, a spinster, should talk of this—'gives
love its deepest wound.'</p>
<p>Wemyss stared at her, too much amazed to speak.
In his house.... In his own house!</p>
<p>'I'm sorry,' she said, still more earnestly, 'if this annoys
you, but I do want—I really do think it is very important.'</p>
<p>There was then a silence during which they looked
at each other, he at her in amazement, she at him trying
to hope,—hope that he would take what she had said
in good part. It was so vital that he should understand,
that he should get an idea of the effect on Lucy
of just that sort of unkind, even cruel behaviour. His
own happiness was involved as well. Tragic, tragic for
every one if he couldn't be got to see....</p>
<p>'Are you aware,' he said, 'that this is my house?'</p>
<p>'Oh Everard——' she said at that, with a movement of despair.</p>
<p>'Are you aware,' he continued, 'that you are talking
to a husband of his wife?'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle said nothing, but leaning her head
on her hand looked at the fire.</p>
<p>'Are you aware that you thrust yourself into my
house uninvited directly my back was turned, and have
been living in it, and would have gone on indefinitely
living in it, without any sanction from me unless I had
come down, as I did come down, on purpose to put an
end to such an outrageous state of affairs?'</p>
<p>'Of course,' she said, 'that is one way of describing it.'</p>
<p>'It is the way of every reasonable and decent person,'
said Wemyss.</p>
<p>'Oh no,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'That is precisely
what it isn't. But,' she added, getting up from the
chair and holding out her hand, 'it is your way, and
so I think, Everard, I'll say good-night. And good-bye
too, for I don't expect I'll see you in the morning.'</p>
<p>'One would suppose,' he said, taking no notice of
her proffered hand, for he hadn't nearly done, 'from your
tone that this was your house and I was your servant.'</p>
<p>'I assure you I could never imagine it to be my
house or you my servant.'</p>
<p>'You made a great mistake, I can tell you, when you
started interfering between husband and wife. You
have only yourself to thank if I don't allow you to
continue to see Lucy.'</p>
<p>She stared at him.</p>
<p>'Do you mean,' she said, after a silence, 'that you
intend to prevent my seeing her later on too? In
London?'</p>
<p>'That, exactly, is my intention.'</p>
<p>Miss Entwhistle stared at him, lost in thought; but
he could see he had got her this time, for her face had
gone visibly pale.</p>
<p>'In that case, Everard,' she said presently, 'I think
it my duty——'</p>
<p>'Don't begin about duties. You have no duties in
regard to me and my household.'</p>
<p>'I think it my duty to tell you that from my knowledge
of Lucy——'</p>
<p>'Your knowledge of Lucy! What is it compared to
mine, I should like to know?'</p>
<p>'Please listen to me. It's most important. From my
knowledge of her, I'm quite sure she hasn't the staying
power of Vera.'</p>
<p>It was now his turn to stare. She was facing him,
very pale, with shining, intrepid eyes. He had got her
in her vulnerable spot he could see, or she wouldn't be
so white, but she was going to do her utmost to annoy
him up to the last.</p>
<p>'The staying power of——?' he repeated.</p>
<p>'I'm sure of it. And you must be wise, you must
positively have the wisdom to take care of your own
happiness——'</p>
<p>'Oh good God, you preaching woman!' he burst
out. 'How dare you stand there in my own house talking
to me of Vera?'</p>
<p>'Hush,' said Miss Entwhistle, her eyes shining
brighter and brighter in her white face. 'Listen to me.
It's atrocious that I should have to, but nobody ever
seems to have told you a single thing in your life. You
don't seem to know anything at all about women,
anything at all about human beings. How could you
bring a girl like Lucy—any young wife—to this house?
But here she is, and it still may be all right because she
loves you so, if you take care, if you are tender and
kind. I assure you it is nothing to me how angry you
are with me, or how completely you separate me from
Lucy, if only you are kind to her. Don't you realise,
Everard, that she may soon begin to have a baby, and
that then she——'</p>
<p>'You indelicate woman! You incredibly indecent,
improper——'</p>
<p>'I don't in the least mind what you say to me, but
I tell you that unless you take care, unless you're
kinder than you're being at this moment, it won't be
anything like fifteen years this time.'</p>
<p>He repeated, staring, 'Fifteen years this time?'</p>
<p>'Yes. Good-bye.'</p>
<p>And she was gone, and had shut the door behind
her before her monstrous meaning dawned on him.</p>
<p>Then, when it did, he strode out of the room after her.</p>
<p>She was going up the stairs very slowly.</p>
<p>'Come down,' he said.</p>
<p>She went on as if she hadn't heard him.</p>
<p>'Come down. If you don't come down at once I'll
fetch you.'</p>
<p>This, through all her wretchedness, through all her
horror, for beating in her ears were two words over and
over again, <i>Lucy, Vera</i>—<i>Lucy, Vera</i> struck her as so
absurd, the vision of herself, more naturally nimble,
going on up the stairs just out of Wemyss's reach, with
him heavily pursuing her, till among the attics at the
top he couldn't but run her to earth in a cistern, that
she had great difficulty in not spilling over into a
ridiculous, hysterical laugh.</p>
<p>'Very well then,' she said, stopping and speaking in
a low voice so that Lucy shouldn't be disturbed by
unusual sounds, 'I'll come down.' And shining, quivering
with indomitableness, she did.</p>
<p>She arrived at the bottom of the stairs where he was
standing and faced him. What was he going to do?
Take her by the shoulders and turn her out? Not a
sign, not the smallest sign of distress or fear should he
get out of her. Fear of him in relation to herself was
the last thing she would condescend to feel, but fear for
Lucy—for Lucy.... She could very easily have cried
out because of Lucy, entreated to be allowed to see her
sometimes, humbled herself, if she hadn't gripped hold
of the conviction of his delight if she broke down, of
his delight at having broken her down, at refusing.
The thought froze her serene.</p>
<p>'You will now leave my house,' said Wemyss through
his teeth.</p>
<p>'Without my hat, Everard?' she inquired mildly.</p>
<p>He didn't answer. He would gladly at that moment
have killed her, for he thought he saw she was laughing
at him. Not openly. Her face was serious and her voice
polite; but he thought he saw she was laughing at him,
and beyond anything that could happen to him he hated
being defied.</p>
<p>He walked to the front door, reached up and undid
the top bolt, stooped down and undid the bottom bolt,
turned the key, took the chain off, pulled the door open,
and said, 'There now. Go. And let this be a lesson
to you.'</p>
<p>'I am glad to see,' said Miss Entwhistle, going out
on to the steps with dignity, and surveying the stars
with detachment, 'that it is a fine night.'</p>
<p>He shut and bolted and locked and chained her out,
and as soon as he had done, and she heard his footsteps
going away, and her eyes were a little accustomed to
the darkness, she went round to the back entrance,
rang the bell, and asked the astonished tweeny, who
presently appeared, to send Lizzie to her; and when
Lizzie came, also astonished, she asked her to be so
kind as to go up to her room and put her things in her
bag and bring her her hat and cloak and purse.</p>
<p>'I'll wait here in the garden,' said Miss Entwhistle,
'and it would be most kind, Lizzie, if you were rather
quick.'</p>
<p>Then, when she had got her belongings, and Lizzie
had put her cloak round her shoulders and tried to
express, by smoothings and brushings of it, her understanding
and sympathy, for it was clear to Lizzie and to
all the servants that Miss Entwhistle was being turned
out, she went away; she went away past the silent house,
through the white gate, up through the darkness of the
sunken oozy lane, out on to the road where the stars
gave light, across the bridge, into the village, along the
road to the station, to wait for whatever train should
come.</p>
<p>She walked slower and slower.</p>
<p>She was extraordinarily tired.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>XXXII</h2>
<p>Wemyss went back into the library, and seeing his
coffee still on the chimney-piece he drank it, and then
sat down in the chair Miss Entwhistle had just left, and
smoked.</p>
<p>He wouldn't go up to Lucy yet; not till he was sure
the woman wasn't going to try any tricks of knocking
at the front door or ringing bells. He actually, so
inaccurate was his perception of Miss Entwhistle's character
and methods, he actually thought she might
perhaps throw stones at the windows, and he decided
to remain downstairs guarding his premises till this
possibility became, with the lapse of time, more remote.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the fury of his indignation at the things
she had said was immensely tempered by the real satisfaction
he felt in having turned her out. That was the
way to show people who was master, and meant to be
master, in his own house. She had supposed she could
do as she liked with him, use his house, be waited on
by his servants, waste his electric light, interfere between
him and his wife, say what she chose, lecture him,
stand there and insult him, and he had showed her
very quickly and clearly that she couldn't. As to her
final monstrous suggestion, it merely proved how
completely he had got her, how accurately he had hit
on the punishment she felt most, that she should have
indulged in such ravings. The ravings of impotence,
that's what that was. For the rest of his life, he
supposed, whenever people couldn't get their own way
with him, were baffled by his steadfastness and
consequently became vindictive, they would throw that old
story up against him. Let them. It wouldn't make
him budge, not a hair's-breadth, in any direction he
didn't choose. Master in his own house,—that's what
he was.</p>
<p>Curious how women invariably started by thinking
they could do as they liked with him. Vera had thought
so, and behaved accordingly; and she had been quite
surprised, and even injured, when she discovered she
couldn't. No doubt this woman was feeling considerably
surprised too now; no doubt she never dreamt
he would turn her out. Women never believed he
would do the simple, obvious thing. And even when
he warned them that he would, as he could remember
on several occasions having warned Vera—indeed, it
was recorded in his diary—they still didn't believe it.
Daunted themselves by convention and the fear of what
people might think, they imagined that he would be
daunted too. Then, when he wasn't, and it happened,
they were surprised; and they never seemed to see that
they had only themselves to thank.</p>
<p>He sat smoking and thinking a long time, one ear
attentive to any sounds which might indicate that Miss
Entwhistle was approaching hostilely from outside.
Chesterton found him sitting like that when she came
in to remove the coffee cup, and she found him still
sitting like that when she came in an hour later with
his whisky.</p>
<p>It was nearly eleven before he decided that the danger
of attack was probably over; but still, before he went
upstairs, he thought it prudent to open the window and
step over the sill on to the terrace and just look round.</p>
<p>All was as quiet as the grave. It was so quiet that
he could hear a little ripple where the water was split
by a dead branch as the river slid gently along. There
were stars, so that it was not quite dark; and although
the April air was moist it was dry under foot. A
pleasant night for a walk. Well, he would not grudge
her that.</p>
<p>He went along the terrace, and round the clump of
laurustinus bushes which cloaked the servants' entrance,
to the front of the house.</p>
<p>Empty. Nobody still lingering on the steps.</p>
<p>He then proceeded as far as the white gate, holding
her capable of having left it open on purpose,—'In order
to aggravate me,' as he put it to himself.</p>
<p>It was shut.</p>
<p>He stood leaning on it a minute listening, in case she
should be lurking in the lane.</p>
<p>Not a sound.</p>
<p>Satisfied that she had really gone, he returned to
the terrace and re-entered the library, fastening the
window carefully and pulling down the blind.</p>
<p>What a relief, what an extraordinary relief, to have
got rid of her; and not just for this once, but for good.
Also she was Lucy's only relation, so there were no more
of them to come and try to interfere between man and
wife. He was very glad she had behaved so outrageously
at the end saying that about Vera, for it justified him
completely in what he had done. A little less bad
behaviour, and she would have had to be allowed to
stay the night; still a little less, and she would have
had to come to The Willows again, let alone having a
free hand in London to influence Lucy when he was at
his club playing bridge and unable to look after her.
Yes; it was very satisfactory, and well worth coming
down day earlier for.</p>
<p>He wound up his watch, standing before the last
glimmerings of the fire, and felt quite good-humoured
again. More than good-humoured,—refreshed and
exhilarated, as though he had had a cold bath and a
thorough rub-down. Now for bed and his little Love.
What simple things a man wanted,—only his woman
and peace.</p>
<p>Wemyss finished winding his watch, stretched himself,
yawned, and then went slowly upstairs, switching
off the lights as he went.</p>
<p>In the bedroom there was a night-light burning, and
Lucy had fallen asleep, tired of waiting for Aunt Dot to
come and say good-night, but she woke when he came in.</p>
<p>'Is that you, Aunt Dot?' she murmured, even
through her sleepiness sure it must be, for Everard
would have turned on the light.</p>
<p>Wemyss, however, didn't want her to wake up and
begin asking questions, so he refrained from turning
on the light.</p>
<p>'No, it's your Everard,' he said, moving about on
tiptoe. 'Sh-sh, now. Go to sleep again like a good
little girl.'</p>
<p>Through her sleepiness she knew that voice of his;
it meant one of his pleased moods. How sweet of
him to be taking such care not to disturb her ... dear
Everard ... he and Aunt Dot must have made friends
then ... how glad she was ... wonderful little Aunt
Dot ... before dinner he was angry, and she had
been so afraid ... afraid ... what a relief ... how
glad....</p>
<p>But Lucy was asleep again, and the next thing she
knew was Everard's arm being slid under her shoulders
and she being drawn across the bed and gathered to
his breast.</p>
<p>'Who's my very own baby?' she heard him saying;
and she woke up just enough sleepily to return his kiss.</p>
<p>THE END</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 34366 ***</div>
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