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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bd4105 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #56161 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56161) diff --git a/old/56161-8.txt b/old/56161-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7ef68f5..0000000 --- a/old/56161-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9678 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Furlongers, by Sheila Kaye-Smith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Three Furlongers - -Author: Sheila Kaye-Smith - -Release Date: December 11, 2017 [EBook #56161] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FURLONGERS *** - - - - -Produced by ellinora, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -+-------------------------------------------------+ -|Transcriber's note: | -| | -|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | -| | -+-------------------------------------------------+ - - -THE THREE FURLONGERS - -[Illustration: With outstretched arms she rushed to one of them ---Page 10] - - - - -THE THREE FURLONGERS - -BY -SHEILA KAYE-SMITH - -AUTHOR OF "SPELL LAND," "ISLE OF THORNS," ETC. - - - There may be hope above, - There may be rest beneath; - We know not--only Death - Is palpable--and love. - --DOLBEN. - - -[Illustration: Logo] - -PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON - -J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1914 - - -COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY - -ISSUED SEPTEMBER, 1914 - -COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN UNDER THE TITLE "THREE AGAINST THE WORLD" - -PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY -AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS -PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -BOOK I - -THREE AGAINST THE WORLD - -CHAPTER PAGE - I. SPARROW HALL 9 - - II. SHOVELSTRODE 20 - - III. IN THE RAIN 31 - - IV. FATE'S AFTERTHOUGHT 40 - - V. THE HERO 53 - - VI. THICK WOODS 63 - - VII. OVER THE GATES OF PARADISE 75 - -VIII. BRAMBLETYE 86 - - IX. SOME PEOPLE ARE HAPPY--IN DIFFERENT WAYS 97 - - X. TONY BACKS AN OUTSIDER 109 - - XI. DISILLUSION AT SIXTEEN 122 - - XII. CHILDREN DANCING IN THE DUSK 135 - -XIII. KEEPING CHRISTMAS 145 - - XIV. WOODS AT DAWN 161 - - XV. THE SERMON ON FORGIVENESS 173 - - -BOOK II - -THE WORLD AGAINST THE THREE - -CHAPTER PAGE - I. GLIMPSES AND DREAMS 187 - - II. THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME 201 - - III. ONLY A BOY 213 - - IV. FLAMES 228 - - V. COWSANISH 237 - - VI. AND I ALSO DREAMED 252 - - VII. WOODS AT NIGHT 259 - -VIII. VIGIL 268 - - IX. AND YOU ALSO SAID 280 - - X. A TOAST 300 - - - - -BOOK I - -THREE AGAINST THE WORLD - - -THE THREE FURLONGERS - - - - -CHAPTER I - -SPARROW HALL - - -The twilight was dropping over the fields of three counties--Surrey, -Kent and Sussex--all touching in the woods round Sparrow Hall. In the -sky above and in the fields below lights were creeping out one by one. -The Great Wain lit up over Cansiron, just as the farmer's wife set the -lamp in the window of Anstiel, and the lights of Dorman's Land were like -a reflection of the Pleiades above them. - -Janet Furlonger sat waiting in the kitchen of Sparrow Hall--now and then -springing up to lift the lid off the pot and smell the brown soup, or to -put her face to the window-pane and watch the creeping night, seen dimly -through the thick green glass and the mists that steamed up from the -fields of Wilderwick. - -Janet was immensely tall, and her movements were grand and free. In rest -she had a kind of statuesque dignity: she did not stoop, as if ashamed -of her height, but held herself proudly, with lifted chin. People used -to say that she walked as if she were showing off beautiful clothes. -This was meant to be a joke, for Janet's clothes were terrible--old, -and badly made. Hats, collars and waist-bands she evidently thought -superfluous; it was also fairly obvious that she dispensed with -stays--which caused scandal, not because her figure was bad, but because -it was too good. Wind, sun and rain had tinted her face to a delicate -wood-nut brown, through which the red glowed timidly, like the flush on -a spring catkin. - -Footsteps sounded on the frosty road, drawing steadily nearer. The next -minute the gate clicked. Janet started to her feet, flung open the -kitchen door, and ran out into the garden, between rows of -chrysanthemums still faintly sweet. Two men were coming up the path, and -with outstretched arms she rushed to one of them. - -"Nigel!--old man!" - -He did not speak, but folded her to him, bending his face to hers. It -was too dark for them to see each other distinctly. All that was clear -was the outline of the roof and chimney against the still tremulous -west. - -Janet pulled him softly up the path, into the doorway, where it was -darker still. She put up her hands to his face and gently felt the -outlines of his features. Then she began to laugh. - -"What a fool I am! Didn't I say I wasn't going to have any silly -sentimentality?--and here I am, simply wallowing in it. Come into the -kitchen, young men, and see what I've got for the satisfaction of your -gross appetites." - -They followed her into the kitchen, and she turned round and looked at -them both. They were very different. The elder brother, Leonard, was -like Janet--dark both of hair and eye, with a healthy red under his -tan. The younger's hair was between brown and auburn, and his eyes were -large and blue and innocent like a child's. His mouth was not like a -child's--indeed, there was a peculiar look of age in its drooping -corners, and his teeth flashed suddenly, almost vindictively, when he -spoke; it was lucky that they were so white and even, for he showed them -with every movement of his lips--two fierce, shining rows. - -"You're late," said Janet. "No, don't look at the clock, unless you've -remembered how to do the old sum. It's really something after nine, and -the train is supposed to get in at half-past seven." - -"Yes--but I got hung up at Grinstead station, playing guardian angel to -a kid." - -"Let's hope the kid didn't ask to see your wings," said Leonard. "Was it -a girl-kid or a boy-kid?" - -"A girl-kid. There were five of 'em in my carriage. They'd been sent -home from school for some reason or other, and this one evidently hadn't -let her people know, for when she got out at East Grinstead there was no -one to meet her. All the station cabs had been snapped up, and some -loathly bounder got hold of her--goodness knows what would have happened -if I hadn't turned up and managed to scatter him. I got her a taxi from -the Dorset, and sent her off in it to Shovelstrode." - -"Shovelstrode!--then she must be old Strife's daughter. What age was -she?" - -"I should put her down at sixteen, but very innocent." - -"Pretty?" - -"Ye--es." - -"Nigel, my boy, you haven't let the grass grow under your feet." - -"Idiot!--we never exchanged a word except in the way of business. She -wanted to know my name, but I took care to say Smith. There was nothing -exciting about it at all--only an infernal loss of time." - -"Quite so. You didn't find me in a particularly good temper when you -turned up at Hackenden." - -"The first words that passed between us were--'Is that you, you ass?' -and 'Yes, you fool.' We haven't done the thing properly at all--we've -forgotten to fall on each other's necks." - -"Let's do it now," said Len, and the two boys collapsed into a mock -embrace, in the grips of which they staggered up and down the kitchen, -knocking over several chairs. - -"Oh, stop, you duffers!" shouted Janet; but she was laughing. "Nigel -hasn't changed a bit," she said to herself. - -"What have they been doing to your clothes?" asked Leonard, as his -brother finally hurled him off. "They stink, lad, they stink." - -"They've been fumigated," said Nigel. "I've worn off some of the reek in -the train, but to-morrow Janey shall peg 'em out to air." - -"We'll hang 'em across the road from the orchard. Lord! won't the -Wilderwick freaks sit up!" - -"It'll take ages to get that smell out," said Janet ruefully, "and your -hair, too, Nigel--when'll that look decent again?" - -"I say, stop your personal remarks, you two--and give me something to -eat. I'm all one aching void." - -Janet took the soup off the fire, and slopped it into three blue bowls. -Nigel went round the table, setting straight the spoons and forks, which -Janey seemed to have flung on from a distance. - -"What's that for?" she asked. - -The young man started, then flushed slightly. - -"Hullo! I didn't notice what I was doing. I always had to do that in -prison." - -"Put things straight?--what a good idea!" - -"Yes. Everything had to be straight--in rows. Ugh!" - -For the first time he looked self-conscious. - -"Well, it's a very good habit to have got into. You may be quite useful -now." - -"I'm damned if I'd have done it," said Leonard. - -"You had to do it," said Nigel; "if you didn't ..." and a shudder passed -over him. - -"What?" asked his brother and sister with interest. - -He flushed more deeply, and the muscles of his face quivered. - -Then a surprising, terrible thing happened--so surprising and so -terrible that Leonard and Janey could only stand and gape. Nigel hid his -face in his hands, and began to cry. - -For some moments they stared at him with blank, horror-stricken eyes. -Scarcely a minute ago he had been uproarious--forgetting pain and shame -in the substantial ecstasies of reunion, smothering--after the Furlonger -habit--all memories of anguish in a joke. Never since his earliest -manhood had they seen him cry, not even on the day they had said -good-bye to him for so long. Now he was crying miserably, weakly, -hopelessly--crying quietly like a child, his hands covering his eyes, -his shoulders shaking a little. Then suddenly he gasped, almost -whimpered-- - -"Don't ask me those questions. Don't ask me any more questions." - -"Nigel," cried Janet, finding her tongue at last, "I'm so sorry. I -didn't know you minded. Please don't cry any more--it hurts us." - -"We didn't mean anything, old man," said Leonard huskily. "Do cheer up, -and forget all about it." - -Nigel took away his hands from his eyes, and Len and Janey glanced -quickly at each other. They had expected to see his face swollen and -disfigured, but except for a slight redness round the eyes it was quite -unchanged. They both knew that it is only the faces of those who cry -continually which are so little altered by tears. - -For a moment they could not speak. A chill seemed to have dropped on -Sparrow Hall, and all three heard the moaning of the wind--as it swept -up to the windows, rattled them, then seemed to hurry away, sighing over -the fields. - -"Come, drink your soup, old chap," said Janet, pulling up his chair to -the table. "Write me down an ass, a tactless ass," she growled to -herself; "but how could I know he would take on that way?" - -Nigel obediently began to swallow the soup, while Len and Janey talked -across him with laboured airiness about the weather. After the soup came -bacon and eggs, and potatoes cooked in their skins. Nigel's spirits -began to rise--he seemed childishly delighted with the food, though -Janet's cooking was sketchy in the extreme. When the meal was over, he -joined in the washing up, which was done at a sink in the corner of the -kitchen. - -"What sort of people are the Lowes?" he asked suddenly, polishing a fork -with a vigour and thoroughness which made Leonard and Janey tremble lest -he should realise what he was doing. "What sort of people are the -Lowes?" - -Janet flushed. - -"Oh, they're quite ordinary," said Leonard, "quite ordinarily -unpleasant, I mean. The old chap's narrow and pious, like most -devil-dodgers, and the young 'un's like an ape." - -"And they've got all the Kent land?" - -"Oh, it's nothing to speak of. You know that end was always too low for -wheat"--poor Len was in a panic lest his brother should begin to cry -again. - -But, strangely enough, Nigel was able to discuss the fallen fortunes of -Sparrow Hall with even less emotion than Len and Janey. The tides of his -grief seemed to find their way into small streams only. It was about the -side-issues of their tragedy that he asked most questions. Was Leonard -still going to have a man to help him, now his brother had -returned?--Was any profit likely to be made in their reduced -circumstances?--Was there any chance of buying back what they had sold -to Lowe? - -"We shall have to go quietly," said Len, "but I don't see why we -shouldn't pull through if we're careful. I've given Boorman a week's -notice. He can bump round here till it's up, and lend you a hand now and -then--I don't suppose you'll tumble into things just at first." - -Nigel suddenly turned away. - -"I'm going out--to have a look round the place." - -"Now!" - -"Yes--it's a beautiful clear night." - -Janet and Leonard moved towards the door. - -"I'm going alone," said Nigel shortly. - -Janet and Leonard stood still. They stared at each other, at first with -surprise, then a little forlornly, while their brother pulled on his -overcoat, and went out of the room. - -Never, since they could remember, had one of the Furlongers preferred to -be without the others. - - -It was past midnight, and Janet was not yet asleep. She lay in bed, with -a lighted candle beside her, her hair tumbled over the pillow and over -her body, her neck gleaming through the heavy strands. - -Her room was full of warm splashes of colour. The bedspread and carpet, -though faded, glowed with sudden reds and gentle browns--faded red roses -were on the wall. The window was low, so that when she turned on the -pillow she could look straight out of it at a huddled mass of woods. It -was uncurtained, and the stars flashed through the thick panes. - -There was a knock at the door. - -"Come in"--and Nigel came in softly. - -"Hullo, old man." - -"I want to speak to you, Janey." - -"And I want to speak to you. Come and sit on the bed." - -"I--I want to say I'm sorry I cried this evening." - -"Oh, don't!" gasped Janet. - -"It's a habit one gets into in prison--crying about little things. -Prison is made up of little things and crying about 'em--that's why it's -so hellish." - -Her hand groped on the coverlet for his. - -"I expect I'll get out of it--crying, I mean--now I'm back." - -"Don't let it worry you, old boy--we're pals, you and Len and I. -But--but--don't you really like us talking to you about prison?" - -He lifted his head quickly. - -"It all depends." - -"You see, there you were ragging and laughing about your clothes and -your hair and all that. So how was I to know you'd mind----" - -"But it's different. Oh, I don't suppose you'll understand--but it's -different. Having one's clothes fumigated and one's hair cut short is a -joke--it's funny, it's a joke, so I laughed. But being obliged to have -everything exactly straight--every damned fork in its damned place----" -he stopped suddenly and ground his teeth. "It's the little things that -are so infernal and degrading; big things one has to make oneself big to -tackle, somehow, and it helps. But the little things ... one just cries. -Listen, Janey. Once a fortnight they used to come and search us in our -cells. We used to stand there just in our vests and drawers, and they'd -pass their hands over us. Well, I could stand that, for it was -horrible--sickening and monstrous and horrible. But when you were -punished just because your tins weren't in the exact mathematical space -allotted to them--it wasn't horrible or monstrous at all, just childish -and silly; and when a dozen childish and silly things crowd into your -day, why, you become childish and silly yourself, that's all. What I -can't forgive prison isn't that it's made me hard or wicked or wretched, -but that it's made me childish and silly--so if I deserved hanging when -I went in, I'm hardly worth spanking now I've come out." - -"What I can't forgive prison is the miserable ideas you've picked up in -it." - -"There aren't any ideas in prison--only habits." - -He hid his face for a minute in the coverlet. Janet's hand crept over -his hair. - -"You'll soon be happy again, old boy," she whispered. - -"Perhaps I shall." - -"I hope to God you will--and now, dear, it's dreadfully late, and you're -tired. Hadn't you better go to bed?" - -He turned to her impulsively. - -"You'll stick to me, you and Len?--whatever I'm like--even--even if I'm -not quite the same as I used to be." - -Strange to say, her impression of him was of an infinite childishness. -She realised with a pang that while for the last three years she and -Leonard had been growing older in their contact with a world of love and -sorrow, this boy, in spite of all he had suffered, had merely been shut -up with a few rules and habits. In many ways he was younger than when he -first went to gaol, more ignorant and more childish--he had lost his -grip of life. In other ways he was terribly, horribly older. - -She put her arms around his neck, and kissed this pathetic old child, -this poor childish old man. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -SHOVELSTRODE - - -A row of lights gleamed from Shovelstrode Manor, on the north slope of -Ashdown Forest. Shovelstrode was in Sussex, and looked straight over the -woods into Surrey and Kent. Round it the pines heaped up till they gave -a ragged edge to the hill behind it. Into the house they cast many -shadows, and even when at night they were curtained out of the lighted -rooms, one could hear them rustling and thrumming a strange tune. - -Tony Strife crept up the back stairs to the schoolroom. She paused for a -moment and listened to a distant buzz of voices. Her mother must be -having visitors, so she would not go near her--she would sit in the -schoolroom till it was time to dress for dinner. Tony was sixteen, -healthy and clean-limbed, with a thick mouse-coloured plait between her -shoulders. She wore a school-girl's blouse and skirt, with a tie of her -school cricket-colours. She had in her manner all the mixture of -confidence and deference which points to one who is paramount in her own -little world, but is for some reason cast adrift in another where she -has never been more than subordinate. - -The schoolroom was in darkness. The fire was unlighted and the blinds -were up, so that the shadows of the pines rushed over the square of -moonlight on the floor, waving and gliding and curtseying in the wind. -Tony, who had expected drawn blinds and a cosy fireside, was a little -dismayed at the dreariness of her kingdom. "I wonder if they got my -postcard," she thought forlornly. But the schoolroom was the schoolroom, -with or without a fire, and her own special province now that Awdrey had -grown up, and exchanged its austere boundaries for a world of calls and -dances and chiffons and flirtations. It was a little bit of the glorious -land of school from which she had been so abruptly exiled. For the first -time since her return a certain warmth glowed in her heart--she sat down -on the window-sill and looked out at the pines. - -She wondered how soon she would be able to go back to school. Perhaps -there would be no more cases, and the clear, all-sufficient life would -start again at the half-term. Meantime she would write every week to her -three best friends and the mistress she "had a rave on," she would work -up her algebra and perhaps get her remove into the sixth next term; and -she would finish that beastly nightgown she had been struggling with -ever since Easter, and be able to start a frock, like the rest of the -form. - -Her calculations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the -passage and a rather strident voice calling-- - -"Tony! Tony!" - -The next minute the door flew open, and a girl a few years older than -herself burst in. - -"Hullo!--so you _are_ home! I saw your box in the hall, and swore you -must have come back for some reason or other; but of course mother -wouldn't believe me. What on earth have you come for?" - -"They've got whooping-cough at school, and Mrs. Arkwright sent us all -home. Didn't mother get my postcard?" - -"Postcard! of course not. We'd no idea you were coming, and your room -isn't ready for you, or anything. You ought to have known better than to -send only a card--they get kept back for days sometimes. And when you -arrived, why didn't you come into the drawing-room and see mother, -instead of sneaking up here?" - -"I thought you had visitors--I could hear them talking. I meant to come -down after I'd changed." - -"I see. Well, you'd better come now and speak to mother. She's quite -worried about your being here, or rather about my saying you're here -when she says you aren't." - -"Right-O!" and Tony followed her sister out of the room. - -In a way Awdrey was like her, but with a more piquant, impertinent cast -of features. She was dressed in the latest combination of fashion and -sport, with a very short skirt to display her pretty ankles and purple -silk stockings. She was strongly scented with some pleasant, flower-like -scent, which, however, made Tony wrinkle up her nose with disgust. - -"You were quite right about there being visitors," said the elder girl -in a more friendly tone. "Captain le Bourbourg was here, and as only -mother and I were in, I went with him to the door--complications, of -course!" - -"Ass," said Tony shortly. - -Awdrey giggled, apparently without resentment, and the next minute they -were in the drawing-room. - -The drawing-room at Shovelstrode was an emasculate room, plunged deep in -yellow and dull green. The furniture had a certain ineffectiveness about -it, in spite of its beauty. The only thing which was neither delicate -nor indefinite was the heavily beamed ceiling, reflecting the firelight. -The girls' mother lay on a sofa between the fire and the half-curtained -window, just where she could see the moon. She wore a yellow silk -wrapper, and on her breast lay dull, strangely set stones. She was -reading a little book of unorthodox mysticism, and others, in floppy -suède bindings, were on the table beside her. - -"Why, Antoinette!" she cried. "Whatever are you here for, child?" - -"They had whooping-cough at school," said Awdrey glibly, "and sent her -home--and the silly idiot wrote and told us on a postcard, which we'll -probably get some time next week." - -Lady Strife sighed. - -"It's very disturbing, my dear, very disturbing--for me, that's to say. -And as for your father, I expect he'll be furious. He hates things -happening in a disorderly way and people being in the wrong place." - -"I'm sorry," said Tony, "but I'll work all the time I'm here, so I -really shan't lose anything by it." - -"Well, it's not your fault, of course," rather doubtfully. "Come and -give me a kiss," she added, realising that the ceremony had been -omitted. - -"How are you, mother?" - -"Oh, about the same, thank you. Weak of body, but not, I trust, weak of -soul. I am wonderfully comforted by this little book of Sakrata -Balkrishna's. Our soul, he says, Tony, sits within us as a watcher, -holding aloof from the poor, suffering body, and weaving a new mantle of -flesh for its next Manvantara." - -"Buddhism?..." asked Tony awkwardly. - -"Buddhism! My dear child--as if I would have anything to do with that -modern corruption of pure Brahminical faith! No, Antoinette, this is the -ancient Vedantin philosophy, as old as the world. By the way, has your -box come?" - -"Yes. I brought it with me in the taxi." - -"The taxi! You were lucky to find one at the station." - -"I didn't find it. A man got it for me from the Dorset Arms." - -"A man!" cried Awdrey. - -"Yes, quite an ordinary sort of man, but rather decent." - -"I wonder who he was. How romantic, Tony!" - -"Rats! It wasn't in the least romantic. When I got out of the station I -found the car wasn't there to meet me, and all the cabs were gone, and I -didn't know what to do. Then rather a nasty-looking man came along, and -asked me what was the matter, and when I told him, he said I'd better -spend the night in East Grinstead as it was so late, and he knew of a -very nice place I could go to. I didn't like to refuse, as he seemed so -polite and interested, but of course I wanted to come here, and I was -awfully glad when another man came and said he could get me a cab quite -easily. The first man didn't seem to like it, though--perhaps he had -some poor relation who let lodgings." - -"Tony!" cried her sister. "You really mustn't go about alone. You're -much too innocent." - -"My darling child," wailed her mother, "my dove unsoiled by knowledge!" - -Tony looked surprised, but her answer was checked by the sound of -footsteps in the hall. - -"Girls, there's your father!" cried Lady Strife. "Now, Tony, you will -have to explain. And remember I hate a scene--it clogs my soul with -matter." - -"Right-O, mother!" and Tony hurried out into the passage. - -Here she managed to get through the "scene," such as it was. Sir Gambier -Strife was a man to whom time and place were all-important, and as the -time of Term was inevitably linked with the place of School, he felt -justly indignant at the separation of the two. "Whooping-cough! People -were such milksops nowadays. When he was a boy the sooner one got -whooping-cough the more one's relations were pleased. How old was Tony? -Sixteen? Then the sooner she had whooping-cough the better." - -This, however, was all said in rather a low voice, Sir Gambier realising -as much as any one the importance of not clogging his wife's soul with -matter. - -By the time he entered the drawing-room, he was talking of other things. - -"I was down at Wilderwick this evening--you know that place at the -bottom of Wilderwick hill, where the Furlongers live?" - -"Yes. Sparrow Hall." - -"That's it. Well, this evening there was a flag tied to the chimney. I -asked old Carter what it was all about, and he said they're expecting -the other brother home--the one that's been in gaol for the last three -years." - -"It's a long time since I've seen the Furlongers," said Awdrey, "they've -been lying low for the last few months, and I don't think I've ever seen -the one who's been in gaol." - -"I saw him three years ago, just after we came here. He was swaggering -about the Kent end of their land with his gun. He won't do much -swaggering there in future. By Jove! it must have hit 'em hard to sell -that property to old Lowe." - -"They've only got a poky little farm now. But, father, do tell us what -he's like, that youngest Furlonger--he sounds interesting." - -"Oh, he wasn't much to look at--a great strong fellow, for ever showing -his teeth. But I've been told he's got brains, plenty of 'em, wouldn't -have landed himself in prison if he hadn't." - -"When is he coming out?" - -"They were expecting him this evening, I believe. Hullo! what's the -matter?" - -"Oh, it's suddenly struck me," cried Awdrey. "Perhaps he was Tony's -man." - -"Tony's man!--what d'you mean?" - -Awdrey poured forth the story of her sister's adventure. "She said he -was an awful-looking man, and goodness knows where he'd have landed her -if the other man hadn't turned up and scared him away. I'm sure he must -have been Furlonger, it isn't likely there'd be two scoundrels like that -about." - -Sir Gambier turned red. - -"I won't have you girls mixed up in such things." - -"She didn't want to be mixed up in it," interrupted Awdrey, "it wasn't -her fault. But it's lucky the other man turned up. You don't know who he -was, I suppose, Tony?" - -"He said his name was Smith." - -"That doesn't help us much. But, by Jove! how Furlonger must hate him!" - -"We don't know he was Furlonger." - -"He must have been; it's just the thing a ticket-of-leave convict would -do--try to victimise an innocent-looking girl." - -"I'm not innocent-looking!" cried Tony indignantly. - -"Well, I shan't argue the point with you. You must have looked pretty -green for him to have said what he did. By the way, what was Furlonger -locked up for, father?" - -"Something to do with the Wickham Rubber Companies. Farming wasn't good -enough for him, so he took to finance--with the result that the whole -family was ruined; had to sell all their land, except a few inches round -the house--and the young man got three years in gaol into the bargain." - -"Wickham got ten--so Furlonger can't be as bad as Wickham." - -"He's a rotten scoundrel, I tell you. Diddled thousands of respectable -people out of their money. Then put up the most brazen defence--said -that at the beginning he had no idea of the unsoundness of the scheme; -'at the beginning,' mark you--confesses quite coolly that he knew it was -a fraud before the end." - -"Well, I think it rather sporting of him," said Awdrey. - -"He may have a beautiful soul," murmured Lady Strife; "why do people -always look at actions rather than motives? Poor young Furlonger may -have sinned more divinely than many pray. It's motive that makes all the -difference. Motive may make the robbing of a till a far finer action -than the endowing of a church." - -"Tut, tut, my dear! What a thought to put into the girls' heads. -Besides, it isn't as if the only thing against the Furlongers was that -one of 'em's been in gaol. They're the most disreputable lot I ever met, -don't care twopence for any one's good opinion." - -"They're quite well connected really, aren't they?" said Awdrey. - -"Yes, that's the worst of it. Their mother was a daughter of Lord -Woodshire's, and I believe their father had rather a fine place near -Chichester. But he went to the bad--ahem! shocking story--died in -Paris--tut, tut!--the children were left to shift for themselves, and -bought Sparrow Hall with their mother's money--all the Chichester estate -was chucked away by old Furlonger." - -"I think they sound rather interesting. It's a pity the youngest should -have embarked on the white slave traffic." - -"White slave traffic!--hush, my dear. Young girls don't talk about such -things." - -"No--they get mixed up in 'em instead. Tony, I hope you'll meet your Mr. -Smith again." - -"He's not my Mr. Smith," said Tony hotly. - -"Oh, it's impossible to talk to any one rationally to-night! Father's -started on 'young girls,' and Tony's trying to make out she was born -yesterday." She seized her sister by the arm. "Come upstairs and dress -for dinner." - -Tony was only too glad to escape, and they went up to widely different -rooms. - -Awdrey's was furnished with a telling combination of coquetry and sport. -Silver toilet articles and embroidered cushions contrasted with her -hunting-crop over the mantelpiece, her tennis racket on the wall. What -struck one most, however, was the number of men's photographs which -crowded the place. From frames of every conceivable fabric they stared -with bold, glassy eyes. Awdrey smiled at them lovingly, as they woke -either memory or emotion. She had once said that the male sex was -roughly divisible into two groups--G.P.'s and H.P.'s--Grand Passions and -Hideous Pasts. Tony gave them a scornful glance as she passed the door. - -Her own room was austere and white. An indefinable coolness haunted its -empty corners and clear spaces. There were no photographs, as she had -not yet unpacked the photographs of her girl friends which usually -adorned the mantelpiece. There were only three pictures--a Memling -Madonna, Holbein's Portrait of a Young Woman, and Watts' Sir Galahad, -beloved of schoolgirls. - -Tony sat down on the bed and began to unplait her hair. - -"What a fool Awdrey is," she murmured to herself, "always thinking of -love, and all that rot." - - - - -CHAPTER III - -IN THE RAIN - - -From Nigel's bed as well as Janey's one could see woods, and in summer -he had often lain listening to the night-jar in them--that mysterious -whirring, dull and restless, as if ghosts were spinning. - -That night all was windless silence, and there was no motion in the dark -patch of window-view, except the flashing of the stars. Towards morning -a delicious sense of cold stole over Nigel's sleep. Soft airs seemed to -be baffing him, rippling round him, and there seemed to be water--water -and wind. Then suddenly a bell rang in his brain. The dream collapsed, -pulverised. He sprang up in bed, then scrambled out--then opened his -eyes, to see himself still surrounded by his dream. - -It was five o'clock, and the Parkhurst bell had rung in his head just as -it had rung at that hour for hundreds of mornings. But he was not at -Parkhurst, he was still in his dream--water and wind. Against the -horizon stretched a long dim line of woods, and above them the sky was -lucent with the first hope of dawn. Into the fields splashed a gentle -rain, and in at his window blew the west wind, soft, damp and cold. - -For the first time Nigel realised that he was home, and that he was -free. - -Yesterday had all been so strange, he had not had time to think of -things. After years of confinement and discipline it had been a -terrifying ordeal to walk through the crowded streets of a town and take -a long train journey, involving several changes. He had wished then that -he had allowed Len to come and meet him at Parkhurst--the dull fears -that had made him insist on his brother coming no nearer than East -Grinstead had seemed nothing to this terror of carts and horses and -motors and trams and trains, these constantly shifting faces and -strident voices, this hurry, this disorder, this horrible respect of -people who called him "Sir," and said "I beg your pardon," if they fell -over his big feet. - -When he came to Sparrow Hall, it had been worse still--not at first, but -afterwards, when Janet and Leonard had said all those terrible things to -him, and hurt him so. They had hurt him, and he had frightened them, and -it had all been miserable. - -But this morning everything had changed. He no longer felt terrified of -his independence or of what his brother and sister might say. His heart -was warm and happy--his lungs were full of the sweet moist morning air. - -He crossed the room. It was ecstasy to feel that no one was watching -him, that there was no ugly observation hole in the door. Why, privacy -was as sweet as independence, and not nearly so startling. He pulled off -his sleeping-suit, and stood naked by the bed. For the first time in -three years he felt the pride of his young manhood, the splendour of his -body. The lust of life frothed up in his heart. The dawn, his strong -bare limbs, the rain, plunged him into a rapture of thanksgiving. He was -home, and he was free. - -He knelt down by the window, the rain spattering softly on him, and -stared out at the woods--Ashplats Wood and Hackenden Wood and Summer -Wood, with Swites Wood in the west. The woods, the dear brown -wind-rocked woods!--he would walk in them that morning, there was no one -to hinder him--he was home, and he was free among the woods. - -He rose lightly, and began to dress. He put on old rough clothes that he -had worn before he went to prison. They had been old then, and now they -were positively disreputable, for Janet had folded them away carelessly, -so that they had creased and frayed. But he loved them, they seemed even -now to smell of the cows he had milked and the soft loam of the fields. - -He ran downstairs whistling--some music-hall song that had been popular -three years ago, but was long forgotten now. To Leonard in the yard and -Janet in the dairy he sounded like a cheerful ghost. They both thought -of going to meet him, but both at last decided to leave him alone. - -The house was full of the delicious smell of rain, and the wind crooned -through it tenderly, rattling the doors and windows, and fluttering the -untidy rags of wall-paper that here and there hung loose on the walls. -Nigel went into the kitchen, where the fire was burning. He sat down by -it and warmed his hands, though he was not really cold. He had not seen -a fire for three years. - -Then suddenly he noticed something in the corner--it was his -fiddle-case, wrapped in green baize. Nigel had always passed for -something of a musician, and during a few stormy years spent in London -with his father had been fairly well taught. Farming and scheming had -never made him forget his fiddle, though occasionally it had lain for -weeks as it lay now, wrapped up in dusty cloths in the corner. - -He stooped down and took it out of its many covers. It was a fairly good -instrument of modern make, best in its low tones. All the strings were -broken except the G, but he found a coil of the D in the case, and -screwed it on. By means of harmonics and the seventh position he could -manage fairly well with two strings. - -It seemed a terribly long time since he had felt a fiddle under his -chin, and sniffed its peculiar smell of sweet varnished wood and rosin. -He lifted his arm slowly, and the bow dropped on the strings. It was -scratchy, and he felt horribly stiff, but in course of time matters -improved a little, and Len and Janey, together in the Dutch barn, smiled -at each other as the strains of Handel's "Largo" drifted out to them. - -"He'll feel better now," said Leonard. - -Nigel forgot the "Largo" in the middle, and started "O Caro Nome," from -Rigoletto. His taste in music had always been the despair of his -teachers. He had never seemed able to appreciate the modern school, or, -indeed, the more advanced of the ancients. He had a desperate fondness -for Balfe and Donizetti, for the most sugary moods of Verdi and Gounod. -He revelled in high notes, trills and tremolo--"O Caro Nome" and "I -dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls" appealed to a side of him which was -definitely sentimental. He stood there by the window, swaying -sentimentally from side to side, shaking shrill colorature from his -violin, regardless of the squeaking of a nearly rosinless bow. - -What appealed to Nigel was never the technique of a composition, but its -emotional quality. Music was to him not so much sound as feeling--he did -not value a piece for its own intrinsic beauty, but for the emotions it -was able to call forth. As he played that morning whole cycles of -experience passed before him. All the old dreams that for three years -had lain dead in his violin now revived--but a new quality was added to -them, a soft twang of sorrow. Before his imprisonment his dreams had -been winged and shod with fire, wild things compounded of desire and -endeavour, tender only in their background of the seasons' moods, rain -and sunshine and wind and shadows and stars. But to-day longing took in -them the place of endeavour, and all their desire was for forgetfulness. -Stars and rain were in them still, but the stars and rain of the new -heavens and the new earth which suffering had created--the rain which is -tears, and the stars which spring from the dumb desire of sorrow -brooding over the formless deep of its own immensity--"Let there be -light." And there was light--one or two faint dream-like constellations, -burning over and reflected in the swirling waters of the abyss.... A -great wind passed over the face of the waters, and parted them, and out -of them rose a little island for a man to stand upon--so the dry land -came out of the water. And the suffering man can stand on the island, -where there is just room for his feet, and he can see the stars above -him--and when he is too weary to lift his head he sees them reflected in -the surging waters beneath.... - -Nigel dropped his violin, and looked out with dream-filled eyes at the -fields, seen dimly through the rain-drops dripping from the eaves. In -the front garden stood a little girl--a little dirty girl with a -milk-can. - -"Hullo!" said Nigel. - -He felt an unaccountable desire to talk to this child; not because he -liked her particularly--indeed, she was rather an unattractive -object--but because he realised suddenly that he was very fond of -children. He had never known it before, never imagined that he cared -about kids; but, whether it was his long exile in prison he could not -tell, he felt quite overwhelmed this morning by his love for them, and -realised that he absolutely must make friends with the highly -unfavourable specimen before him. - -"Hullo!" he repeated. - -The maiden vouchsafed no reply. - -"Have you come for the milk?" he asked conversationally. - -She nodded. Then she pointed to his violin. - -"Did the noise come out of that box?" - -"Yes--would you like to hear it again?" - -"No." - -He was not to be daunted. - -"Come in, and I'll show you a pussy." - -"Is there a pussy in that box?" - -"No--but there's a beauty in the chair by the fire." - -Nigel dived out of the window, and caught her up bodily. Her clothes -smelt strongly of milk and garden mould, not an altogether pleasing -combination. But for some reason or other he felt delighted, and carried -her in triumph round the kitchen before he introduced her to a large -placid-looking cat. - -"Don' like it." - -This was humiliating, but Nigel persevered. - -"Have some of this--" and he offered her a spoonful of jam out of the -pot on the table. - -The little girl sniffed it with the air of a connoisseur. - -"Don' like it." - -"Well, try this--" plunging the same spoon into the sugar basin. - -"Don' like it." - -Fortunately at that moment Janey came in. - -"Nigel, what on earth are you doing?--Hullo, Ivy!" - -She looked surprised at the scowling infant perched on her brother's -shoulder. - -"She's come for the milk, and I'm giving her some breakfast." - -"Wan'er go 'ome!" shrieked Ivy. - -Nigel looked so mortified that Janey could hardly help laughing--till -suddenly she realised that there was something rather pathetic about it -all. Nigel had never used to struggle for the good-will of dirty -children. - -"She'd better come with me," she said, "and I'll give her the milk. Her -mother won't like it if she's kept." - -Ivy alighted with huge satisfaction on the floor, and left the room with -Janey, after throwing a bit of box-lid at the cat. - -Janey came back in a few minutes. - -"Like to help me get the breakfast, old man?" she asked cheerily. - -Nigel was pacing up and down the kitchen. - -"What a dear little thing she is!" he said. - -"Who? Ivy? I think she's a regular little toad. How funny you are, -Nigel!" - - -Half-an-hour later the three Furlongers were at breakfast. Nigel had -always been subject to moods just like a girl, and sometimes his changes -from heights to depths had been irritating. But to-day his brother and -sister saw the advantages of such a nature. The two boys fooled together -all through the meal, and Janet watched them, smiling. Nigel had found -his tongue to some purpose. Strange to say, he was more than ready to -talk of his prison experiences, though, as he had already hinted to -Janey, he had two sets of these. One set, typified by his fumigated -clothes, he seemed positively to revel in; the other set he never -mentioned of his free will, though he obviously used to brood over them. - -"Hullo! there's the postman!" cried Janet suddenly. - -She rose to go to the door, but Nigel was nearest it, and sprang out -before her. - -"Morning, Winkworth!" he shouted hilariously. "I'm back again." - -"Glad to see you, Mus' Furlonger," chuckled the postman. "You look in -pretty heart." - -"Never was better in my life," and waving a letter in his hand he swung -back into the kitchen. - -"A letter for Janey!--Janey's the lucky devil"--as he flung it across -the table. - -"I wonder who it's from," said Leonard; "open it, Janey, and see." - -Letters were always an excitement in the Furlonger family--they were few -enough to be that. - -"Know the writing, Janey?" - -Janey turned the letter over. "It's a bill." - -The boys' faces fell. - -"How dull," said Leonard, "and how immoral, Janet!--another of those -ten-guinea hats, I suppose." - -"And you promised us solemnly," said Nigel, "not to buy any more." - -"It's dreadful of me," said Janet. - -The boys glanced at her in surprise--for she looked as if she meant it. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -FATE'S AFTERTHOUGHT - - -Janet did not open her bill till her brothers had gone out to the farm. -Then she tore the envelope. The bill ran-- - - - "JANEY SWEET, - - "Curse it!--I have to go to Brighton on Saturday. It's for my - father, so I daren't object, in case he should ask too many - questions. But I must see you, dear one--it's nearly a month since - we met, and I'm dying for the sight of you and the touch of you. - Can't you come to-day? I'm sure you can get away for an hour or - two--your brothers must not take you from me. I'll be waiting in - Furnace Wood, in the old place down by the hedge, at five. Come to - me, Janey sweet. I dreamed of you last night--dreamed of you with - your hands full of flowers. - - "Your lover, - "QUENTIN." - - -Janey stuffed the letter into her pocket. - -"It's dreadful of me," she repeated, in the same tone as she had said it -to the boys. Those poor boys! How innocently and trustfully they had -swallowed her lie--it was like deceiving children. - -But she could not tell them--though Nigel's strange new reserve made her -long all the more to be frank and without secret--they would be furious -if they knew her story, now the story of three years. Once she had tried -hinting it to Len, but though he had not half understood her, he had -made his feelings about Quentin Lowe pretty plain, and Janet had been -only too glad to change the subject before the danger line was passed. -Nigel would, of course, side with Leonard. They would look upon her love -as treachery, for though there was no outward breach between the -Furlongers and the Lowes, the former had always suspected the latter of -sharp dealing over the Kent land--old Lowe would never have offered that -absurd price if he had not known that the Furlongers were absolutely -obliged to sell. - -Old Lowe was a retired clergyman who had come with his son to Redpale -Farm, just over the Kentish border. From the first he had cast a longing -eye on the Furlonger acres, which touched his on the Surrey side. A row -of cottages in obvious disrepair and insanitation had given his longing -the necessary smack of righteousness. At that time Nigel was in prison -on remand, and the news soon trickled through the neighbourhood that his -brother and sister were in desperate money difficulties, and would have -to sell most of their land. Lowe at once came forward with what he -considered a fair offer, which the Furlongers, as no one else seemed -inclined to bid, were bound to accept. The negotiations had been carried -on chiefly through a solicitor, but young Lowe had paid two or three -visits to Sparrow Hall. - -Janet would never forget one of these. Leonard was not in that day, but -though she had told Quentin she could decide nothing without her -brother, he had insisted on sitting with her in the kitchen, arguing -some obscure point. She remembered it all--the table between them, the -firelight on the walls, the square of darkness and stars seen through -the uncurtained window, the pipe and rattle of the wind. He had risen to -go, and suddenly she had seen that he was trembling--and before she had -time to be surprised she saw that she was trembling too. They faced each -other for a minute, shaking from head to foot, and dumb. Then they -stooped together swiftly in a burning kiss, their hearts full of -uncontrollable ecstasy and despair. - -It had all been so sudden. She could not remember having felt the -faintest thrill in his presence till that moment. He said the same. When -he had sat down opposite her at the table, she had been merely a woman -with whom he was doing business. It seemed as if fate had brought them -together as an afterthought, and at first Janey believed it could not -last. But it lasted. It had lasted all through those years, in spite of -much wretchedness and a killing need for secrecy on both sides. This -need was more vital for Quentin than for Janey. He was utterly dependent -on his father, who, of course, looked on the Furlongers with righteous -disgust. So for three years meetings had been stolen, letters smuggled, -and happiness snatched out of sudden hours. - -To-day Janet was not sure how she could arrange a meeting. Meetings with -Quentin generally needed the most careful planning, and on this -occasion he had not given her much time. However, she thought, the boys -would very probably go shooting in the early evening, and she could then -run over to Furnace Wood. - -This was what happened. A little manoeuvring sent Nigel and Leonard out -to pot rabbits, and a minute or so later Janey stole from Sparrow Hall, -climbing the gate opposite into the fields of Wilderwick. She did not -wear a hat--she never did--and over her dress was a disreputable old -jacket. She went gaily and innocently to meet her lover in garments many -women would not have swept the floor in. - -It was a long tramp to Furnace Wood. The rain had cleared, but the grass -was wet, and the trees shook down rain-drops and wet leaves. Autumn was -late that year, still in the fiery stage--whole hedges flamed, and -backgrounds were mostly yellow. But everywhere now were the dead leaves, -damp as well as dead. Her feet splashed through them, they caked her -boots, they filled every corner with their smell of sweet rottenness. - -Furnace Wood marked the beginning of the chain of hammer ponds below -Holtye Common. For a long time the fields had been sloping eastward, -till at last they dropped into a tangled valley stretching from Old -Surrey Hall to Sweetwoods Farm. Here was a great stillness and a great -solitude--woods, and thick old orchards, with now and then an oast-house -or a chimney struggling up among them. In this valley lay Redpale Farm, -Clay Farm, and Scarlet Farm, all old, alone, forsaken, beside the -gleaming hammer ponds. - -The waters of the first pond flashed like a shield through the -half-naked branches of Furnace Wood. Janet's quick eyes saw Quentin -standing by the hedge, and she began to run. She splashed over the -drenched field, climbed the hedge with an agility she owed to a total -disregard for her clothes--and crept warm and panting into his arms, as -he stood there among the drifted leaves. - -"Janey," he whispered, kissing her lips and her hair and her wrist wet -with rain, "how I love you ... little Janey sweet." - -It pleased Quentin to call her little, though as a matter of fact she -was considerably taller than he. Quentin was a few years younger than -Janey--delicate-looking, and yet thick-set. His face was pale, though -the features were roughly hewn, and his shoulders were so high as to -give him almost the appearance of a hunchback. In spite of this, he -often struck people as handsome in a strange way--which was due, -perhaps, to a certain nobility in the casting of his face, with its -idealistic mouth, strong nose, and great bright eyes, which seemed to be -burning under his heavy brows. - -"Janey," he continued, "you're beautiful to-day--you're part of the -evening. There's rain on your hair, and on your cheek, so that when I -kiss it I taste rain--you're brown and red, just like the fields, you're -windswept and rumpled like the woods." - -Janey laughed. - -"And your teeth gleam like that white pond through the trees." - -"You should put that into a poem, Quentin," she said, still laughing, -"it sounds funny in prose." - -"Prose! Prose!--as if there could be any prose when you are near!" - -A copper gleam of sunlight came suddenly from under the rim of a leaden -cloud. For a moment it flared on the hedge, making the wet leaves shine. -It gave a metallic look to the evening--instead of sweetening the soaked -landscape it seemed only to make it sadder, with a harsh, reckless -sadness it had not worn in the gloom. Quentin put up his hand and picked -one of the shining sprays, to fasten it in Janey's jacket. Whenever he -saw beautiful things in the hedges, he wanted to give them to Janey. He -never wanted to give her the beautiful things he saw in shops; he did -not, like so many men, stare into shop windows, longing to see her in -those clothes, those jewels, and great hats like the moon. But if ever -he found a sudden splash of bryony in the hedge, or a flush of -bloody-twig, or honeysuckle, or nuts, he wanted to pick them for her. -When it was May he had often met her in Furnace Wood with his arms full -of hawthorn, in June he had brought her dog-roses, in August ripe ears -of barley, in September wild-apple boughs; and now in October he picked -her sprays of red, sodden leaves. There was a little nut on this -spray--he picked it off and cracked it with his teeth, and put the -kernel into her mouth. Then suddenly the sunlight faded, and a soft rush -of gloom swept up the valley of the hammer ponds. - -"Nigel came home last night," said Janet, breaking the silence that had -lasted with the sun. - -"How is he looking?" - -"He's changed, Quentin." - -"It's aged him, of course." - -"That isn't so terrible--we could have endured that, we'd expected it. -The awful thing is that it's made him so childish. Sometimes you'd -really think he was a child, by the way he speaks--and goes on." - -"He'll soon be all right--you'll heal him, Janey." - -"I don't see how I'm going to. The worst thing is that he's so reserved -with me and Len. It isn't that he doesn't talk and tell us things, but I -know he doesn't tell us the things that really matter. Oh, -Quentin"--turning suddenly to him--"I feel such a wretch, having a -secret from the boys when Nigel's like this." - -"You've lost your logic, sweet--or, rather, thank God, you never had -any. Your brother's secrets ought to make you worry less about your -own." - -"You don't understand--it's just the other way round." - -She sighed deeply, and her pain irritated him. - -"You have the power to end it if you like--you're not so badly off as I -am. You can tell your brothers any day you choose--they can't -interfere." - -"Of course not--but it would make them miserable. They'd be miserable -enough at the idea of my marrying any one, and leaving them--and as for -marrying you----" - -"Oh, I know they hate me," broke in Quentin. "And they despise me -because I haven't got their health and muscle. They hate me for what I -have got--their land; and they despise me for what I haven't got--their -muscle." - -Janet's eyes filled. She knew that he was wretchedly jealous of her -brothers, and it hurt her more than anything else. She laid her hand -timidly on his arm. - -"Quentin, I wish you wouldn't feel that way towards the boys. I can't -help loving them." - -"But you love them more than me." - -"I don't, indeed I don't. And you mustn't think they hate you. They've -got their hand against every one, you know, and of course they feel sick -about the Kent lands, there's no denying it. If they knew you loved me, -they might hate you then--they'd be jealous; and if I told them now--oh, -it would be all misery at home!--for them as well as for me. I'd far -rather have my secret--that hurts only me. When we've settled anything -definitely, of course I shall tell them. But we may have to go on like -this for years." - -Quentin groaned. - -"Yes, Janey, that's true--that's the damned truth. You should never have -loved a helpless fool like me, all tied up in paper and strings. Good -Lord! my father will have something to answer for--if there's any one to -answer to for our muddlings in this muddled hell." - -"But you'll win your independence." - -"Yes; if two things happen: if my father dies, which he isn't likely to, -and which, hang it all, I don't want him to--or if I can make enough by -my writing to support two people, which is never done by pessimistic -poets in this world of optimistic prose. I ought to hear from Baker -soon--he's had that manuscript over a month--he's the twenty-eighth man -that's had it. Oh, damn it all, Janey!" - -They were sitting together on a tree-trunk under the hedge, the darkness -creeping up round them. Quentin drew very close to Janey, and clutched -her hand. - -"I'm a beast to go whining to you like this--but it helps me. It's such -a relief to get all my furies off my chest and feel your -sympathy--_feel_ it, Janey, you needn't speak, words seem to nail things -down. Oh, why were you and I born into this muddle and never given a -chance? I've never had a chance--not the shadow of one. All my life I've -suffered that vile plague, dependence, and it's poisoned my blood and -sapped my strength and perverted my reason. My father's to blame for it. -The whole object of his life has been to keep me dependent on him. He's -stinted me of everything--friends, money, education--just to keep me -dependent. He's well off, as you know, but he allows me a miserable -screw many tradesmen would be ashamed to offer their sons. He's made my -bad health an excuse for cutting short my time at college, and for not -bringing me up to any profession. He's in terror lest I should strike -out a line for myself. He wants me to live my whole life on a -negation--'thou shalt not,' he says. He doesn't say it because he's my -father, but because he's a clergyman. It's that which has spoiled him, -because it hasn't let him go to life for his principles. Christianity -never does. I hate Christianity, Janey--Christianity's a piece of -Semitic bargaining--all Semitic religions are commercial, but -Christianity has been so far Europeanised that it offers its rewards not -for what you do but for what you don't do. I once wrote a poem on the -Christian heaven--God and all the angels and curly-locked saints yawning -their heads off because they're all so tired of doing nothing, and at -last all falling asleep together. Ugh! One reason I love you, Janey, is -that you're so beautifully pagan--just like the country here. The -country's all pagan at bottom, and that's why every one loves the -country, even the Christians." - -Janey smiled, and pressed his hand. She knew Quentin liked "talking," so -she let him "talk," though she troubled very little about the questions -that were so vital to him. She knew it relieved him to pour into her -ears the torrent of abuse which was always roaring against its sluices, -and had no other outlet--unless it found its way into publishers' -offices and damaged his poor chances there. - -"It's Christianity which makes my father so damned clever in keeping me -dependent," continued Lowe. "He's got so used to tying souls up in paper -and string that he can make a neat parcel even of a bulky, bulgy soul -like mine. You know how we admire shop people for the neat way they tie -up parcels--we couldn't do it. Well, my father's a kind of celestial -shop-keeper, and I'm the goods he's sending out--payment on delivery. -Oh, damn!" - -Janey's hand went up to his face and stroked it. Quentin's furies always -struck her as infinitely pathetic. - -"It'll be all right, dear," she whispered. "I'm sure it will. You're -bound to get free." - -He seized her hand and held it fiercely in his while he stared into her -eyes. - -"Janey--I sometimes wonder if I'll ever get free--or if I do, whether -I'll find freedom the ecstasy I imagine it. Perhaps freedom, like -everything else, is a mirage, a snare, a disillusion. Yesterday I was -reading the _Epic of Gilgamesh_-- - - - Gilgamesh, why dost thou wander around? - Life which thou seekest thou canst not find. - - -That's the horrible truth--nothing that we seek shall we ever find, -unless it's been found over and over again already. And then there's -love, Janey, that's one of the things we never find, though we seek it -till our tears are blood. I've written a poem about that, comparing love -to the sea--to salt water, rather, for of course hundreds of poets have -compared love to the sea. Love is like the salt water that splashes -round the poor sailor dying of thirst--he drinks it in his desperation, -and the more he drinks the fiercer becomes his thirst, and still he -drinks on in despair and hope, till at last he ends in madness--that's -love. Janey, that's love." - -He stooped suddenly forward, till his head was buried in her knees. - -"That's my love, sweet, sweet thing--my love for you. It never sates, -it always burns, it tortures, it maddens. There is no rest, no rest in -my love--it wakes me from my sleep to long for you--it is a hunger that -gnaws through all my meals--it is a darkness that may be felt, a light -too blinding to be borne...." - -His shoulders shook, and tears rushed scalding into Janet's eyes. With -one hand she stroked and tangled his coarse hair, the other he had -seized and laid under his cheek--and she felt one burning tear upon it. -Her whole heart seemed to open itself to her lover in tender pity, and -not only to him, but to all men--men, with their fierceness in desire -and gentleness in satiety, with their terrible sudden temptations, their -weakness and nobleness, their beasthood and their godhead. Men struck -her--had always struck her--as intensely pathetic; and now Quentin and -his love wrung her breast with tears. Before that storm of hungry love -she bowed her head in mute homage--she worshipped him as he lay there on -her knees. - -He lifted himself suddenly. Darkness was creeping fast into the woods, -with little shivering gasps. - -"Janey, before you go, there's something I want particularly to ask you. -Next Tuesday week my father's going to London for the day. He won't be -back till late--I want you to come to Redpale when he's gone." - -"Redpale ... but there are the servants, Quentin." - -"They're all right. I'll send the girls over to Grinstead in the -afternoon; there'll only be the men about the farm, and they needn't -trouble us." - -"But...." - -"Oh, there's your brothers, of course," he cried harshly; "can't you get -away from them for one afternoon?" - -"Yes, I can.... I don't know why I said 'But.'" - -"You mustn't say 'But'--Janey, do you realise that you and I have never -had a meal together?" - -"No." - -"We must have a meal together--I want to see you eat--I want to drink -with you." - -"Very well, I'll come. I'll get over early in the afternoon.... Now I -must say good-bye." - -"When I see you next I may have heard from Baker. Then we shall know our -fate." - -"Our fate...?" - -"Yes, for if Baker can't take my stuff, no one else will, and my last -chance is gone." - -"Don't think of such a thing, dear." - -"No, I won't. I'll think of you, dream of you--whenever you are so -gracious as to let me sleep." - -He stood up, and drew her head down to his shoulder, holding it there -with trembling hands, while his lips sought her face. Her mouth was -against his sleeve, and she kissed it while he kissed her cheek and -neck. For a full minute they stood together thus, and when they drew -apart, the first star hung a timid candle above the burnt-out fires of -the west. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE HERO - - -October dropped from red to brown in a sudden night of rain, and the -Three Counties began to draw over themselves their fallow cloaks of -sleep. In every view the ploughed fields spread brown and wet and empty, -some with a ruddy touch of Kentish clay, others with a white gleam of -Surrey chalk. - -Nigel flung himself into the farmyard toil, and complained because it -was too scanty. Their ten acres of grass and orchard, with three or four -cows and some poultry, did not give nearly enough work, he thought, to -two able-bodied men. He remembered the days when the acres of Sparrow -Hall had rolled through marsh and coppice into Kent--when fifteen -sweet-mouthed cows had gathered at the gates at milking-time, and golden -rye from their high fields had gone in their waggon to Honey Mill. He -was miserably aware that he had no one but himself to blame for this, -though his brother and sister never reproached him. He had been -impatient of the slow bounties of the fields, he had plunged into quick, -adventurous dealings; for a few months he had brought wealth, hurry and -excitement into his life--then had come poverty, and the ageless -monotony of prison. - -When he looked round on their reduced estate it was not so much -humiliation that ate into his heart as a sense of treachery. He had -betrayed the country. Impatient of its slow, honest ways, he had sought -others, crooked, swift, defiled. He had turned renegade to the quiet -fields round his home, and entered a rival camp of reckless strivings -and meanness. This had been his sin, and he was being punished for it -still. The punishment of the State for his sin against the State was -over ... but the punishment for his sin against his home, the country, -and himself was still being meted out to him by all three. - -The high spirits that had seized him on that first rainy morning of his -freedom often came and snatched him up again, but they always dropped -him back into a depression that was almost horror. He had moments of -crazy gaiety and uproariousness, of sheer animal delight in his bodily -freedom; but behind them all lurked the consciousness that he was still -in prison. He had been sentenced for life. He was shut up in some dreary -place, away from the farm, away from Len and Janey. He might work on the -farm the whole day, and fool with his brother and sister the whole -evening, but he knew none the less that he was shut up away from them -all. - -During this time he had peculiar dreams. He often fell asleep full of -fury and despair, but his dreams were always of sunlit spaces, children -and flowers. Again and again in them appeared the little girl Ivy--not -dirty and cross, but lovely and fresh and winsome, smiling and -beckoning. It seemed as if behind all the horrors and fogs of his life -something divine and innocent was calling--at times it was comfort and -peace and healing to him, at others it was the chief of his torments. - - -The Furlongers had always lived aloofly at Sparrow Hall--scorned, even -before their downfall, by their own class, they had nevertheless not -sought comrades in the classes beneath them. They had always sufficed -one another, and had not cared for the distractions of over-the-fence -gossip or the public-house. - -However, since his return from Parkhurst, Nigel had realised a certain -tendency on the part of labourers and small farmers to seek him out and -claim equal terms. This was not merely due to the consciousness of his -degradation, the delight of patronising the proud Furlonger--its chief -motive was a strange sort of deference. Socially, his crime had reduced -him to their level, but morally it had given him an exaltation which had -never been his before. He now belonged to that world of which they -caught rare dazzling glimpses in their Sunday papers. He was only a rank -below Crippen in their hero-worship, and when they met him in the -village they stared at him in much the same way as they stared at the -murderer's photograph in _The People_. - -At first Nigel hung back from them, sick and confused with shame, but as -the days went by, the emptiness of his life beat him into conciliation. -Humiliated to the dust, he longed for some sort of regard, however -spurious, just as a starving man will eat dung. His brother and sister -gave him love and kindness in plenty, but they were much too practical -in their emotions any longer to give him deference. Before he went to -prison he had been, though the youngest, the leader of the family--his -stronger brain, his quicker wits had made him the captain of their -exploits. But now his brain and wits were discredited. Len and Janey did -not despise him, they were not ashamed of him before men--but he had -forfeited his position in the household. They no longer looked upon him -as their superior, he was just the younger brother. At first he had -scarcely noticed this--everything had been strange, and he had let slip -former realities. But as the days went by, and Parkhurst became more and -more of a horrible and suggestive parenthesis, he was able to recall the -old ways and see how things had changed. He made no complaint, but his -spirit was chafed, and sought crazily for balms. - -"Come, don't be stand-offish, Mus' Furlonger," said the shepherd of -Little Cow Farm, who, meeting him outside the Bells at Lingfield, had -suggested a drink. - -"No, you're a better man than me now--aren't you?" said Nigel, showing -his teeth. - -"I wurn't hinting such, Mus' Furlonger--only t'other chaps in there do -want to hear about the prison." - -"Why?" - -"Oh, it's always interesting to hear about prison--specially from chaps -wot has bin there. We git a lot about 'em in _Lloyd's_ and _The People_, -but there's nothing like a fust-hand story--surelye!" - -Nigel laughed crudely. - -"And it's a treat to meet a real convict--none of your petty larceny and -misdemeanour fellers...." - -"Well, here's greatness thrust upon me," said Furlonger, and swaggered -into the bar. - -The fuggy atmosphere affected him in much the same way as the smell of -ether and dressings affects a man entering a hospital--the spirit of the -place, assisted by crude outward manifestations, cowed him and made him -its slave. - -"Name it," said the shepherd. - -"Porter." - -It was three years since he had had a really stiff drink. He had never -cared for liquor, indeed he had always been a man of singularly -temperate life, a spare eater, a water drinker. But to-day a sudden -desire consumed him--not only to drink, but to be drunken. He remembered -the one occasion which he had been drunk. It was the day he had known -definitely of the collapse of Wickham's scheme, and his own inevitable -disgrace. He had sat in the kitchen at Sparrow Hall, drinking brandy -till his head had fallen forward on the table and his legs trailed back -behind his chair. Afterwards, there had been a shameful waking, but he -could never forget how peace had crept in some mysterious physical way -up his spine, from the base of his neck to his brain, with a soft -tingling--it had been purely physical at first, then it had passed on to -mental dulling and dimming. - -To-day, as the frothy brown porter ran down his throat, he felt that -gracious tingling, that creeping upwards of relief. He looked round the -bar. It was full of labouring men and smallholders, who stared at him -with round eyes that were curious and would be ingratiating--they wanted -to know him, because in their opinion he was better worth knowing than -before he went to gaol. - -"This is Mus' Breame of Gulledge," said the Little Cow shepherd. "How -are you, Mus' Breame?--This is Mus' Furlonger of Sparrow Hall." - -Mus' Breame held out a dark and hairy hand. Nigel's lips were twitching. -Somehow he felt much more humiliated by the beery approval of these men -than by the cold looks of their betters. However, he gave his short, dry -laugh, and shook hands. - -"And here's Mus' Dunk of Golden Compasses, and Mus' Boorer of Kenthouse -Hatch--this here is old Adam Harmer, as has been cowman at Langerish -this sixty year." - -Nigel had seen all the men before, and had once sold a calf to Adam -Harmer, but he realised that now he was meeting them on new terms. - -"I wur wunst in the lock-up meself for a week," drawled old Harmer. -"'Twas summat to do wud poaching, but so long ago as I forget 'xactly -wot. Surelye!" - -"Reckon prisons have changed unaccountable since your day," said Dunk, -throwing a glance at Nigel, as if to show that an opening had been -tactfully made for him. But Harmer clung to speech. - -"Reckon they have: surelye. In my days you'd hemmed liddle o' whitewash -and all that--it wur starve and straw and bugs in my day, and two or -three fellers together in a cell, either larkin' or murderin' each -other." - -The Little Cow shepherd looked uneasily at Furlonger. - -"Yus--and the constables too, so different. Not near so haughty as they -is now, but comfortable chaps, as 'ud let yer see yer gal fur a drink, -and walk out o' the plaace fur half a sovereign." - -The conversation was obviously getting into the wrong hands. The only -person who looked interested was Nigel. - -"Reckon all that's changed now," hastily put in Dunk--"they say now as -gaol's lik a hotel--but not so free and easy, I take it, not so free and -easy. Name it, Mus' Furlonger--see your glass is empty." - -This time Nigel named a brandy. - -"Reckon you can't order wot you lik fur dinner--and got to do your -little bit o' work. But the gaol-buildings themselves, they're just lik -hotels, they're palisses--handsomer than a workhouse." - -"They're damned stinking hells," said Nigel--the brandy had loosed his -tongue. - -A murmur of approval ran through the bar. The great Furlonger had at -last been drawn into the conversation. He sat at a small table, his -fingers round his empty glass--about half a dozen voices begged him to -"name it." - -At first he hesitated. He was now a hero--for the first time for -years--and yet it was a hero-worship he could not swallow sober. But he -wanted it. He wanted to be looked up to, for a change--to be deferred -to, and exalted; and if he could not stand it sober, he must get drunk, -that was all. He named another brandy. - -The patrons of the bar were drawing round him. The barmaid was patting -and pulling at her hair; even "Charley," the seedy nondescript that -haunts all bars, and, unsalaried and ignored, brings the dirty glasses -to the counter from the outlying tables--even "Charley" came forward -with a deprecating grin and heel-taps of stout. - -Nigel had gulped down the brandy, and, without exactly knowing why, had -sprung to his feet. - -"Give us a speech, Mus' Furlonger!" cried Boorer of the Kenthouse. "Tell -us about gaol, and why it's damned and stinking." - -"Have something to cool you fust," suggested Breame. - -Nigel shook his head. He was in that convenient state when a man is -sober enough to know he is drunk. - -"Gaol's damned and stinking," he began, glaring sharply round him, "in -the same way that this bar is damned and stinking--because it's full of -men. But in gaol they're divided into two classes, top scoundrels and -bottom scoundrels. The top scoundrels are the warders, with their eye at -your door, and their hand inside your coat--in case you've got baccy." - -A murmur of sympathy ran through his listeners, who had been a little -taken aback by his opening phrases. - -"Baccy's one of the things you aren't allowed. There's lots of -others--drink, and girls, and your own body and soul--the body your -mother gave you, and the soul God gave you," he finished sententiously -with a hiccup. - -Some one thrust another glass into his hand, and he gulped it down. It -burnt his throat. - -"I once had a body, and I once had a soul, but they aren't mine any -longer now. They belong to the state--hic--they're number -seventy-six--that's me who's speaking to you--number seventy-six--no -other name for three yearsh ... go and see the p'lice every -month--convict seventy-six ... made me no better'n a child--hic--what'er -you to do with a man when he's got too clever for you?--turn him into a -child--a crying child--a damn crying child--like me----" - -And Furlonger burst into tears. - -The bar looked disconcerted. Nigel stood leaning up against the table, -sobbing and hiccuping. The barmaid offered him her handkerchief, which -was strongly scented, and edged with lace. Breame muttered--"We're -unaccountable sorry, Mus' Furlonger," and Dunk suggested another brandy. - -Suddenly Nigel flung round on them, his lips shrinking from his teeth, -his eyes blazing. - -"Damn you!" he cried thickly--"damn you all--you cheap cads--gaping and -cringing and pumping--feeding on my misery and my shame--hic ... look at -you all grinning ... you're pleased because I'm in hell. You'll go home -and gas about me, and say 'poor fellow'--blast you!--I'm better than -anything in _Lloyd's_ or the _News of the World_--hic--let me go--you're -dirt, all of you--let me go----" - -He plunged forward, and elbowed his way through them to the door. He was -very unsteady, and crashed into the doorpost, bruising his forehead. But -at last he was out in the sun-spattered afternoon--with a cool breeze -bringing the scent of rain from the forest, and little clouds flying -low. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THICK WOODS - - -When Len and Janey came in from the yard that evening they found Nigel -in the kitchen, sitting at the table scowling. His hair was damp on the -temples, and his cheeks were flushed. - -"Hullo, old man!" cried Janey, "when did you come in?" - -He did not answer, but supplemented his scowl by a grin. It was -characteristic of him to scowl and grin at the same time. - -Len went up to his brother, and looked at him closely and rather -sternly. - -"What have you been up to?" - -Still Nigel did not speak. Then suddenly he dropped his head, rolling it -on his arms. - -"Is he drunk?" whispered Janey. - -"What d'you think?" - -Len tried to pull up his brother's head, but Nigel growled and shook him -off. - -"Nigel!" cried Janey. - -He made no answer. - -She tried to slip her hand under his forehead, and lift it. - -"Nigel, what have you been doing?" - -He snarled something at her, and she remembered the other awful occasion -when she had seen her brother drunk. - -"Leave him alone, and he'll come to himself," said Len. "It's natural -for him to get drunk--he's the sort." - -"Oh, no, he isn't!--Nigel, come upstairs with me, and let me put -something cool on your head." - -"Damn you!" growled the boy, "leave me alone." - -"Oh, Nigel, don't hate me--I'm not blaming you--I think I know why you -got drunk, and I----" - -Her sentence was never finished. With a yell of fury he sprang to his -feet, knocking over his chair, and seized her in a grip of iron. - -"Hold your tongue, you ----!" - -"Oh!" cried Janet. - -Leonard vaulted across the table, grasped his brother's collar, and -struck him on the side of the head. Nigel loosed his grip of Janet, and -turned to close with Len, who was, however, much the better man of the -two. He forced Nigel down on the table, and proceeded to punish him with -all his might. - -"Apologise, you brute ... beg her pardon on your knees," he shouted. - -Nigel did not speak--his lips were tight shut, a thin red streak in the -whiteness of his face. - -"Len ... stop!--you'll kill him!" cried Janet. She stood petrified, -trembling from head to foot. Never in her whole life had she witnessed -such a scene in the Furlonger family. The boys were fighting. She had -seen them spar before, but never anything like this. And Nigel's -drunkenness ... and his words to her ... a sickly, stifling horror crept -up her throat and nearly choked her. - -"Len--stop!--he's had enough." - -"Not till he apologises--apologise, you damn brute!" - -Nigel's teeth were set. He struggled mechanically, Len had hold of his -right wrist, and his left hand was bent under him. Suddenly, however, he -managed to wrench them both free--the next minute he seized his -brother's throat. For a moment or two they struggled desperately, -Leonard half strangled, and in the end Nigel rolled off the table to the -floor, where both young men lay together. - -Leonard was the first to rise. - -"Good Lord, Janey," he said weakly. - -"Nigel--he's dead." - -"Not he!" - -They both knelt down, and raised him a little. Blood began to run out of -the corner of his mouth. - -"You've killed him!" cried Janey. - -"No--he's only bitten his tongue. Look"--lifting the corner of his -brother's lip--"his teeth are locked like a vice." - -"Oh, all this has been too horrible!" - -"Run and fetch some water--we'll bring him to in a minute." - -She filled a jug at the tap, and together they bathed Nigel's forehead -and neck. Len's rage had entirely cooled, and he handled his unconscious -brother almost tenderly. - -At last the boy opened his eyes. To the surprise of both Len and Janet -his first glance was quite mild. - -"Oh ..." he said weakly. - -Then suddenly remembrance seemed to come. He shook off his brother's -hand, scowled at Janey, and struggled to his feet. - -"I'm going to bed," he muttered, leaning unsteadily against the table. - -"You mustn't stand," said Janet, trying to soothe him, "come and sit -here for a minute, and then Len shall help you up to bed." - -"I don't want Len, damn him!" - -He staggered towards the door. - -"Len--go after him." - -"Not if I know it." - -"He'll never get upstairs without you." - -"He's much better alone." - -They heard Nigel slipping and stumbling on the stairs. Once he fell with -a crash, but at last he reached the top. Luckily his door was open, and -he lurched in. The next minute they heard a thud and a creak as he flung -himself on the bed. - - -He woke at dawn from what seemed an eternity of sleep--not one of those -swift, deep sleeps which we are unconscious of till we find their -healing touch on our lids at waking, but a series of sleeps, heavy, yet -tossed, continually broken by grey glimmers of consciousness, by sudden -heats and pains, quick stabs of memory, blind spaces of -forgetfulness--that feverish, aching forgetfulness, which is memory in -its acutest form. - -He sat up in bed, his temples throbbing, his face flushed and damp. He -pushed his hair back from his forehead, and stared out at the morning -with eyes that burned. He fully remembered all that had happened, -without such reminders as his headache, his sickness, and the rumpled -clothes in which he had slept all night. His brain throbbed to the point -of torture. Sharp cuts of pain tore through it, hideous revisualisations -seemed to scorch whole surfaces of it with sudden flames. Facts hammered -at it with monotonous mercilessness. - -He fell back on the pillow, and for some minutes lay quite still, -staring out at the woods. There they lay in their straight brown line, -those woods. He could almost hear the rock of the wind in them, creeping -to him over the stillness of the fields. They seemed to whisper -peace--peace to his throbbing pulses and burning skin and aching body -and breaking heart. All his universe was shattered, except those quiet -external things--the woods and fields round his home. They stood -unchanged through all his turmoils, they responded only to their own -remote influences--the warming and cooling of winds, the waxing and -waning of the sun's heat, the frostiness of vapours. He might rage, -despair, scream, and curse in them without changing the colour of one -leaf. - -He longed stupidly for tears, but those easy tears of his humiliation -would not come. He felt that if he thought of Len and Janey he might -cry. But he would not think of them, though in his heart was an infinite -tenderness. Len and Janey were like the woods, they did not change--then -suddenly he realised that nothing had changed, it was only he. He had -changed, and could not fit in with his old environment. Curse it! Damn -it! Where could he find peace? - -Perhaps he had formally renounced peace on that day he plunged his -hands into the pitchy mess of money-making. He had known peace before -then--soft dreams that flew to him from the lattices of dawn. He -remembered days when he had lain in the corner of some field, among the -rustling hay-grass, his soul lost in the eternities of peace within it. -But now--he had renounced peace. He had turned from pure things to -defiled--and he had sharpened his brain, whetted it on artificialities. -For the man with brains there is seldom peace, but an eternal questing. -The man without brains suffers only the problem of "what?" It is the man -with brains who has to face the seven-times hotter problem of "why?" - -Why was a man, alone of all creatures, allowed to be at war with his -environment--a prey to changes that were independent of, and unable to -reproduce themselves in, the world around him? Why was a man the -meeting-place of god and brute, the battle-ground of the two with their -unending wars?--and so made that if one should triumph and drive out the -other, the vanquished, whether god or brute, took away part of his -manhood with him, and peace was won only at the price of -incompleteness?... Why was consummation only a prelude to -destruction?--the lustreless horns of the daylight moon seemed to be -telling him that it waxed full only to wane. Why was a man given desires -that were gratified only at their own expense? Why did his young blood -call--call into the fire and dark--with only the fire and dark to answer -it? - -It was in this turmoil of "whys" that Nigel's longing for the woods -became desperate. He raised himself on his elbow, and stared out at -them--Swites Wood, Summer Wood, and the woods of Ashplats and Hackenden. -He found himself dreaming of their narrow, soaking paths, of their brown -undergrowth, and carpet of dead leaves--he seemed to see the long rows -of ash, with here and there a yellow leaf fluttering on a bough. He -would go to the woods, he would find rest in their silent thickness. - -He sprang out of bed and across the room, with what seemed one movement -of his big, graceful body. He lifted his water-jug from the floor, and -drank deeply--then he washed himself and put on fresh clothes. He felt -clean and cool, and the mere physical sensation gave him new strength -and dignity. He went quietly downstairs. Len was up and in the yard, -Janet was in the kitchen--but neither saw him as he stole out of the -house and up the lane. - -He left it soon after passing Wilderwick, and plunged into a field. The -grass was covered with frost-crystals, beginning to melt in the lemon -glare of the sun. It was a strange, yellow dawn, dream-like, pathetic--a -little wind fluttered with it from the east, and smote the hedges into -ghostly rustlings. Nigel crept through the pasture as if he feared to -wake some one asleep, and entered the first of his woods. - -The rim was touched with flame--one or two fiery maples blazed out of -the hedge against a background of yellow. Creeping through those golds -and scarlets into the sober browns was symbolic. He went a few steps, -then flung himself down upon the leaves. On the top they were dry, -underneath he felt and smelt their gracious dampness. - -The fires in his heart seemed to die. He felt bruises where Len had -struck him, but they galled him no longer; the half-forgotten peace and -liberty of other days was beginning to drift like a shower into his -breast. Why could he not live always in the woods, instead of among -people whom he hurt and who hurt him, though he loved them and they -loved him? There was no love in the woods--love had passed out of them -in September, leaving them very quiet, very peaceful, in a great brown -hush of sleep. Love was what hurt in life--love and brains; take away -these and you take away suffering. Oh, if love and thought could go -together out of his life as they had gone out of the woods--and leave -him in a great brown hush of sleep. - -For nearly an hour he lay in the brake, hidden by golden tangles of -bracken and stiff clumps of tansy. He had begun to drowse, and capture -rags of happiness in dreams, when suddenly he heard a rustling in the -bushes. Hang it all! He could not have peace, even in the woods. The -rustling came nearer, and he heard the panting of a dog--with a mumbled -oath he sat up in the fern. - -"Oh!..." - -Nigel's head and shoulders were not a reassuring sight to confront one -suddenly on a lonely woodland walk, and though Tony did not scream her -voice was full of alarm. At first Nigel did not recognise her, she -stirred up in him merely impersonal feelings of annoyance, but the next -moment he seemed to see her face in a glow of lamplight on East -Grinstead platform. This was the lone girl-kid he had befriended--and -thought no more of since then. - -"I beg your pardon," he said hastily, scrambling to his feet, "I'm -afraid I startled you." - -"Oh, no"--she looked awkward and embarrassed. "You're Mr. Smith, aren't -you?" - -Nigel stared at her in some bewilderment, then suddenly remembered -another of the half-forgotten incidents of that night. - -"Yes--I'm Smith," he said slowly. "I--I hope you got home all right in -the taxi." - -"Quite all right, thank you--and mother said I ought to be very grateful -to you for taking such care of me." - -There was something about this school-girl, who evidently took him for a -man of her own class and position, which filled him with an infinite -pain--a pain that was half a wistful pleasure. She stood before him in -the path, a slim, unripe promise of womanhood, her long hair plaited -simply on her back, her face glowing with health, her eyes bright and -shy. He felt unfit, uncouth--and yet she did not seem to see anything -strange in his appearance, sudden as it had been. He realised that now -at last he was face to face with a human being between whom and him the -barrier of his disgrace did not stand. This child did not exalt him for -his evil story, neither did she despise him--his crime simply did not -exist. Its hideousness was not tricked out with tinsel and scarlet, as -by the cads in the bar--it was just invisible, put away. Strange words -thrilled faintly into his mind--"the remission of sins." - -"I'm glad you came to me at East Grinstead," said Tony, a little -embarrassed by the long pause. "You see, mother never got my postcard, -so no wonder there wasn't any one to meet me." - -"I'm glad I was any use." He spoke stiffly, in a mortal fear lest, for -some reason unspecified, her attitude of fragrant ignorance should -collapse. - -"Do you live near here?" she asked naïvely. - -He hesitated. "Not very." - -"I do--quite near. I think I must be going home now." - -She held out her hand to say good-bye, when suddenly a shrill wailing -scream rose from the field outside the wood. - -"Oh!" cried Tony. - -They both turned and listened, their hands still clasped. The next -minute it came again--shrill, frantic. - -"What is it?" asked the girl, shuddering, "it sounds just like a baby." - -"I think it's a rabbit--perhaps it's caught in a trap." - -He left hold of her hand and looked over the hedge. The next minute he -sprang into it, forcing his way through, while she stared after him with -troubled eyes. - -"Yes, it's a rabbit," he cried thickly, "caught in one of those spring -traps, poor little devil!" - -She scrambled after him into the field. - -"Oh, let it out!--poor little thing!--oh, save it!" - -But he was already struggling with the trap, and she saw blood on his -hands where the teeth had caught them. - -"I'll do it, never fear," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "Can you hold -the poor little chap?--He'll hurt himself worse than ever if he -struggles so." - -She grasped the soft mass of fur, damp and draggled with its agony, -while Nigel tried to prise open the steel jaws. - -"There!" - -The rabbit bounded out of the trap, but the next minute fell down -struggling. - -"It's leg's broken," cried Nigel. "Poor little beast!--what a damned -infernal shame!" - -He picked it up tenderly. - -"Hadn't you better destroy it?" asked Tony, gulping her tears. - -"I think perhaps I had--look the other way." - -She moved off a few steps, and heard nothing till Nigel said, "Poor -little beggar!" - -He came up to her, holding the dead rabbit by its ears. - -"That's all you're good for when you've been in a trap--to die. Being in -a trap breaks parts of you that can never be mended. It's always kind to -kill broken things." - -He stood hesitating a moment, then suddenly he flushed awkwardly, -pulled off his cap and turned away. - -Tony stared after him. She saw him go with bowed head across the field. -Half way he dropped the rabbit, but he did not stop. He walked straight -to the fence, and climbed over it into the lane. - -An impulse seized her--she could not account for it, but she suddenly -turned to follow him. She wanted to thank him again, perhaps--to ask him -something, she scarcely knew what. But he was gone. There was only the -dead rabbit, lying still warm in the grass. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -OVER THE GATES OF PARADISE - - -The next day was the day Janet had promised to have tea with Quentin at -Redpale Farm. She had prepared for it carefully, telling her brothers -she was going shopping in East Grinstead, and would not be home till -late. - -As soon as dinner was over, she slipped upstairs to dress. She was in a -state of fever, and for the first time thought of her clothes. She had -never troubled about them when she went to meet Quentin in the woods, -but now she was going to his house--a thrill ran through her; she had -never in her life been inside Redpale Farm, but now she would see the -room where Quentin sat and thought of her in the long, dark -evenings--which he had told her of so often--when the stars crawled -through veils of wrack, and the wind piped down the valley of the hammer -ponds. - -Memories of his few pronouncements on clothes rose to guide her. He -liked her to come to him as a fragment of the day on which he waited. -To-day was a brown day, hiding under rags of mist from a pale, -sun-washed sky--so she put on a brown dress, of a long-past fashion, and -mended in places, but beautiful in clinging folds about her--and in her -breast she pinned the last yellow rose of the garden. - -"Good-bye, Janey," called Len from the orchard. - -"Good-bye," sang out Nigel. - -She waved her hand to them, not trusting herself to speak. - -As soon as she was out of sight, she climbed into the fields, and walked -across them to Old Surrey Hall. Here were the tangled borders of -Kent--she plunged through a hedge of elder and crack-willow, and was in -the next county. Quentin always used to say that there was a difference -between the three counties, even where they touched in this corner. -Surrey was park-like, and more sophisticated than the other two; one had -wide, green spaces and dotted trees. Sussex was moor-like, covered with -wild patches and pines, hilly and bare; Kent was untidy, tangled and -lush, full of small, twisting lanes, weighted orchards and huddled -farms. Janet passed the flat gable-end of Anstiel, buried in the -thickets of its garden, and came out on the Gated Road. This wound down -the valley of the hammer ponds to Redpale, Scarlets and Clay. It was -seldom used, as there were gates every few hundred yards to prevent the -cattle from straying, and in winter the hammer ponds sometimes -overflowed. - -Redpale was the first of the valley farms, and stood in a reed-grown -hollow beside a wood. It was an old house, with a carnival of reds in -its huge, sloping roof. Janet stole quickly through the yard and came up -the garden to the door. It was opened before she reached it, and Quentin -seized her hands. - -"You've come at last--I've been watching for you." - -He dragged her into the passage, banged the door, and kissed her in the -dark. - -"Come into the study," he cried eagerly. "Come and hallow me a hundred -lonely evenings in one hour." - -He took her into a low, book-lined room, where a fire was burning. A -chair was pulled up to the fire, and over it was spread a gorgeous -Eastern rug. - -"You're to sit there, Janey. I prepared that rug for you--it has your -tintings, your browns and whites and reds. Sit down, and I'll sit at -your feet." - -She sat down, but before he did so, he fetched a jug of chrysanthemums, -and put them on the table beside her. - -"Now you're posed, Janey sweet--posed for me to gaze at and worship. You -don't know how often I've dreamed of you in that chair, with old oak at -your back, flowers at your elbow, and firelight in your eyes. One night -I really thought I saw you there, and I fell at your knees--as I do -now--and took your hand--as I do now. But it was only a dream, and I sat -on in my own chair and watched our two fetches sitting there before me, -you in the chair and I at your feet." - -He kissed her hands repeatedly, and his poor, hot kisses seemed to drain -love and pity in a torrent from her heart. - -"Quentin, I'm so glad I came. Is this where you sit in the evenings? -Now I shall know how to imagine you when I think of you after supper." - -"'When you think of me after supper'--you quaint woman! how funnily you -speak!" - -He laughed, and hid his face in her knees. But the next moment his head -shot up tragically. - -"I've bad news for you, dear." - -"Oh, what is it?..." - -"Baker has returned my poems." - -"Oh!..." - -"Yes--there they are." - -He pointed to the grate, where one or two fragments of charred paper -showed among the cinders. - -She bowed her face over his. - -"I thought you were happy when I came." - -"Happy! of course I was happy _when you came_. Janey, if you come to me -on my death-bed, I'll be happy--if you come to me in hell, I'll sing for -joy." - -"Did Baker write about the poems?" - -"No--only a damned printed slip; he doesn't think 'em worth a letter. -It's all over with me, Janey--with us both. I'll never be good for -anything--I'm a rotter, a waster, a Spring Poet. We're both done -for--our love isn't any more use." - -"Can't you hope, dear?" - -"Can you?" - -She began to cry. - -She had always fought hard against tears when she was with Quentin, but -this afternoon her disappointment was too bitter. She realised the sour -facts to which hope and trust had long blinded her--that Quentin would -never win his independence, and therefore that marriage with him was -impossible till his father's death. She saw how much she had -unconsciously relied on Baker's acceptance of the poems, their last -hope. Quentin's words had scattered a crowd of little delicate dreams, -scarcely realised while she entertained them, known only as they fled -like angels from the door. After those three weary years of waiting she -had dreamed of being his at last--his wife, his housemate--no longer -meeting him in the dark corners of woods, but his before the world, -honoured and acknowledged. Now that dream was shattered--the three weary -years would become four weary years, and the four, five--and on and on -to six and seven. The woods would still rustle with their stealthy -footsteps, their tongues still burn with lies ... she covered her face, -and wept bitterly--with all the impassioned weakness of the strong. - -"Oh, I'm so ashamed...." - -"Why?" - -"Because I'm crying. But, Quentin, I feel broken, somehow. Our love's so -great, and we're parted by such little things." - -"Janey, Janey...." - -She sobbed more dryly now--anguish was stiffening her throat. - -"Must we wait all those years?" he whispered. - -"What else can we do?" - -He whispered again. "Must we wait all those years?" - -She lifted her face, understanding him suddenly. - -"Quentin, you and I must do nothing to--degrade our love." - -"But it's degraded already--it's thwarted, and all thwarted things are -degraded. If we fling aside our fears and triumph over circumstances, -then it will be exalted, not degraded." - -She did not speak. - -"Janey," he continued, his voice muffled in her hands, which he held -against his mouth. "You and I have been locked out of Paradise--but we -can climb over the gates." - -She was still silent. Quentin had never spoken to her so openly -before--after earlier disappointments he had sometimes hinted what he -now expressed; but his love had never made her tremble; violent as it -was, it was reverent. - -"Janey ... will you climb over the gates of Paradise with me?" - -"No, dear." - -"Why?" - -"Because our love's not that sort." - -"It's the sort that waits and is trampled on." - -"It's strong enough to wait." - -"How white your face is, Janey!--you speak brave words, but you're -trembling." - -"Yes, I'm trembling." - -"Because you're not speaking the truth; you're lying--in the face of -Love. You see plainly that if you and I wait till we can marry, we shall -wait for ever. Our only chance is to take matters into our own hands, -and let circumstances and opportunities be damned. You make out that -you're denying Love for its own good--that's another lie. 'Wait,' you -say, because you're afraid. Why, what have we been doing all these years -but 'wait'?--wait, wait; wait till our hearts are sick and our hopes are -dust. If we wait any longer our love will die--and then will you find -much comfort in the thought that we have 'waited'?" - -"But there's the boys, Quentin." - -An oath burst from young Lowe. - -"The boys! the boys!--that's your war-cry, Janey. I'm nearly sick of it -now. And how appropriate!--your brothers are such models of good -behaviour, ain't they?" - -"Don't, Quentin--it's for that very reason...." - -"Yes," he said bitterly, "I remember how your reasons go--the boys have -their secrets, so you must be without one; the boys have made a pretty -general hash of law and order, so you must be a kind of Sunday-school -ma'am. Really, Janet!" - -"You don't understand what it is to live with people who think you ever -so much better than you really are--you have to keep it up somehow." - -"But surely you don't think you'll be committing a crime by giving our -love a chance. You can't be such a prude as to stickle for a ceremony--a -few lines scribbled, a few words muttered." - -"It wouldn't be so bad if that were all. But it's no good trying to -prove that you're simply offering me marriage with the ceremony left -out. In some cases that might be true, but not in ours. You can't give -the name of marriage to a few hurried meetings, all secrecy and lies. -Things are bad enough as they are, without adding--that mockery." - -Quentin sighed. - -"You're an extraordinary woman, Janey; you breathe the pure spirit of -recklessness and paganism--and then suddenly you give vent to feelings -that would become Hesba Stretton. You're a moralist at bottom--every -woman is. There's no use looking for the Greek in a woman--they're all -Semitic at heart, every one of 'em. You'll begin to quote the Ten -Commandments in a minute." - -Janey said nothing, and for some time they did not move. The wind rushed -up to the farmhouse, blustered round it, and sighed away. The sunshine -began to slant on the woods, tarnishing their western rims. - -Then suddenly the kettle began to sing. They both lifted their heads as -they heard it--it reminded them of the meal they were to have together. - -"Janey, will you make tea?" - -She stood up quickly as his arms fell from her waist. This sudden, most -domestic, diversion was a relief. She began to prepare the meal, and he -crouched by the fire and watched her. - -"You shall pour out tea, love--then we'll do things in the grand style, -and smash the tea-pot." - -While she waited for the tea to draw she came over to the mirror above -the fireplace and began to arrange her hair. The firelight played on her -as she stood there, her arms lifted, her head thrown back, half her face -in shadow, half flushed in the glow. - -"Janey, you are the symbol of Love--all light and darkness and -disarray. It's cruel of you to stand like that--it's profane. For you're -not Love, you're morality." - -"It's funny, Quentin, but you never can understand my reasons for what I -do--it's because they're not poetic enough, I suppose." - -"You don't seem to have any reasons at all--only a moral sense." - -He rose and went to sit at the table, resting his chin on his hands. She -came behind him and bent over him. - -"Dear one, I've seen such a lot of unhappy love that I've made up my -mind ours shall be different.... I refuse you because I love you too -much." - -Quentin sighed impatiently. - -"If I did what you ask," continued Janey tremulously, "our love would -die." - -"Nonsense!--how dare you say such things! Why should it die?" - -"I--I don't know--but I'm sure it would. Oh, Quentin, I know you don't -understand my reasons, because I really haven't given them to you -properly. They're things I feel more than things I know." - -She went and sat down opposite him, and began to pour out tea. - -"Let's talk of something that isn't love." - -He laughed. - -"Let's breathe something that isn't air. Everything's love--if we talked -about flowers, or books, or animals, or stars, we should be talking -about love. Without love even our daily newspapers wouldn't appear." - -"Then don't let's talk of anything--let's hold our tongues." - -"Very well, Janey." - -He smiled at the simplicity of the woman who thought she could silence -love by holding her tongue. - -For some minutes they sat opposite each other, swallowing scalding tea, -crumbling cake upon their plates. Their first meal together, on which -they had both set such store, had become an ordeal of mistrust and -silence. The sunset was now ruddy on the woods, and the sky became full -of little burning wisps of cloud, like brands flung out of the west. -They hurried over the sky, and dropped behind a grass-grown hill in the -east, crowding after one another, kindling from flame to scarlet, from -scarlet to crimson. The wind came and fluttered again round the -house--darkness began to drop into the room. Outside, a rainbow of -colours gleamed and flashed in the sunset, as it struck the hammer ponds -and the wet flowers of the garden--but the window looked east, and there -was nothing but the firelight to wrestle with the shadows that crept -from the corners towards the table. Soon the table with the food on it -became mysterious, gloomed with shadows and half-lights--then the -dimness crept up the bodies of Quentin and Janey, leaving only their -white faces staring at each other. They had given up even the pretence -to eat--their eyes were burning, and yet washed in tears. - -Suddenly Janey sprang to her feet. - -"I must go." - -"Go--why, it's barely five." - -"But I must." - -He rose hurriedly. For a moment they faced each other over the -unfinished meal, then Quentin came towards her. - -"You're frightened, Janey?" - -"Yes." - -"Of me?" - -"No." - -"But of yourself...." - -She began to tremble violently, and suddenly his arms were round her, -her sobs shaking them both. - -"My little Janey...." - -"Quentin, Quentin ... be merciful ... I'm in your power." - -He looked down into her drowning eyes, at the pure outlines of her face, -seen palely through the dusk. - -"I'm in your power," she repeated vaguely. - -"Janey ... Janey," he whispered, "you're in my power ... but I'm in -Love's. Love is stronger than either of us--and Love says 'Over the -gates!--over the gates!'" - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -BRAMBLETYE - - -The next few days were to Nigel like a piece of steep hill to a -cart-horse. There was only one comfort--he felt no temptation to seek -oblivion again as he had sought it at the Bells. He turned surlily from -the men he had looked to for alleviation--he knew they could not give -it. All they could do was to cover his wounds with septic rags--they had -no oil and wine for him. - -So he put down his head, seeing nothing but the little patch of ground -over which he moved, planted his feet firmly, and pulled from the -shoulder. Perhaps it was because he saw such a little of his way that he -did not notice Janey was doing pretty much the same thing--with the -difference that she fretted more, like a horse with a bearing-rein, -which cannot pull from the collar. Side by side they were plunging up -the hill of difficulty--and yet neither saw how the other strained. - -Len vaguely realised that something was wrong with Janet, but he put it -down to her anxiety about Nigel. An atmosphere of reticence and -misunderstanding had settled on Sparrow Hall, frankness had gone and -effects were put down to the wrong causes. Len tried to help Janey by -helping Nigel. It struck him that his brother would be happier if he had -less pottering work to do. So he took upon himself all the monotonous -details of the yard, and asked Nigel to see to the larger matters, -which involved much tramping in the country round. - -One day towards the end of October, Len asked him to attend an auction -at Forest Row. He went by train, but as the auction ended rather earlier -than he expected, he decided to walk home. - -It was a pale afternoon, smelling of rain. The sky was covered with soft -mackerel clouds, dappled with light, and the distances were mysterious -and tender. Nigel had a special love for distances--for three years he -had not been able to look further than a wall some thirty yards off, -except when he lifted his eyes to that one far view prison could not rob -him of, the sky. Now the stretch of distant fields, the blur of distant -woods, the gleam of distant windows in distant farms, even the distant -gape of Oxted chalk-pit among the Surrey hills, filled him with an -ineffable sense of quiet and liberty. - -For this reason he walked home along the high road, ignoring the dusty -cars--so that he might look on either side of him into distances, the -shaded sleep of meadows in the east, the pine-bound brows of the Forest -in the west. - -He did not feel that resentment at Nature's indifference to human moods, -which is a man's right and a token of his lordship. On the contrary, the -beauty and happiness of the background to his travail gave him a vague -sense of ultimate justice. The peace of the country against the restless -misery of human life reminded him of those early Italian pictures of the -Crucifixion--in which, behind all the hideous mediæval realism of the -subject, lies a tranquil background of vineyard and cypress, lazily -shining waters, dream cities on the hills. That was Life--a crucifixion -against a background of green fields. - -He was roused from his meditations by being nearly knocked down by a big -car. He sprang into the hedge, and cursed with his mouth full of dust. -The dust drifted, and he saw some one else crouching in the hedge not a -hundred feet away. It was a girl with her bicycle--somehow he felt no -surprise when he saw that it was Tony Strife, the "girl-kid," again. - -She was obviously in difficulties. One of her tyres was off, and her -repairing outfit lay scattered by the roadside. She did not see him, but -stooped over her work with a hot face. Nigel did not think of greeting -her--though their last encounter had impressed him far more than the -first; she had even come once or twice into his dreams, standing with -little Ivy among fields of daisies, in that golden radiance which shines -only in sleep. - -He was passing, when suddenly she lifted her head, and recognition at -once filled her eyes-- - -"Oh, Mr. Smith!..." - -Her voice had in it both relief and entreaty. He stopped at once. - -"What's happened?" - -"I've punctured my tyre--and I can't mend it." - -He knelt down beside her, and searched among the litter on the road. - -"Why, you haven't got any rubber!" - -"That's just it. I haven't used my bicycle for so long that I never -thought of looking to see if everything was there. What shall I do?" - -"Let me wheel it for you to a shop." - -"There's nowhere nearer than Forest Row, and that's three miles away." - -"Are you in a great hurry?" - -"Yes--terrible. The others have gone up to Fairwarp in the car for a -picnic. There wasn't enough room for us all, so Awdrey and I were to -bicycle; then she said her skirt was too tight, so they squeezed her in, -and I bicycled alone. It's quite close really, but I had this puncture, -and they all passed me in the car, and never saw me, they were going so -fast. I don't know how I can possibly be at Fairwarp in time." - -"No--nor do I. We can't mend your tyre without the stuff, and the -nearest shop is two miles from here." - -"I'll have to go home, that's all. They'll be awfully sick about it--for -I've got the nicest cakes on my carrier." - -Nigel laughed. - -"Then perhaps you have the advantage, after all. Just think--you can eat -them all yourself!" - -"They're too many for one person. I say, won't you have some?" - -"That would be a shame." - -"Oh no--do have some. I hate eating alone--and I'm awfully hungry." - -She began to unstrap the parcel from her carrier. - -"This is a dusty place for a picnic," said Nigel, "let's go down the -lane to Brambletye, and eat them there." - -The idea and the words came almost together. He did not pause to think -how funny it was that he should suddenly want to go for a picnic with a -school-girl of sixteen. It seemed quite natural, somehow. However, he -could not help being a little dismayed at his own boldness. This girl -would freeze up at once if by any chance he betrayed who he really was. -As for her people--but the thought of their scandalised faces was an -incitement rather than otherwise. - -"Where's Brambletye?" asked Tony. - -"Don't you know it?--it's the ruin at the bottom of that lane. You must -have passed it often." - -"I've never been down the lane--only along the road in the car." - -"And you live so near! Why, I've often been to Brambletye, and I live -much further away than you." - -"Where do you live?" - -This was a settler, to which Nigel had laid himself open by his -enthusiasm. He decided to face the situation boldly. - -"I live over in Surrey--at a place called Fan's Court." - -"Fan's Court," she repeated vaguely. "I don't think I've heard of it." - -"Oh, it's a long way from you--beyond Blindly Heath--and only a little -place. I'm not very well off, you know." - -She glanced at his shabby clothes, and felt embarrassed, for she saw -that he had noticed the glance. - -He picked up the litter from the roadside, and began to wheel her -bicycle down the hill. - -"I say," she breathed softly, "this is an adventure." - -So it was--for both, in very different ways. For her it was an incursion -into lawlessness. Her father was tremendously particular, even her girl -friends had to pass the censor before intimacy was allowed, and as for -men--why, she had never really known a man in her life, and here she -was, picnicing with one her parents had never seen! Nigel was in exactly -the opposite position--he was adventuring into law and respectability. -He was with a girl, a school-girl, of the upper middle classes, to whom -he was simply a rather poverty-stricken country gentleman--to whom his -disgrace was unknown, who admitted him to her society on equal terms, -ignorant of the barriers that divided them. He looked down at her as she -walked by his side, her soft hair freckled with light, her eyes bright -with her thrills--and a faint glow came into his cheeks, a faint flutter -to his pulses, nothing fierce or mighty, but a great quiet surge that -seemed to pass over him like the sea, and leave him stranded in -simplicity. - -They walked down the steep lane which led from the road, and wound for -some yards at the back of Brasses Wood. Here in a hollow stood the shell -of a ruined manor, flanked by a moat. Two ivy-smothered towers rose side -by side, crowned by strange, pointed caps of stone; the walls were -lumped with ivy, grown to an enormous density and stoutness. The place -looked deserted. There was a small water-mill behind it, and a farm, but -no one was about. - -Nigel wheeled Tony's bicycle in at the dismantled door. The roof was -gone, and all the upper floors--the sky looked down freely at the grass -hillocks which filled the inside of the ruins. There were one or two -small rooms still partly ceiled, and these were full of farm implements -and mangolds. - -A tremulous peace brooded over Brambletye. Birds twittered in the ivy, -the tall, capped turrets were outlined against a sky that flushed -faintly in the heart of its grey, as the sunset crept up it from the -hills. Both Nigel and Tony were silent for a moment, standing there in -the peace. - -"Fancy my never having been here before," said the girl at last. "How -ripping it is!" - -"I'm glad I brought you." - -"It's strange," continued Tony, as she unfastened the cakes from her -bicycle, "that I haven't seen you before--before I met you at East -Grinstead, I mean." - -"Oh, I've been away, I've not lived at home for some time. You haven't -been here long, have you?" He was anxious to shift the conversation from -dangerous ground. - -"We came to Shovelstrode about three years ago. Before that we lived -near Seaford. I go to school at Seaford, you know." - -School seemed a fairly safe topic. - -"Tell me about your school," he said, as they began to eat the cakes. - -School was Tony's paramount absorption, and no one else ever asked her -to speak of it. Indeed, on the rare occasions when she expanded of her -own accord, her family would silence her with, "Tony, we're sick of that -eternal school of yours--one would think it was the whole world, and -your home just a corner of it." That was in fact the relative positions -of home and school in Tony's mind. School was a world of kindred -spirits, of things that mattered, home was a place of exile, to which -three times a year one was bundled--and ignored. To her delight she -realised that her new friend sympathised with her, and understood her -feelings. - -"You know, Mr. Smith, how beastly it is to be in a place where every one -gets hold of the wrong end of what you say--where you don't seem to fit -in, somehow." - -"I do know--it's--it's exactly the same with me." - -"Don't they like you being at home?" - -"Rather!--they like it better than I deserve. But I don't fit in." - -"And you've nowhere else to go?" - -"I don't want to go anywhere else." - -Tony looked mystified. - -His eyes were shining straight into hers, and they seemed to be asking -her something, pleading, beseeching. She found a strange feeling -invading her, a feeling that had sometimes surged up in her heart when -she saw a dying animal, or a bird fluttering against cage-bars. But this -time there was a new intensity in it, and a stifling sense of pain. She -suddenly put out her hand and laid it on his--then drew it shyly away. - -The sky had flushed to a fiery purple behind the turrets of Brambletye. -A mysterious glow trembled on the ivy. The birds were twittering -restlessly, and every now and then a robin uttered his harsh signal -note. Nigel rose to his feet. - -"You mustn't be late home, or your parents will get anxious." - -"We've had such a ripping picnic--better than if I'd gone to Fairwarp." - -"I've been dull company for you, I'm afraid." - -"Oh, no--indeed not! I've so enjoyed talking to you about school." - -Nigel smiled at her. - -"Perhaps we can meet and talk about school another day." - -"Yes--I expect we can. I'm generally alone, you see." - -"Haven't you any friends?" - -"I've heaps at school--but they all seem so far away." - -He was wheeling her bicycle up the lane, and the sun, struggling through -the clouds at last, flung long shadows before them. In summer the lanes -are often ugly, white and bare, but in autumn they share the beauty of -the fields. This lane, delicately slimed with Sussex mud, wound a soft -gleaming brown between the hedges, except where the rain-filled ruts -were crimson with the sky. - -"It's only four miles to Shovelstrode," said Nigel. "I'll wheel your -bicycle to Wilderwick corner--you won't mind going the rest of the way -alone, will you?--it's not more than a hundred yards, and I shall have -to go down Wilderwick hill and make a bolt across country if I'm to be -home in time." - -"I hope I haven't kept you." - -"Oh, no--I've enjoyed every moment of it." - -"So have I. That man Furlonger did me a good turn after all." - -"What do you mean?" he asked sharply. - -"Well, if it hadn't been for him, I'd never have met you." - -"Furlonger...." - -"Yes--he was the man who was bothering me at East Grinstead Station, at -least my people say it must have been. He came out of prison that day, -you know." - -"Oh...." - -"Have you heard of him?" - -"Yes. I--I know him slightly." - -"He's a dreadful man, isn't he?" - -Nigel licked his lips. - -"Yes--he's a rotter. But he--he has his good points--all men have." - -"I don't see how a man like Furlonger can. He seems bad all around. I -wonder you care to know him." - -"I don't care--I can't help it." - -"I suppose you knew him before he went to gaol." - -"Yes--and unluckily I can't drop him now." - -"I should." - -Nigel stared at her, and suddenly felt angry. - -"Why, you hard-hearted little girl?" - -"He's bad all through--father says so." - -"Your father doesn't know him. I do, and I say he has his good points." - -"Are you very fond of him?" - -"No--I'm not." - -"Then why do you stick up for him so? You're quite angry." - -"No--no, I'm not angry. But I hate to hear you speaking so harshly -and--ignorantly." - -"I have my ideals," said Tony, with a primitive attempt at loftiness. "A -woman should have clearly defined ideals on morals and things." - -Nigel could not suppress a smile. - -"Certainly--but it's no good having ideals unless you're able to forgive -the people who don't come up to 'em. Perhaps it isn't their -fault--perhaps it's yours." - -"Mine! What are you talking about? Are you trying to make out that I'm -to blame for a man like Furlonger going to gaol?" - -"No--of course not. But suppose that man Furlonger stood before you now, -and asked you to help him, and be his friend, and give him a hand out of -the mud--what would you do?" - -She was a little taken aback by his eagerness. She hesitated a moment. - -"I'd tell him to go to a clergyman----" - -"Oh!" said Nigel blankly. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -SOME PEOPLE ARE HAPPY--IN DIFFERENT WAYS - - -Tony Strife reached Shovelstrode in a state of reckless and sublime -uncertainty. She was quite uncertain as to whether she meant to confess -or not. Precedent urged her to do so. Whenever she did something of -which she was not sure her parents would approve, it was part of her -code to confess it. Quite possibly her people would not blame her, they -might even be grateful to Mr. Smith, as they had been on a former -occasion. On the other hand, they might shake their heads at the picnic -part of the business. Who was Mr. Smith, that he should go picnicing -with their daughter?--and she would not be so confident in answering as -she had been before. - -During their short interview on East Grinstead platform it had not been -possible to take more than a superficial view of him, either with eyes -or mind; but the close contemplation at Brambletye had impressed her -with the conviction that he was "rather queer." He evidently did not -belong to their set; not because he was poor--they knew several people -who were poor--but because of a certain alien quality she could not -define. It was not, either, because he was not a "gentleman," though she -had her occasional doubts of that, alternating with savage contempt for -them. It was because his manner, his look, his behaviour, had all been -utterly different from what she was used to, or had met at -Shovelstrode. She felt that if her parents were to question her -searchingly, her answers would be unsatisfactory, and she would not be -allowed to meet him again, as he had suggested. And she wanted to meet -him again; he had interested her, he had attracted her by that very -"queerness" with which he had occasionally repelled her. She wanted to -tell him more about her school, to have more of his strange confidences, -hear more from him about Furlonger, see again that hunted look in his -eyes. Only one of her memories of him was tender--that was when his -infinite suffering had called to her out of his eyes, and she had -answered it in a sudden new and divine surge of pain. She caught her -breath sharply as she went into the house. - -Yes--she had decided at last--she would keep her secret--her first of -any importance. She would not risk interference with what looked like a -glowing adventure kindled to brighten her exile. Besides, there was -another consideration. If Awdrey were to hear of it, she would at once -begin to weave one of her silly romances--make out Mr. Smith was in -love. Ugh! Tony's shoulders shrugged high in disdain. - -It would be quite easy to give an account of her afternoon which did not -include her adventure. She would tell how her tyre had punctured, how -she had tried in vain to mend it, and had at last come home on foot. Her -concealment did not afflict her, as she had at first imagined. On the -contrary, it gave her a strange, new feeling of importance and -independence. For the first time a certain warmth and colour crept into -her thoughts, a certain pride invaded the shy dignity of her step. - -That night she dreamed that she had gone to meet Mr. Smith at -Brambletye. She saw the two capped turrets against a background of -shimmering light. Mr. Smith took her hand and looked into her eyes in -that strange, troubled way which called up as before an answering pain. -He said something she could not remember when she woke. Then suddenly a -dark shape seemed to rush between them and whirl them apart. She cried -out, and Mr. Smith seemed to be answering her from a great distance: -"Don't be frightened--it's only Furlonger--it's only Furlonger." But the -fear grew upon her, the darkness wrapt her round, and, struggling in the -darkness, she awoke. - -All that day she wondered if she would meet him. She prowled round -Shovelstrode with her dog, ignoring an invitation from Awdrey to "come -for a stroll, and hear the latest about Captain le Bourbourg." She was -used to being alone during her holidays. It was her habit to walk with -Prince in the little twisting lanes round her home. She never went far, -but she used to spend long hours in the fields, gathering wild flowers -and leaves for her collection, or making Prince go racing in the grass. -A rather forlorn little figure, she had gone through the days -unconscious of her forlornness. But to-day she felt it--because she was -expecting some one who did not come. She did not meet him in any of -those thick-rutted lanes, nor in Swites Wood, nor on the borders of -Holtye Common where she went for blackberries. - -She began to wonder if he would ever come, or if her glimpse of a world -beyond the strait boundaries of her life had been but a flash--a sudden -haze of gold in the ruins of Brambletye. She felt her loneliness, the -blank of having no one to speak to about school, the strange tickling -interest of confidences outside her experience. That night as she knelt -by the bed and watched the moon behind the pines, she added to her -prayers a stiff petition that she might "meet Mr. Smith again." - -Tony's belief in prayer was quite mechanical, and when the next day she -saw her shabby friend on a stile at the top of Wilderwick hill, she in -no wise connected the sight with those few uncomfortable moments on her -knees. - -"Good morning," she said simply; "I'm so glad to see you." - -Nigel smiled at her. At first she had wondered a little whether she -liked his smile--to-day she definitely decided that she did. - -"I hoped we'd meet again," he said. - -"So did I," answered the virginal candour of sixteen. - -"You don't think me queer, then?" - -"Ye-es. But I like it." - -"Could we be friends?" - -"Yes--rather!" - -He held out his hand. He was smiling--but suddenly as her hand took his, -she saw the old wretched look creep into his eyes, together with -something else that puzzled her. Were those tears? Did men ever cry? -She found herself feeling frightened and vexed. - -Nigel crimsoned with shame, and the fire of his anger licked up the -tears of his weakness. The next moment he was looking at her with dry -eyes--and, strange to say, from that day his childish fits of weeping -troubled him less. - -He and Tony turned almost mechanically down the narrow grass lane -leading past Old Surrey Hall to the woods of Cowsanish. They did not -speak much at first--indeed, a kind of restraint seemed established -between them. Nigel wondered more than ever what had made him seek her -out--this naïve, shy, rather limited little girl. All yesterday he had -been struggling with a desperate need of her. He could not understand -why he wanted her so; she was not nearly as sympathetic as Len and -Janey, she was not so interesting, even, and yet he wanted her. - -At first he had thought it was her ignorance of his past life which made -her presence such refreshment--the blessed fact that with her he had a -clean slate to write over. After all, though Len and Janey had forgiven, -they could not forget--for them his muddled sum was only crossed out, -not wiped clean. With Tony he could start afresh from the beginning, not -merely where his miserable blunder ended. And yet this was not all that -drew him to her. He felt deep down in his heart a subtler, more -compelling attraction. What brought him to Tony was a development of the -same feeling that had made him catch up the unlovely Ivy in his arms and -find her sweet. It was a fragment of that strange, new part of him, -which had been born in prison, and frightened Len and Janey--the child. - -He could not remember that before his dark years he had felt -particularly young for his age, or cared for young society; but now his -heart seemed full of irrepressible torrents of youth. He wanted to be -with boys and girls, to hear their shouts, to share their laughter, to -join in their games--not as a "grown-up," but as one of themselves. Why -did every one expect him to have grown old in prison? Sorrow does not -always make old, it often makes young. It sends a man back pleading to -the forgotten days of his youth, struggling to recapture them once more, -and bring their carelessness into his awful care. - -To-day he lost his troubles in finding grasses and leaves for Tony's -collection. After a time her constraint wore off. She chattered to him -about school friends, lessons and games, daring adventures and desperate -scrapes. That day he found such a mood more sweet to him than any -glimpse of pity or understanding she could have shown. He might want her -compassion--the woman in her--sometimes, but only transiently; what he -wanted most was the child in her, for it answered the sorrow-born child -crying in the darkness of his heart. - -They scrambled in the hedges for bloody-twig and bryony, they gathered -the yellowing hazel, and bunches of strange pods. Nigel was able to tell -her the names of many plants and bushes she had not known before--he was -wonderfully enthusiastic, and loved to hear about the botany walks at -school, and the other collections she had made, which had sometimes won -prizes. - -It was past noon when they turned home. The distances were dim, hazed -with mist and sunshine. A faint wind was stirring in the trees, and now -and then a shower of golden leaves swept into the lane, whirled round, -then fluttered slowly to the grass. Some rain had fallen early in the -morning, and the hedges were still wet, sending up sweet steams of -perfume to the cloud-latticed sky. - -Nigel spoke suddenly. - -"Do your parents know about me?" - -"They know about East Grinstead, but not about Brambletye." - -"Shall you tell them?" - -"No--I don't think I shall. I--I'm not at all sure what they'd say if -they knew all the facts." - -"Nor am I," said Nigel grimly. - -"Besides, I hate telling people about things I really enjoy--it spoils -it all, somehow. You don't think it's wrong, do you?" - -"No--why should it be?" - -"I don't know--only whenever a thing's absolutely heavenly, one can't -help thinking there's something wrong about it." - -"Well, I don't see why there should be anything wrong about this. I'm -lonely, and so are you--why shouldn't we be friends?" - -"I've never done anything like it before. It's funny that father and -mother are so awfully particular, for they don't bother about me much -in other ways. I'm nearly always alone when I'm at Shovelstrode. -Father's busy, and mother's not strong, and Awdrey has so many people to -go about with." - -"And when you come back from a long walk, no one asks you where you've -been, or whom you've met?" - -"I'm not supposed to go for long walks by myself--only to potter round -the estate--and no one ever asks me any questions." - -Her voice was rather pathetic--in contrast to her proud assurance when -she talked about school. - -"We'll meet again," he said impulsively. - -"I hope so--I hope so awfully. To-morrow I've got to go over to -Haxsmiths in the car with Awdrey, but I've nothing else all the rest of -this week. I wanted father to take me to Lingfield races on Saturday, -but he can't." - -"Do you like race-meetings?" - -"I've never been to one in my life. I wanted so much to go this -time--I'm generally at school, you know, and it seemed such a good -chance; but father has to be in Lewes, and Awdrey's spending the -week-end in Brighton--besides, I couldn't go with her alone, one wants a -man." - -"I'll take you if you like." - -"You! Oh!" - -"Shouldn't you like it?" - -"I should love it--but if any one saw us ... father would be furious." - -"No one shall see us--we won't go into any of the enclosures and risk -meeting your friends. Do let me take you." - -Tony flushed with pleasure and fright. This was adventure indeed. - -"I'd love to go. Oh, how ripping!" - - -When Nigel reached home that morning he went straight to find Janey. -There was something vital between him and his sister--each brought the -other the first-fruits of emotion. Janet might find Leonard a tenderer -comforter, more thoughtful, more demonstrative, but there was not -between them that affinity of sorrow there was between her and Nigel. -Not that she ever told him, even hinted, why she suffered, but the mere -glance of his eyes, so childish yet so troubled, the mere touch of those -hands coarsened and spoiled by the toil of his humiliation, was more -comfort to her than Len's caresses or tender words. Nigel could repeat -the magic formula of sympathy--"I too have known...." - -He felt, unconsciously, the same towards her. But it was more happiness -than grief that he brought her. He had acquired the habit of eating his -heart out alone, but happiness was so new and strange that he hardly -knew what to do with it. So he ran with it to Janey, like a child to his -mother with something he does not quite understand. - -To-day he found her in the kitchen, sitting by the fire, and watching -some of her doubtful cookery. Her back was bent, and her arms rested -from the elbow on her lap, the long hands dropping over the knees. Her -face, thrust forward from the gloom of her hair, wore a strange white -look of defiance, while her lips quivered with surrender. - -He sat down at her feet, and leaned his head against her lap. He vaguely -felt she was unhappy, but he did not try to comfort her, merely took one -of the long, hot hands in his. She did not speak, either--but her heart -kindled at his presence. She knew that he had been happier for the last -two days, though yesterday he had also seemed to have some anxiety, -fretting and questioning. His happiness meant much to her. All her -happiness now was vicarious--Quentin's, Leonard's or Nigel's. In her own -heart were only flashes and sparks of it, that scorched as well as -gladdened. - -Life was a perplexity--life was pulling her two ways. She seemed to be -hanging, a tortured, wind-swung thing, between earth and heaven, and she -could hardly tell which hurt her most--her sudden falls down or her -sudden snatchings up. Earth and heaven, brute and god, were always -meeting now, clashing like two ill-tuned cymbals. - -Her shame was that her love and Quentin's had not been strong enough to -wait. She had looked upon it as an exalted spiritual passion, and it had -suddenly shown itself impatient and bodily. It had fallen to the level -of a thousand other loves. Sometimes she almost wished that it had been -a more despised lover who had won her surrender--better fall from the -trees than from the stars. - -Moreover, her sacrifice had not won her what she was seeking, but -something inferior and makeshift. What she had dreamed of as the crown -of love had been a life of kingly, fearless association, the -sanctification of every day, an undying Together. That was still far -away. Borne on an undercurrent she had till then hardly suspected, she -and Quentin had been washed into the backwaters of their dream. She had -only one comfort, and that was paradoxically at times the chief of her -regrets--Quentin was happy. Unlike her, he seemed to have found all he -had been seeking. She was still unsatisfied, her heart still yearned -after higher, sweeter things, but again and again he told her he had all -his desire. - -"I am in Paradise--Janey, my own Janey. We climbed over the gates, and -we are there--together in the garden"--and his lips would burn against -hers, and even the tears brim from his fiery, sunken eyes. - -She never let him think she was not happy. She meekly and bravely -accepted the vocation of her womanhood--if he was happy, all her wishes, -except certain secret personal ones, were gratified. For his sake she -put aside her dreams, and fixed her thoughts on what was, forgetting -what might have been. She broke her heart like a box of spikenard, that -she might anoint him king. - -A shudder passed through Janey, and Nigel's head stirred on her knee. He -lifted it, and looked into her eyes--then he drew down her face to his -and kissed it. - -"You're tired, my Janey." - -His voice thrilled with a tenderness that carried her back to the days -before he went to prison. - -"No, dear, not tired--but I've a bit of a headache." - -"I'm so sorry. Oughtn't you to lie down?" - -"No--it will go." - -"Poor old sister!" - -He put up his hand and laid it gently on her forehead. Then suddenly he -hid his face. - -"Oh, Janey, I'm so happy!" - - - - -CHAPTER X - -TONY BACKS AN OUTSIDER - - -November came in cloth of gold--a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere, -into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the -brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the -month--from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and -disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little -village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly -contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and -most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more -expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band -too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music. - -Nigel Furlonger met Tony Strife at the top of Wilderwick hill. He had -dressed himself with more care than usual--in the girl's interest he -must look respectable. Leonard and Janet had been immensely surprised -when he told them he meant to go to the races. The Furlonger -disreputableness owed some of its celebrity to the fact that it ran -along channels of its own, neglecting those approved by wealth and -fashion. - -"Feel you've got too much cash?" jeered Leonard. - -"I shan't do any betting to speak of." - -"Don't you!" said Janey; "we're stony enough as things are." - -"But I'm not bound to lose--I may win, and retrieve the family -fortunes." - -"Look here, my boy," said Len, "you leave the family fortunes alone. -You've done too much in that line already." - -Nigel coloured furiously--but the next moment his anger cooled; he had -been wonderfully gentler during the last few days. He turned, and -emptied his pockets on the table. - -"There--take it all--except five bob for luck--and a half-crown for----" -He was going to have said "the little girl's tea," but stopped just in -time. - -He occasionally wondered why he did not tell Len and Janet about Tony. -But he felt doubtful as to what they might say. They would never -understand how he could find such a comradeship congenial. Tony was only -sixteen, and lived a very different life from his. They might laugh--no, -they would not do that; more likely they would be anxious and -compassionate, they would think it one of the unhealthy results of -prison, they would be sorry for him, and he could not bear that they -should be sorry for what brought him so much happiness. Besides, he had -a natural habit of reserve--even before he went to prison he had kept -secrets from Len and Janey. - -Tony was waiting for him when he reached their meeting-place. She wore a -plain dark coat and skirt, but she had put on a wide hat, with a wreath -of crimson leaves round it, and instead of plaiting her hair, she let it -stream over her shoulders, thick and sleek, without a curl. In her hand -she clutched a little purse. - -"I'm going to bet on a horse," she said in an awe-struck voice. - -"Which horse?" - -"I don't know. I'll see when I get there." - -"I'll try and find something pretty safe for you, and I'll have my money -on it too." - -"Isn't it exciting!" whispered Tony. "What should I do if I met Mrs. -Arkwright or any of the mistresses!" - -Mrs. Arkwright and the mistresses were not the people Furlonger dreaded -to meet. - -He and Tony swung gaily along the cinder-track leading to the course. It -was deserted, except for a little knot at the starting gate. The girl -shrank rather close to him as they came into the crowd. The shouting -made her nervous and flustered--that people should make such a noise -over a shady thing like betting seemed to her extraordinary. She touched -Nigel's elbow, and showed him her purse, now open, and containing -half-a-crown. - -"Which is the best horse?" - -"I wish I knew." - -"May I look at the card?" - -He gave it to her. She seemed puzzled. - -"How can I tell which horse to bet on?" - -A man beside them laughed, and Nigel flushed indignantly. - -"You can't tell much by the card; I'll go over to the ring in a moment, -and find out what the odds are. But as you don't want to put on more -than half-a-crown, I'd keep it till the big race, if I were you." - -"Which is the big race?" - -"The Lingfield Cup. It's the last--but we'll enjoy the others, even -though we've got nothing on 'em." - -They enjoyed them thoroughly. Hanging over the rail, their shouts were -just as noisy and as desperate as if they had all their possessions at -stake. Tony was thrilled to the depths--the clamour and excitement in -the betting ring, the odd, disreputable people all round her, -surreptitiously exchanging shillings and horses' names--the clanging -bell, the shout of "They're off!" the flash of opera-glasses, the mad -rush by, the cheers for the winner ... all plunged her into an orgy of -excitement. She felt subtly wicked and daring, and also, when Nigel -began to explain the technicalities of racing, infinitely worldly-wise. -What would the girls at school say when they found out she knew the -meaning of "Ten to one, bar one," or "Money on both ways"? She wrote -such phrases down in her "nature note-book," which she carried about -with her to record botanical discoveries, birds seen, sunsets, and -equally blameless doings. - -At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony's hands began to -quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of -that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the -game--and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a -fortnight's pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith. - -"We'll see 'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a -calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse -canters up." - -They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight -of colours coming from the paddock. - -"Here they are--oh, what a beautiful horse!" - -"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won't put our money on him." - -"What about that bay--the one coming now?" - -"He's a good 'un, I should say. That's Milk-O, the favourite." - -"Let's back him." - -"Wait, here's another. That's Midsummer Moon, the betting's 100 to 1 -against him." - -"What does that mean?" - -"It means that he's a rank outsider." - -"Then we mustn't put our money on him." - -"I've known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their -backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins -we're only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for -us, why, we get over twelve pounds." - -"Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"--that would -mean all sorts of splendours--a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty -instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for -a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of -the _Idylls of the King_, which she had seen in Gladys Gates' home and -admired so much; and directly she went back to school she could give a -gorgeous midnight feast--a feast of the superior order, with lemonade -and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate -only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops -dissolved in the water-jug. - -Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face. - -"Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course -you're more likely to lose, but if you win, you'll make a good thing out -of it." - -"Do you think he'll win?" - -"I can't say--but it's a sporting chance." - -"I think it's worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice. - -He looked at her intently. - -"I always like to see any one ready to back an outsider." - -"Don't people generally?" - -"No--and nor will you, perhaps, when you're older." - -She gave him her half-crown, and he disappeared with it into the crowd, -having first carefully put her next a group of respectable farmers' -wives. In some ways, thought Tony, he was just as particular as father. -She wished he would let her go with him into the ring. - -He came back in a few moments. Then suddenly the bell clanged. - -"They're off!" - -Silence dropped on the babel almost disconcertingly. Opera-glasses -flashed towards the start, rows of heads and bodies hung over the rail, -Tony's breath came in short gasps, so did Nigel's--he was desperately -anxious for that outsider to win. As they had no glasses they could not -see which colours led at the bend, but as the horses swung into the -straight, there were shouts of "Milk-O!--Milk-O!" - -"Damn the brute!" said Nigel, which gave Tony another thrill of new -experience. She had actually spent the afternoon with a man who swore! - -"Milk-O!--Milk-O!" - -"Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of -"Spreadeagle!" - -"Milk-O!"--"Spreadeagle!"--the yells were deafening--then suddenly -changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by -the post. - -"And--where's Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as the field clattered -in. - -"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in -from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on -ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East -Grinstead. - -"Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money." - -"Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable. - -Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes. - -"I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's my fault--if it hadn't been -for me you'd have backed the favourite." - -"Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit." - -"But I'm so sorry--I feel a beast." - -"Please don't. I've enjoyed myself awfully, and it's made the race ever -so much more exciting, having some money on it." - -"All right!" had been sung out from the weighing-ground, and the crowd -was either pressing round the bookies, or dispersing along the course. - -"We'd better go, I think," said Nigel, "you mustn't be late home." - -"It's been perfectly ripping," and Tony suddenly slipped her warm gloved -hand into his. "It was so kind of you to take me." - -"But I made you back an outsider." - -"Oh, never mind about it--please don't." - -She gave his hand a little squeeze as she spoke, and suddenly, over him -once again passed that thrill of great simplicity which he had -experienced first at Brambletye. He became dumb--quite dumb and simple, -with infinite rest in his heart. - -They turned to leave, jostling their way through the crowd towards the -cinder-track. Soon the clamour and scramble were far behind, and they -found the little footpath that ran through the fields near Goatsluck -Farm. - -"Which way are we going home?" asked Tony. - -"We'll have tea before we go home. Will you come with me and have tea in -a cottage?" - -"Oh, how ripping!..." - -Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close -at hand--one of those dwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam -like eyes under the steep roof. - -"Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden." - -The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and -pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now -bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp -sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very -plain meal--only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and -butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony -spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that -broke them. - -The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one -or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and -fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her -eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that -they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something -especially important to say to each other.... - -The wind dropped suddenly, and the fogs swept up and veiled the stars. -The crimson deepened to purple in the west. - -"Are you cold?" asked Furlonger awkwardly, and drew back. - -"No, thank you," said Tony, and leaned back too. - -A few minutes later they rose to go. It was half-past five, and strange -shadows were in the lanes, where the ruts and puddles gleamed. An owl -called from Ashplats Wood. The November dusk had suddenly become chill. -Nigel slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it round Tony. - -"I don't want it," he insisted. "Oh, what a funny little thing you -look!" - -"It comes down right over my heels--it's ripping and warm." - -They walked on in silence for about a quarter of a mile. Then the -distant throbbing of a car troubled the evening. It drew nearer, and -they stood aside to let it pass them in the narrow lane. - -But instead of passing, it pulled up suddenly, and out jumped Sir -Gambier Strife. - -Their surprise and dismay were so great that for a time they could not -use their tongues. Sir Gambier stood before them, his face flushed, his -mouth a little open, while the dusk and the arc-lights of the huge motor -had games with his figure, making it seem monstrous and misshapen. - -"Father----" began Tony, and then stopped. She was really the least -disconcerted of the three, for she had only Mr. Smith to deal -with--surely the presence of such a knight could easily be explained and -forgiven. But the other two had to face the complication of Furlonger. - -"What the----" broke from Strife, after the time-honoured formula of the -man who wants to swear, but objects on principle to swearing before -women. - -The colour mounted on Nigel's face, from his neck to his cheeks, from -his cheeks to his forehead--and gradually his head drooped. - -Tony turned to him with sublime assurance. - -"Father, let me introduce Mr. Smith." - -"Smith!" - -Nigel opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck to his tongue. - -"You know about Mr. Smith," continued Tony, "how helpful he was at East -Grinstead----" - -"He told you his name was Smith, did he?" - -"Of course. I know him quite well now--he lives at Fan's Court, near -Blindley Heath, and...." Tony's voice trailed off. She wondered why Mr. -Smith did not speak for himself. - -"You damn liar!" roared Strife, swinging round on Nigel. - -"Father!" - -"Sir Gambier, let me explain...." - -"I won't hear a word. Explanation, indeed! What explanation can there -be?--you victimiser of innocent little girls!--Antoinette, get into the -car at once, and come home. Then we'll hear all the lies this -Furlonger's been cramming you with." - -"Furlonger...." - -The word came in a long gasp. - -"Yes--Furlonger. That's his name. 'Smith,' indeed!" - -"Father, he isn't Furlonger. Furlonger was quite different, short and -dark and dirty-looking." - -"I tell you this is Furlonger--and he's quite dirty-looking enough for -me. Come along, Antoinette, I won't have you standing here." - -"But you aren't Furlonger--are you, Mr. Smith?" - -Her voice rang with entreaty and the first horror of doubt. Nigel -turned his eyes to hers and tried to plead with them; but they were not -understanding--he saw he had only the clumsy weapon of his tongue to -fight with. - -"I am Furlonger," he said in a low voice. - -There was a brief, electric pause. Tony had grown very white. - -"Then who was that other man?--Why did you tell me your name was Smith?" - -"I've no idea who the other fellow was, and I gave my name as Smith -because I felt sure you'd have heard of Furlonger." - -"But why--why----" - -"Come along, miss," interrupted Sir Gambier. "I won't have you talking -to this scoundrel." - -"But I want to know why he told me all those lies." - -Her face had grown hard as well as white. - -"He had very good reasons, I'm sure," sneered Strife. - -Nigel suddenly found his tongue. - -"Tony!" he cried, "Tony!" - -"What damned impudence is this?--'Tony' indeed! You'll not dare address -my daughter by that name, sir." - -"Tony," repeated Nigel, too desperate to realise what he was calling -her. "I swear I never meant you any harm. I know it looks like it--but -you mustn't think so. I wanted to be your friend because--because you -didn't know of my disgrace, you treated me like a human being. You -talked to me about simple things--you made me feel good and clean when -I was with you. That's why I 'told you all these lies.'" - -The girl began to tremble. Sir Gambier laughed. - -"Tony--don't forsake me." - -"Hold your tongue, sir," thundered Strife. "I won't have any more of -this. Get into the car, Antoinette." - -He touched her arm, and for the first time she responded. She turned and -climbed into the car, still trembling, her head bowed, tears on her -cheek. - -Nigel sprang on to the step. - -"Tony--can't you forgive me? I didn't deceive you from any wrong motive. -Why do you look like that? Is it because I've been in prison?--I--I -suffered there...." - -"Oh don't!" gasped the girl, "don't speak to me--I can't bear it. I--I'm -so dreadfully--disappointed." - -His eyes searched her face for some pity or understanding. Instead he -saw only horror, pain, and something akin to fright. - -"Don't!" she repeated. - -Then he suddenly realised that she was too young to understand. - -He fell back from the step, and covered his eyes. - -Sir Gambier sprang into the driver's seat. Tony did not speak again. Her -father took the steering-wheel, and the car throbbed away into the dusk. -She made no protest, and only once looked back--at the man who still -stood in the middle of the lane, with his hands over his eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -DISILLUSION AT SIXTEEN - - -Rather to Tony's surprise, she and her father drove in silence. As a -matter of fact, Sir Gambier was baffled by his younger daughter. Awdrey -he could have dealt with easily enough--he was used to Awdrey's scrapes. -But Tony had always been more or less impersonal--a vague some one for -whom one paid school-bills, who came home for the holidays, made herself -pretty scarce, and then went back to school again, to write prim letters -home every Sunday. It was a new idea that this half-realised being -should suddenly show herself possessed of a personality in the form of a -scrape--and such a scrape too! Furlonger! He grunted with fury, but--as -would never have been the case if he had had Awdrey to deal with--he -said nothing. - -Once, however, he looked sideways, and noticed how Tony was sitting. Her -back was bent, and her arms rested on her knees, the hands clenched -between them; her chin was a little thrust forward into the darkness -through which they rushed. - -At last they reached Shovelstrode. The moon was high above the pines, -and they seemed to be waving in waters of silver. The house-front -shimmered in the white light, as the motor pulsed up to it. Tony climbed -down, and stood stiffly on the step. - -"You'd better go to your room," said Sir Gambier in muddled rage. "I--I -expect your mother will want to speak to you." - -"Very well," said Tony. - -She walked quickly upstairs, went into her room, and sat down on the -bed. A square of moonlight lay on the floor, and the moving shadows -curtsied across it. They and the pines outside seemed to be nodding to -her grotesquely under the moon--they seemed to be mocking her for her -great illusion lost. - -"Furlonger...." she repeated to herself. "Furlonger...." - -A sick quake of rage was in her heart. Her feelings were still confused, -but definite grievances stood out of the jumble. This man whom she had -thought so much of--in school-girl language "had a rave on"--had -deceived her, told her lies, acted them, and won by them ... well, the -horrible thing was that she did not really know how much or how little -he had won. - -But worse still was the realisation that he had made her do -unconsciously something she thought wrong. Like most girls of her age -she had a cast-iron code of morals. When a school-girl sets out to be -moral, there is no professor of ethics or minister of religion that can -touch her--her morality has behind it all the enormous force of -inexperience, it can neither stretch nor bend, and it breaks only at the -risk of her whole spiritual life. - -She was horrified to think she had given her friendship to a scoundrel, -even though she had done it ignorantly. It was like befriending a girl -who cheated or told tales. For her his crime had no attraction or -interest--it was just a hideous blot and defilement. She had often heard -the Wickham Rubber scandal discussed, and now store-housed memories came -to appal her. Hundreds of people, most of them already poor, had been -ruined and plunged into misery--widows with growing families, elderly -spinsters with hard-gathered savings, poor old men with the terror of -the workhouse closing on them with age, had trusted this Furlonger once -and execrated him now. He was like that dreadful man in the Psalms, who -laid wait to murder the innocent--"he doth ravish the poor when he -getteth him into his den." And she had allowed this man to be her -friend, she had confided her secrets to him, she had dreamed of him and -prayed to meet him.... Tony's teeth and hands clenched, and her eyes -grew miserable and hard. - -Then she began to wonder what had made Furlonger want her friendship. -What had he and she in common? Somehow she could not for a moment -believe that he had sought her out from unworthy motives. The fact would -always remain that he had wanted her friendship, that he had not given -her a word which was not kind or courteous, that he had come to her -rescue in her hour of need ... the tears rushed to her eyes; that was -the bitterest part of all--her memories of his kindliness and -knight-errantry--pictures of East Grinstead, Swites Wood, Brambletye, -Lingfield Park, and that little old cottage by Goatsluck Farm. Suddenly -she found herself making up her mind not to join her father and mother -in condemning him. She would take his part in the scene which she knew -was at hand. - -She soon heard her father calling her, and went down. He pointed into -her mother's boudoir, a small room with French windows opening on the -lawn. It was full of vague furniture and vague mixed colours, and it -seemed to Tony as if she were swimming through it up to the couch where -her mother lay. It never struck her as strange that her father should -seem unable to deal with her himself, but should hand her over to this -weak invalid, who lay with closed eyes in the lamplight. - -"Now, I don't want a scene," she said, without opening them. - -"Tony won't make a scene," said Sir Gambier; "she's a deep one." - -"Oh, Antoinette," sighed Lady Strife--"I never was so surprised in my -life as when I heard of your deceit." - -"My deceit!" said Tony quickly. - -"Yes--going about with a man like Furlonger, and hiding it from your -father and mother--don't you call that deceit?" - -"I didn't know he was Furlonger." - -"But you knew it was wrong to have a secret friendship with any man -whatsoever. I never heard of such a thing in a young girl of your age -and position--it's what housemaids do, and not nice housemaids at that." - -"Mother," cried Tony, her voice shaking unexpectedly, "it was an -adventure." - -"A what!" shouted Sir Gambier. - -His wife winced. - -"Don't startle me, dear. And let the child say what she likes--I'm glad -she has a theory to explain her actions." - -Strife muttered something unintelligible, but made no more -interruptions. - -"Now tell me, Antoinette," said her mother, "exactly how long you have -known this man--and what have you and he been doing together?" - -"Mother, I can't explain. I know it sounds deceitful and caddish and all -that, but it--it wasn't. It was an adventure, just as I've said. I've -_done_ something." - -The invalid smiled distantly. - -"When you are older you will realise the superiority of thought to -action. The soul is built of thoughts--actions harden and coarsen it. -But we won't discuss that now. Tell me how you and he got to know each -other." - -"He was the man who was so splendid at East Grinstead station. He told -me his name was Smith, because, of course, he didn't want me to know who -he really was. Then I met him one morning when I was giving Prince a run -in Swites Wood, and then another time when I'd punctured my bicycle, -and...." - -"Go on, Antoinette." - -"Oh, you'll never understand. But he was so different from any one else -I'd met. He spoke so differently--about such different things----" - -"I can imagine that." - -"But he wasn't horrid, mother--I swear he wasn't. He was very quiet, -and interesting, and rather unhappy--and I liked him--I liked him -awfully." - -Lady Strife did not speak, but her eyes were wide open. As for Sir -Gambier, an unheard-of thing happened--he became sarcastic. - -"Oh, you liked him, did you? Found him a nice-mannered young -fellow?--well-informed? I didn't know you were interested in the inner -life of his Majesty's prisons." - -"Father!" cried Tony sharply. - -"Now, listen to me, dear," said her mother; "you are very young, and -consequently very inexperienced. A grown-up person would at once have -realised that this man's friendship for you could not be disinterested." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I mean that he's not the type of man who would naturally want to be the -friend of a young and innocent girl like you. He must have had some -ulterior motive in seeking your friendship. You have possibly seen no -signs of that so far, but it would have been plain enough later." - -"I don't believe it." - -"Hush, dear. Your impertinence disconcerts me. I am trying to view the -matter from the standpoint of pure thought, and how am I to do that if -you keep on rudely interrupting me and dragging me down into the surge -of human annoyance? You must take it from those older and more -experienced than yourself that this man's motives in seeking your -friendship could not have been disinterested. Besides, even suppose for -the sake of argument that they were, don't you think you've been acting -most disloyally to your father and me in associating with a man you know -we disapprove of?" - -"Mother, I've told you I'd no idea who he really was. Why, I thought the -other man was Furlonger. Besides, I didn't know you disapproved of him. -When all the others were letting fly at him, you said something about -his having a beautiful soul and sinning more divinely than many people -pray." - -There is nothing more irritating to the Magus than to have his early -philosophies cast in his teeth by some one with a better memory than his -own. Lady Strife descended deep into the surge of human annoyance. - -"Really, Antoinette, you are a perfectly exasperating child. All this -comes from trying to treat you like a reasonable being. Your father said -that what you really need is a good thrashing, and I'm inclined to agree -with him now, though I insisted on having you in, and discussing things -with you from the standpoint of pure thought. I shan't waste any more -time on you--you can go back to your room, and stay there till your -father gets an answer to his telegram to your Aunt Margaret." - -"Aunt Maggie!" - -"Yes," cried Sir Gambier, "you're going to Southsea, to stay with your -Aunt Maggie till your confounded school re-opens or the crack of doom -falls--whichever happens first. You're too much trouble at home--going -about with a face like a plaster saint, while in reality you're -traipsing over the country with men." - -"Father, I wasn't traipsing. Oh, please don't send me to Aunt -Maggie's--I shall die." This was that terrible coercion from outside -which so effectually routs the forces of sixteen. - -"My dear little girl," said her mother, who had climbed back to her -standpoint of pure thought, "I know you will be reasonable now, and--I -think I may be quite sure of that too--grateful afterwards. Your father -and I are really doing you a great kindness in sending you to your -aunt's--here you would never be free from the persecutions of that -Furlonger." - -"Mother, it wasn't persecutions. I liked it." - -"Antoinette, I shall really begin to think you are utterly silly. To put -the matter on its lowest, most materialistic footing, don't you realise -that in associating with a man like that you are seriously damaging your -prospects?" - -"My prospects?" - -"Yes--your prospects of making a good marriage and doing credit to your -family. Come, don't stare at me so blankly. You must realise that you -are now approaching--if not actually arrived at--a marriageable age, and -that you must do nothing to damage----" - -"But, mother, I don't want ever to marry. Really, I don't want to talk -about such things. It makes me feel--oh, mother, don't you see it's bad -form?" - -"What!" shrieked her mother, with extraordinary lung-power for an -invalid. - -"We think it bad form at school to talk about marriage." - -Her parents both stared at her blankly. - -"Well, you can just think it good form to talk about it now," said Sir -Gambier, feeling for some vague reason that he had said something rather -witty. - -"Your school must be an extraordinary place," said Lady Strife. "I shall -have to write to the principal--now, don't interrupt--I shall certainly -write; I won't have such ideas put into your head. You're quite old -enough to think seriously of marriage. Why, I'd already had two offers -at your age." - -Tony looked surprised. She was very fond of her mother, but always -wondered how she had ever managed to get married at all, and that she -should have had more than one chance seemed positively miraculous. - -Lady Strife saw the surprised look, and spoke more sharply. - -"Really, Antoinette, you're no more than a great baby. You need -education in the most ordinary matters. I'll write to your Aunt -Margaret, and ask her to get some eligible men to meet you. Now don't -_cry_." - -Tony was actually crying. She was generally as chary and ashamed of -tears as a boy. - -"I--I can't help it. Oh, mother, don't send me to Aunt Maggie's. Oh, -don't make her ask el-el-eligible m-men." - -"Don't be a blithering idiot!" shouted Sir Gambier. "If you can't -control yourself, go upstairs and begin packing at once." - -Tony went out, crying into a handkerchief stained with blackberry juice. -Her demoralisation was complete. - -Awdrey, who had been lurking uneasily in the dining-room, came out as -the boudoir door opened and slammed, and for a moment stood horrified at -the sight of her sister. - -"Hullo, Tony! Whenever did I last see you cry? What's the matter, old -girl?" - -"M-Mother thinks I'm old enough to-to b-be married." - -"To whom?" shrieked Awdrey, all agog at once. - -"Nobody--only some el-eligible men at--at Aunt Maggie's." - -"What rot you're talking. Hasn't any one asked you?" - -"Of course not." - -"Then what on earth's all the row about? It's only natural mother should -want you to be married some day." - -"But--but I've sworn never to marry." - -"Ah," said Awdrey knowingly, as she tramped upstairs beside her sister; -then in a gentler voice, "Why can't you marry _him_?" - -"Who's 'him'?" - -"Why, the man who made you swear not to marry." - -"It wasn't a man--it was a g-girl," and Tony's tears burst out afresh, -as she remembered how she and Gladys Gates had sworn to each other never -to marry, but always to live together, and had solemnly divided and -eaten a lump of sugar in ratification of the covenant. - -Awdrey was speechless with disgust, but she went with Tony into her -room, because she had not yet found out what she primarily wanted to -know. - -"You're an extraordinary kid, Tony--I really should call you only half -there. You kick up all this ridiculous fuss at the mere mention of -marriage, and yet you go about with a man like Furlonger. Oh yes, I know -all about it. Father was bawling loud enough for every one this side of -the Channel to hear." - -"But I tell you I didn't know he was Furlonger. Besides, he didn't want -me to marry him. He wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing." - -"Oh, no, I'm quite sure of that. But you don't tell me your relations -with him were entirely platonic." - -"Yes, I do." - -"You mean to say he never even kissed you?" - -"Kissed me!--of course not!--how dare you, Awdrey!" - -"My dear child, you play the injured innocence game very well, but when -you make out you don't know what sort of man Furlonger is, you're -carrying it a bit too far." - -"Of course, I know he's been in prison," and Tony sobbed drily, "but as -for kissing me, I'm sure he's not as bad as that." - -"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Awdrey sharply. - -Tony only sniffed in reply, and her sister's gaze wandered round the -windy, austere room, resting on the few photographs of school-girl -friends on the mantelpiece. - -"I suppose you're in earnest," she said, after a pause, "but really, -you're the weirdest thing, even in flappers, I've ever met. Perhaps in -time you'll realise that even such a heinous crime as a kiss is a degree -better than robbing a few score poor widows of their savings." - -Tony stopped crying suddenly, and a quiver passed through her. The -expression of her eyes changed. - -"Awdrey--I--I think I'd like to be--alone--to do my packing." - - -Half-an-hour later Tony's boxes were still empty, except for a -foundation layer of the school-girl photographs. The bed and chairs were -littered with underclothing, shoes, hats, books and frocks. Tony sat on -the floor, staring miserably in front of her with tear-blind eyes that -did not notice the surrounding confusion, so intent were they on the -litter of a broken dream. Her dream, once so joyful, fresh and -iridescent, was now a mere jumble of shards. She had defended Furlonger -against her parents and her sister, but it had been the last effort of -which her bleeding heart was capable. Her hero and his epic had now -broken up into a terrible shatter of disillusion, to which her mother -and Awdrey had added the most humiliating dust. She could not think -which was worse--the motives of self-interest attributed by the one, or -the love-motives attributed by the other. And though she denied both, -at the bottom of her heart was a far worse accusation. Her stainless -champion was a criminal, a false swearer, a defrauder of the helpless, a -devourer of widows' houses. He had not sinned against her in the way her -family imagined, but in a far more horrible, subtle way ... she -shuddered, sickened and shrank. - -All the same she was glad that when others accused him she had taken his -part. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -CHILDREN DANCING IN THE DUSK - - -Nigel was late for supper that evening. He came in very quietly, and -slipped into his place without a word. He had very little to say about -the races. - -"Lost your money on Midsummer Moon?" said Leonard. "Well, you needn't -look so glum--it was only five bob." - -But Janey knew that was not the matter, though she knew nothing more. -After supper she put her arm through his, and drew him out into the -garden. They walked up and down in front of Sparrow Hall. At first she -had meant to ask him questions, but soon she realised that the questions -would not come--only a great stillness between her and Nigel, and a -fierce clutch of their hands. They walked up and down, up and down, -breathing the thick scents of the garden--touched with autumn -rottenness, sodden with rain and night. Gradually they pulled each other -closer, till she felt the throb of his heart under her hand.... - -The next day Nigel worked hard with Len at weed-burning. It was strange -what a lot of weed-burning there was to do, thought he--not only at -Sparrow Hall, but at Wilderwick, and Swites Farm, and Golden Compasses, -and the Two-Mile Cottages, and all those places from which little curls -of blue, dream-scented smoke were drifting up against the sky. Men were -burning the tangles of their summer gardens, they were piling into the -flame those trailing sweets, now dead. For autumn was here, and winter -was at hand, and a few dead things that must be burnt were all that -remained of June. - -Nigel wondered if his June had not gone too, and if he had not better -burn at once those few sweet, dead, tangled thoughts it had left him. He -thought of the dim lane by Goatsluck Farm, with the glare of two motor -lights on the hedges. He saw the puddles gleam, and Tony erect in the -trickery of light and darkness, shapeless in his coat. Then across the -aching silence of his heart came her words--"I can't bear it!--I--I'm -so--disappointed." - -That was the end of June--and he ought to have expected it. His -friendship with Tony Strife could never have lasted in a neighbourhood -where both were known and talked about. It had ended a little suddenly, -that was all. He did not reproach himself for deceiving her; he did not -even regret it, though he guessed what she must think. The doorway of -the house of light had stood open, and he had crept in like a beggar, -knowing that he must soon be turned out, but resolute meanwhile to bask -and be glad. - -But he wished she had not been "disappointed," that was so pathetic. -Poor little girl! the memory of him would eat into her heart for a -while. Girls of her age were righteous, and he had cheated her into -friendship with unrighteousness. She would hate him for a bit. "I am so -disappointed"--it seemed as if all his seething desires for goodness -and peace had died into that little wail of outraged girlhood, and come -back to haunt the empty house of his heart. - -During the first few days of separation he childishly hoped that he -might hear from her--surely she would write if only to upbraid. But no -letter came. His coat was returned the next morning, but he searched the -parcel in vain for a message. How cruel of Tony!--and yet all children, -even girl-children, are cruel. Their experience of sorrow is limited to -its tempestuous side--they do not know its aching calms; they quench -their thirst with great gulps, and do not know the relief of small drops -of water. This was the price he had to pay for seeking his comfort in -the gaiety of boys and girls instead of in the more stable sympathy of -his contemporaries. - -The next two weeks were heartsick and lonely. All day long a piteous -consciousness of Tony was present in the background of his thoughts, -waiting till night to creep into the foreground of his dreams, and -torment him with hungry wakings. Everything that reminded him even of -her type was painful. Little ridiculous things twanged chords of -plaintive memory--a picture of the Roedean hockey-team, with their short -skirts and pig-tails, the demure flappers he sometimes met in his walks, -a correspondence on "moral training in girls' schools" which was being -waged in a daily paper--everything that reminded him of healthy, -growing, undeveloped girlhood, reminded him of Tony, and made his heart -ache and yearn and grieve after her. - -He wandered about by himself a good deal in the lanes, snatching his few -free moments after dusk. He no longer tramped furiously--he roamed, with -slow steps and dreaming eyes, drinking a faint peace from the darkness -of the fields. He found comfort, too, in his fiddle, and every evening -he would play through his banal repertory, "O Caro Nome," from -_Rigoletto_, "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls," the overtures to -_Zampa_ and _La Gazza Ladra_, the Finale from _Lucia di Lammermoor_. He -became wonderfully absorbed in his fiddling, and had recovered a certain -amount of his old skill and flexibility. - -One day he took his violin to East Grinstead, as the sounding post had -fallen down. He came back by a long road--through Hophurst and New -Chapel and Blindley Heath. He stopped at the last to have a drink--it -was a dreary collection of cottages, scattered round a flat, windswept -heath. There were ponds in the corners of the heath, and their waters -were always ruffled by a strange wind. Right in the middle of the waste -was a little house squatting in its own patch of tillage, an island, a -tumble-down oasis, in the great dreariness. - -The scene, with the grey, scudding sky behind it, became stamped on -Nigel's brain, as he stood with his beer in the pothouse door. It was -one of those days when it seems as if our own hopelessness has at last -impressed the unfeeling mask of Nature, and caused it to put on the -grimace of our despair. - -One or two children were playing in the road in front of the tavern, the -wind fluttering their pinafores, and blowing their clothes against their -limbs. A little boy with a mouth-organ was playing a vague and plaintive -tune, to which two little girls were dancing. Nigel stood listening for -some minutes, till both the moaning wind and the creaking tune had woven -themselves together into a symphony of wretchedness. - -Then he put down his beer, and took up his violin. He unfastened the -case, unrolled the chrysalis of wrappings, and laid the instrument -against his shoulder. The next minute a shrill wail rose up and -challenged the wind. - -The bar was nearly empty, but Nigel would not have cared had it been -full. He stood in the doorway, his hair blowing and ruffling madly, his -body swaying, as he forced his fiddle into a duet with the wind. He had -never before tried to extemporise, his violin had been for him a memory -of sugary tunes, each wrapped up in the tinsel of a little past--he had -never tried to wring the present out of it in a sudden, fierce -expression of the emotions that tortured him as he played. This evening -he wanted to join the wind in its wailing race, to rush with it over the -common, to tear with it through the hedges, and sweep with it over the -water. He forced out of his fiddle the cries of his own heart--they rose -up and challenged the wind. The wind hushed a little--fluttered, -throbbed--was still ... the fiddle tore through the silence and -shattered it ... then the wind rose, and drummed savagely. Nigel dashed -his bow down on the deep strings, and forced deep sounds out of them. -The wind galloped up to a shriek--and Nigel's hand tore into harmonics, -and wailed there till the wind was only puffing and sobbing. Then the -fiddle sobbed. The fiddle and the wind sobbed together ... till the wind -swung up a scale--up came the fiddle after it ... the wind rushed higher -and higher, it whistled in the dark eaves of the inn, and the fiddle -squeaked higher and higher, and Nigel's fingers strained on the -fingerboard--he would not be beaten, blind Nature should not defeat him, -two should play her game. The wind was like a maniac as it whistled its -arpeggios--the casements of the house were rattling like tin, the trees -were swishing and bending, the water in the ruts of the lane was -rippling, doors were creaking and banging, the fiddle was straining and -shrieking ... then suddenly the string broke. Nigel dropped his bow, -angry and defeated. The duet with the wind was over. - -Then he noticed a strange thing. He had been staring blindly and -stupidly ahead of him, all his senses merged into sound, but now he saw -that the road was crowded with children, and they were all -dancing--little girls with their petticoats held high, little boys -jumping aimlessly in their clumsy boots. They stopped as his hand fell, -and stared at him in surprise, as if they had expected the music to go -on for ever. - -"Hullo!" said Nigel--then suddenly he laughed; they all looked so -forlorn, holding out their pinafores and pointing their feet. - -"Wait a bit," he said, "my string's broken, but I'll have another on in -no time." - -So he did--but not to play a duet with the wind. He played the -Intermezzo from _Cavalleria_, and the dance went on as raggedly as -before. After the Intermezzo he played the Overture to _Zampa_, which -was immensely popular, then threaded a patchwork of _La Somnambula_, the -_Bohemian Girl_, _La Tosca_, and _Aida_, till mothers began to appear on -the doorsteps with cries of "Supper's waiting." - -Supper was waiting for Nigel when he appeared at Sparrow Hall. Len and -Janey asked no questions--it was pathetic how few questions they asked -him nowadays--but they both noticed he was happier. He did not speak -much--he sat in a kind of dream, with a wistful tremulousness in the -corners of his mouth. His mouth had always been the oldest part of -him--hard in repose and fierce in movement--but to-night it had taken -some of the extreme childishness of his eyes. Nigel felt very much the -same as a child that cries for the moon and is given a ball to play -with--the ball almost makes him forget that he wants the moon so badly. -Those dancing children had, for some strange reason, partly filled the -place of stalwart Tony in his heart. That night they came and danced in -his dreams--in a pale light, to a tinkling tune. He found himself -forming plans for making them dance again. He would never be on the old -footing with Tony, but those children should dance for him and help him -to forget. - -So the next evening he went out again with his fiddle, and played at -Blindley Heath. Again the children danced--with clumping boots and high -petticoats they danced outside the Sweepers Inn. But this time he did -not stay long--he went on to Dormans Land, to see if they would dance -there. It was nearly dark now, and one or two misty stars shone above -the village roofs--the wind was heavy with approaching rain as it -soughed up the street towards him. He did not stand at the inn, but -where the road to Lingfield joins the road to Cowden, close to the -schools. One or two children came and looked at him curiously. - -"He wants a halfpenny," said one, "I'll ask my mumma for it." - -"No," said Nigel, "I want you to dance." - -The children giggled, but at last the little girl who had suggested the -halfpenny picked up her skirts, and then it was not long before they -were all dancing to the waltz from _Traviata_. - -Every day afterwards, when evening fell, Nigel took his violin, and went -out into the lanes and the dark-swept villages, and played for the -children to dance. They grew to expect him, and to clamour for old -tunes. "Give us the jiggy one," they would cry, and he would play "O -Caro Nome." "Give us the twirly one," and he would play "I Dreamt I -Dwelt in Marble Halls." But sometimes he would not give them what they -wanted--he would play what he chose, strange things that came into his -head and would not leave it till he had sent them wailing into the dusk. -One day he played a duet with some long grass that rustled and sighed -behind him; another day it was with a wood, brown and naked, but full of -palpitating mysteries; another time he played an accompaniment to the -stars as they crept timidly one by one into the deserts of the sky. He -knew the constellations, and gave gentle, bird-like notes to the dim -Pleiades, and low, sonorous tones to Orion, and heavy quavers to the -Wain; there was a sudden scale for Casseopeia, and harmonics for the -Ram. By the time he had finished all the children had gone, and he was -alone in the breeze and darkness, in a great, grief-stricken silence, -which, he realised painfully, greeted the stars far more fitly than any -strivings of his. - -It was impossible for this new life to be hidden from the brother and -sister at Sparrow Hall. One evening Leonard burst into the kitchen where -Janey was sitting. - -"What do you think Nigel's up to now?" - -"What?" - -"Playing the fiddle outside pubs for kids to dance to." - -Janey gasped. - -"Are you sure, Len?" - -"Absolutely pos. Old Pilcher was telling me--the lad was fiddling away -for an hour outside the Sweepers at Blindley Heath, and all the brats -were on their hind legs, kicking up no end. Janet, do you think he's all -there?" - -"I--I don't know--I've been wondering." - -"There's no doubt that he's been strange ever since he came out of quod. -Poor old Nigel--life's hit him hard, and bruised him a lot." - -"He was funny about kids from the first. He took a tremendous fancy to -that odious little Ivy Batt who comes for the milk." - -"I expect this is part of the same game." - -"I expect it is--but it hurts me to think of it." - -She turned to the fire, and a sigh shook her breast--life had a habit of -hitting hard all round. - -A few minutes later Nigel came in. He set down his violin, and went over -to the hearth, kneeling beside Janey. She put her arms round him, and -drew his head to her shoulder. - -"Old man ... is it really true that you go about the villages fiddling -to kids?" - -"Yes--I like to see 'em dance." - -"Are you fond of them?" - -"Only when they dance." - -"What a funny old man you are." - -"Ain't I, Janey!" - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -KEEPING CHRISTMAS - - -Every evening the three Furlongers used to sit by the fire and stare -into it. Len would sprawl back in his chair with his pipe, and the other -two lean forward with needlework and newspapers and cigarettes. They -seldom spoke--the wind would howl, and the shadows would creep, and the -night drift on through star-strewn silences. At last some one would yawn -loudly, and the others laugh--and all go to bed. - -Len was worried about Nigel and Janey, and usually devoted these -evenings and their pipely inspiration to thinking them out in a -blundering way. He was not a man given to problems, and hitherto life -had held but few. It was an added bitterness that now his problem should -be that brother and sister who had always stood to him for all that was -simple and beloved. - -Nigel, in his strange fears, his subcurrents of emotion, and quickly -changing moods, reminded Len of a horse; he did not object to drawing -upon his knowledge of horses and their ways for the management of his -brother. He humoured him, bore with him, but kept at the same time a -tight hand--especially when the boy's seething restiveness and pain -found vent in harsh words to Janey. Janey could not bear harsh words -now--she had used to be able to pick them off and throw them back in the -true sisterly style, but now she winced and let them stick. Janey -perplexed Len as much as Nigel, and worried him far more. Her eyes -seemed to be growing very large, and her cheeks very hollow. When she -smiled her lips twitched in a funny way, and when she laughed it grated. -Janey cost Len many pipes. - -The explanation of Janey was, of course, at Redpale Farm, sitting glumly -by his winter fireside, just as she sat by hers. The love of Janet -Furlonger and Quentin Lowe had entered on a new phase. Quentin was -beginning to be dissatisfied. At first Janey had imagined that she would -welcome this, but it did not come as she had expected. It brought their -love into spasmodic silences. Up till then Quentin and she had always -been writing and meeting, but now he wrote to her and met her in -strange, sudden jerks of feeling. Sometimes he left her for days without -even a line, but she could never doubt him, because when at last they -met, his love seemed to burn with even greater torment and fierceness -than in the months of its more regular expression. He began to give her -presents, too--a locket, a ring, a book, which she shrank from, but -forced herself to accept because of the evident delight he found in -giving. - -Once more he was rambling restlessly and ineffectively on a quest for -independence. His efforts always came to nothing, partly through his own -incapacity, but always, too, through a sheer perverseness of fate, -thwarting developments, wrecking coincidences--so there really seemed -truth in his cry that the stars fought against him. - -She began to realise that, much as she had deplored what looked like -his permanent satisfaction with a makeshift, she had found in it a kind -of vicarious rest. When anxiety and disillusion lay like stones at the -bottom of her heart, she had comforted herself with the thought of the -lightness of his. Now she could do so no longer--she had the burden of -his sorrow as well as her own to bear, and for a woman like Janey, this -was bound much more than to double her load. - -Her anxiety about Nigel was also a pain that bruised through the weeks. -He was decidedly "queer," and she could not understand his new craze for -fiddling to children. Sometimes, too, he would be terribly sentimental, -and have fits of more or less maudlin affection for her and Leonard. At -other times he would be surly, and during his attacks of surliness he -would work with desperation, almost with greed, as if he longed to wear -himself out. Then he would come in, and throw himself down in a chair, -and sleep the sleep of utter exhaustion with wide-flung limbs--or he -would have a bath by the fire, regardless of any cooking operations she -might have on hand, or the difficulty of heating gallons of ice-cold -water in a not over-large kettle. Len would be furious with him on these -occasions, and tell him that if he wanted a Turkish bath built on to -Sparrow Hall he had better say so at once. - -"I hope we'll have a happy Christmas," remarked Janey rather plaintively -to Len one evening late in December. - -"Why shouldn't we?" he asked; he was kneeling on the hearthstone, -cleaning her boots. - -"Well, we've been counting on it so. You remember last Christmas, when -I said that next time we'd have Nigel with us...." - -"And we've got him, haven't we?" - -"Yes." - -She was silent then, and the next minute he lifted his eyes from the -blacking and laughed up at her. - -"There's the rub, Janey. We don't know how Nigel will take Christmas." - -"No--he'll probably be frightfully sentimental at breakfast, and kiss us -both--and then he'll have a boiling bath--and then he'll take his fiddle -and go out for hours to play to those wretched kids." - -"A pretty fair prophecy, I should think." - -"He's just like a kid himself," sighed Janey. - -"Yes--I think he's getting soft in that way. At any rate, he's taken an -uncommon fancy to kids. By the bye, that girl he rescued at Grinstead -station, Strife's girl, has come home for Christmas. I saw her out with -her father this morning, and she'd got her hair up, and looked years -older. I expect she'll be getting married soon. Her people will see that -she settles down early--they don't want two like her sister." - -"What was that?" cried Janey. - -"What?" - -"I thought I heard some one in the room." - -"There's nobody--look, quite empty, except for you and me. You're -getting nervy, old girl." - -"Perhaps I am." - -He stood up, and looked at her closely and rather anxiously. Then he -put his arms round her. - -"You're not well, sis--I've noticed it for a long time. I say--there's -nothing the matter, is there? You'd tell us if there was, wouldn't you?" - -"Of course ... there's nothing," she whispered, as his rough hand -stroked her hair. He held her to him very tenderly, he was always -gentler and less exacting with her than Nigel. Yet, somehow, when she -was unhappy it was Nigel she wanted to cling to, whose strong arms she -liked to feel round her, whose suffering face she wanted close to hers. -She wanted Nigel now. - -But Nigel had gone out. - -He walked heavily, his arms folded over his chest, his head hanging. - -So she was back--and she was grown up--and she would soon be married. - -These three contingencies had never struck him before. She had gone so -inevitably out of his life, that he had never troubled to consider her -return to Shovelstrode. She had stood so inevitably for adolescence, -unformed and free, that he had never thought of her growing up. And as -for marriage, it had seemed a thing alien and incongruous, her girlhood -had been virgin to his timidest desire. - -But she was grown up. She was ready for marriage, and most likely would -soon be married. He realised that to some other man would be given, -probably readily enough, what he had not dared even think about. A -shudder passed through him, but the next minute he flung up his head -almost triumphantly. He had had from Tony what she would never give to -another--he had had her free thoughtless comradeship, and she would -never give it again. She was grown up now, and unconsciously she would -realise her womanhood, put up little barriers, put on little airs. -He--he alone--would have the memory of her heedless girlhood innocently -displayed--he had what no other man had had, or could have ever. - - -Christmas came, a moist day, warm and rather hazy. Janey had decorated -Sparrow Hall with holly and evergreens, and had even compounded an -ominous-looking plum-pudding. She was desperately anxious that their -first Christmas together for four years should be a success--she even -ventured to hint the same to Nigel. - -"Why," he drawled, "do we keep Christmas? Is it because Christ was born -in a manger?" - -"Of course not--how queerly you talk!" - -"Because that was why we kept it in prison." - -"But we aren't in prison here." - -"Aren't we?--aren't we, Janey?--would there be any good keeping -Christmas if we weren't?" - -She laughed uneasily. - -"Nigel, you're balmy. Come along and help me make mince-pies. It's all -you're good for." - -In spite of her fears, Christmas morning passed happily enough, and -though the dinner was culinarily a failure, socially it was a huge -success. The pudding, having triumphantly defeated the onslaughts of -knives, forks and teeth, was accorded a hero's death in the kitchen -fire, to the accompaniment of the Dead March on Nigel's fiddle, and -various ritual acts extemporised by Len from memories both military and -ecclesiastical. He was preparing a ceremonial funeral for the -mince-pies, when he and Janey suddenly realised that Nigel had left the -room. - -"Now where the devil has he gone?" - -Janey sighed. - -"Some silly game of his. I hope he'll be back soon." - -"Not he!--he's probably off for the day, to fiddle to those blasted -kids, if they're not too full of plum-pudding to dance. By Christopher, -Janey--he's mad." - - -The dark was gathering stealthily--crawling up from the Kent country in -the east, burying the wet winter meadows of Surrey and Sussex in damp -and dusk and fogs. In the west a crimson furnace smouldered, showing up -a black outline of hills. Moisture was everywhere--the roads gleamed -with mud, the banks were sticky with damp tangled grass, and drops -quivered and glistened on the bare twigs of the hedges. - -A great sense of disheartenment was everywhere. It was Christmas day, -and hundreds of hearths were bright--but outside, away from humanity and -its cheerful dreams, all Nature mourned, in the curse of the winter -solstice, drowned in the water-flood. Furlonger had left his hearth with -its cheery flames and loved faces and warm, sweet dreams of goodwill, -and was out alone with Nature, who had no warmth nor love nor -make-believe, only wet winds and winter desolation. - -He came to Dormans Land. The blinds were down, and through the chinks he -saw the leap and spurt of firelight. He stood where three roads met, and -the wind swept up from Lingfield, where the first stars had hung their -lanterns. He began to play--a dreary, springless tune, that struck cold -into the hearts of the few it reached through their closed windows. He -played the song of Christmas as Nature keeps it--the festival of life's -drowning and despair. - -No children came to dance. They were happy beside their parents, with -sweets and crackers and fun. They were keeping Christmas as man keeps -it, and drew down the blinds on Nature keeping it outside, and the lone -fiddler who felt it more congenial to keep it with Nature than to keep -it with men. - -Nigel stopped playing and looked around him into the gloom. He felt -disappointed because the children had not come to dance. He had broken -away from his brother and sister because he wanted those dancing -children so badly--and they had not come. Perhaps he had better go -further up into the village, since the children were not playing in the -street as usual, but in their homes. - -So he went up, and stood between the church and the Royal Oak. The place -seemed deserted--only a great, empty car stood outside the inn. Nigel -began to play, but again there was no response. The darkness came -fluttering towards him from the back streets of the village, and seemed -to creep right into his heart. - -Then suddenly it struck him that he played too doleful a tune for the -children. They liked lively airs--they found it hard to dance to those -bizarre mournful extempores of his. So he started "O Caro Nome," and -when that had jigged and rippled to an end, he played airs from Flotow's -_Martha_, and then his old favourite, "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble -Halls." - -The street was still empty. From a cottage close by came the wheeze of a -harmonium. He stood drearily snapping the strings with his fingers. Then -suddenly he realised how ridiculous he was--playing in the village -street, in the damp and the cold and the dark, when he ought to be at -home, eating and drinking and singing and joking because Christ was born -in a manger. - -He turned away--he was a fool. Why did he like seeing children -dance?--why did it hurt him so that they were better employed to-day? He -did not know. His life, his emotions, his heart, were like the twilight, -a dark and cheerless mystery. He could not understand half what he felt -in his own breast. He was himself only a child dancing in the dusk, to -an unknown fiddler playing a half-comprehended tune. - -The next moment he heard the inn door open behind him, and turning round -saw a short, broad figure on the doorstep, wrapped in an enormous -motor-coat. - -"Will you not play something else?" - -The words came heavily, with a teutonic lumber. Nigel saw a round, -florid face, and dark, very close-cropped hair. - -He hesitated--perhaps the stranger was making game of him. - -"I have been listening to you for some time, and now I have come to see -you. I am surprised. I do not think you are a beggar." - -"Not quite," said Nigel. - -"Well, play some more." - -Again Furlonger hesitated. Then he hoisted his fiddle to his shoulder -with a short, rather grating, laugh. - -He played the Requiem from _Il Trovatore_. - -There was silence. The darkness seemed to pass in waves over the sky, -each wave engulfing it deeper. The wind sobbed a strange little tune in -the eaves of the inn. - -"You have tortured my ears," said the stranger. Nigel flushed -angrily--so after all the idea had been to make game of him--"with your -damned Verdi." - -"How do you mean?" - -"You are too good to play Verdi." - -"Oh!" - -"What are your favourite composers?" - -"Gounod--Verdi--Balfe----" - -"Ai! Ai! Ach!" and the stranger put his hands over his ears. - -Nigel was beginning to be faintly amused. - -"Well, what's the matter with 'em?" - -"The matter?--they are dead." - -"That'll be the matter with us all, sooner or later." - -"Let us hope it will be sooner for some of us." - -Nigel looked into the stranger's face, and again experienced a slight -shock of surprise. The eyes in the midst of its florid circumference -were haunted with despair, grief-stricken and appealing. He suddenly -realised that it was not normal for a man to spend Christmas day in -lonely petrol prowlings. - -"Play some more." - -"I can only play Verdi and Balfe and those others." - -"Well, I'll try to endure it." - -"Look here," said Furlonger, "what's your game? Why should you want me -to play when you hate my music?" - -"I hate your music, but I like your playing. You are a wonderful -player." - -"Oh, rats!" and Nigel felt angry, he did not know why. - -"I repeat--you are a wonderful player. Who taught you?" - -"Carl Hauptmann." - -"Hauptmann!--he was a pupil of mine." - -"Then you're Eitel von Gleichroeder!" - -"I am." - -Nigel looked interested. Memories of his life in London revived--music -lessons, concerts, musical jargon, a lost world in which he had once -lived, but had now almost forgotten. He seemed to hear Hauptmann's -strange, coughing laugh as he chid his pupil for what von Gleichroeder -had just chidden him now--his abominable taste. "You are hobeless, -hobeless--you and your Balfe and your Bellini and your odder vons." Von -Gleichroeder he knew would take an even more serious view of the case, -as he had a reputation for ultra-modernism in music. Hauptmann's -contempt for Balfe and Bellini he carried on to Verdi and Gounod, even -Tschaikowsky, while though he was obliged to grant Beethoven supremacy -with a grudge, he passed over his works in favour of those of Scriabin, -d'Indy, Debussy and Strauss. - -"Well, well," said the musician, "play _Zampa_, play _Lucia di -Lammermoor_, play _La Somnambula_--any abomination you please--but -play." - -Nigel, with rather an evil grin, played _Zampa_. - -"Why do you like those things?" - -"Because they are pretty tunes." - -"Ach!--and why do you like pretty tunes?" - -Nigel stared at him full of hostility, then his manner changed. - -"Because they remind me of--of things I used to feel." - -He realised dimly that there was a subtle free-masonry between him and -this man. In a way it drew them together, in a way it held them apart. - -"What you used to feel. So! that is better. It's your heart they tickle, -not your ears." - -Furlonger nodded. - -"Do you play for your living?" - -"No--I am a farmer." - -"Then what are you doing here?" - -"I play for children to dance." - -Von Gleichroeder looked round, and shrugged his shoulders. He did not -seem particularly surprised. - -"Would you not like to play for grown-up children to dance? For -fashionable society to crowd to hear you, and gather round you like -children round a barrel-organ?" - -"Fashionable society won't waste much of its time on me. I've been in -prison three years for bogus company promoting." - -"So! But that is good. Without that attraction you could fill the -Bechstein, but with it you can fill the Albert Hall." - -"Gammon." - -"Not at all. My dear young man, I see a glorious future ahead of you, if -you will only trouble to secure it. Come to London and study music----" - -"Please don't talk nonsense." - -"It is not nonsense. You are wonderfully gifted. I don't say you are a -genius, for you are not--but you are wonderfully gifted, and your -history will make you interesting to the ladies. With your talent and -your history and--and your face, you ought to do really well, if only -some enterprising person would take you in hand." - -"Which isn't likely." - -"I beg your pardon--it is most likely. I will do it." - -Nigel was more surprised than grateful. - -"No, thank you." - -"Do not be proud. It is purely a business offer. I expect to make money -out of you, and--what do you call it?--credit. Listen here--if you -cannot pay my fees, I will give you a year's tuition free of charge, on -condition that I have a percentage on your salaries during the next -five years. That is a generous offer--many a young man would give much -to have me for professor." - -Nigel shook his head. - -"Thanks awfully--but I'm not keen on it." - -"And why?" - -"Well, for one thing, I don't want to make my stinking past into an -advertisement, and for another I don't want to go back to prison." - -"Prison!--that is a strange name for fame and big salaries." - -"I'm not thinking of those so much as of what must come before them--all -the grind and slavery. My music's the only part of me that has never -been in prison, and if I make a trade and treadmill out of it, I shall -be degrading it just as I have degraded everything else about me." - -"It will not be degradation--on the contrary." - -"And I don't believe I shall ever make myself a name." - -"That remains to be seen. I don't expect you to become world-famous, but -there is no reason why you should not be exceedingly successful in -England, where no one bothers very much about taste or technique. Taste -you have none, technique---- Lord help us!--but temperament--ach, -temperament! You have suffered--hein?" - -Nigel coloured. He could not answer--because he felt this man had -suffered too. - -"Of course, you have suffered--you could not play like that if you had -not. Without your suffering you would be a clever amateur--just that. -But now, because you have suffered, you are something more. 'Wer nie -sein Brod mit Thränen ass'--you doubtless know our Goethe's wonderful -lines. So"--and his dark, restless eyes looked up almost imploringly to -the sky--"sorrow has one use in this world." - -There was another pause. The village was quite dark now--lights -twinkled. High above the frosty exhalations of the dusk, piling walls of -smoke-scented mist round the cottages, the stars shone like the lights -of celestial villages, dotting the dark country of the sky. The Wain -hung tilted in the north, lonely and ominous, Betelgeuse was bright -above Sussex, Aldebaran burned luminous and lonely in his quarter. Nigel -watched the Sign of Virgo, which had just risen, and glowed over the -woods of Langerish. It flickered like candles in the wind. Then he -dropped his eyes to the darkness round him, and through it came the -creak of a harmonium. - -"Well?" said von Gleichroeder. - -"Well?" - -"Will you accept my offer?" - -"No, thank you." - -"Why?" - -"I've given you my reasons." The subtle sense of hostility put insolence -into his voice. - -"They are no reasons." - -"They are mine." - -The foreigner shrugged his shoulders. - -"So be it. I have made my offer--you have refused it. It is your own -concern." - -He took out his card-case, and presented his card to Furlonger. - -"In case you change your mind." - -This was anti-climax, and Nigel felt irritated. - -"I'm not in the habit of changing my mind." - -"Just as you please," and von Gleichroeder put back the card-case in his -pocket. - -"Good evening," he added politely. - -"Good evening," mumbled Furlonger. - -He turned away, and walked down the village to where the foot-path to -Wilderwick striped the fields. At the stile he paused, and realised that -he had been exceptionally insolent. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -WOODS AT DAWN - - -Nigel reached home only half-an-hour before supper-time. Len and Janey -did not receive him cordially, but he was too much preoccupied with his -adventure to notice their coldness or take their hints. He poured it all -out at the evening meal--the subtle sense of outrage which for some -unknown reason von Gleichroeder's offer had stirred up, contending in -his voice with a ridiculous, childish pride. - -Len and Janey were unfeignedly surprised. It had never occurred to them -that Nigel's playing was even tolerable--they had sometimes liked it in -the distance, that was all. - -"Fancy his wanting you to go and study in London," said Janey. "I'm glad -you refused." - -"So'm I"! - -"It would have been beastly losing you again, old man--we haven't had -you back three months." - -"Wouldn't you like to see me fill the Albert Hall?" - -"Well--er--if you could really do it, it might be interesting to -watch--just for once in a way. But I don't see that it would be worth -breaking up the 'appy 'ome, only for that." - -Nigel would have liked them to be more impressed, but they voiced his -own feelings exactly. - -"No--nor do I. Well, I've settled the old geyser, anyway--and now let's -forget all about him." - -Which they did at once. - - -That night Nigel had restless dreams. He dreamed he was playing to -crowded audiences in great nightmare-like halls that stretched away to -infinity. The circumstances were always unfavourable--sometimes he would -have only one string on his violin, and sometimes he would find himself -struggling with some horrible dream-begotten instrument with as many -strings as a harp. Once he dreamed that all the audience got up and -danced a hideous rigadoon, another time they all had the same face--a -dark, florid face that leered. - -Towards morning he dreamed a quieter dream. He was playing in a very -large place, but he had a rational instrument, and he was playing "I -Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." The melody floated all through his -dreams--the same as in waking hours, and yet not quite the -same--celestial, rarefied, wistful in heart and ears. He was also -conscious of a presence--he knew he was near Tony Strife; he felt her -close to him, and it was magic in his blood. The melody drifted -on--sometimes pouring out of his violin, sometimes seeming to come from -very far away. - - - "And I also dreamed, which pleased me most, - That you loved me still the same ..." - - -The music ceased abruptly, and he dropped his bow, looking round to see -Tony. She was not there; the great hall was empty--nothing but empty -seats stretching away into dimness--except that in the front row of all -sat two figures huddled together. He looked down at them, and at first -he did not know them, then he saw that they were Len and Janey, staring -up at him with hungry, loving eyes.... - -He woke and sat up, shivering a little. It must be late, for the winter -sky was white beyond the woods. Yet he did not feel inclined to rise. He -lay back, and folded his hands behind his head, staring out at the dull -line of brown that lay against the quivering, dawn-filled clouds. - -Those woods always put strange thoughts into his head. They made him -think of his own life, lonely, windy and sere. But some day the spring -would throb in them, their branches would shine with green, their -thickets would thrill with song; in their waste, desolate places -primroses would push through the dead leaves of last year.... He sat up -again with a jerk--for the first time he realised that the woods would -not be always brown. - -The thought gave him a faint shock of surprise. Ever since the day he -left prison he had looked out on brown woods, rocked by autumn and -winter winds, so that he had almost forgotten that autumn and winter -would not last for ever. He had never thought of spring, of March and -tender green, of April and first flowers, of sweet, quickening rains, -and winds full of warmth and the scent of young leaves. It was strange -that he should have forgotten spring. - -Now in the darkest day of the year, spring held out its promise to the -woods--and to him. The yellow of a hidden sunrise was filling the -clouds like hope unbounded--and Nigel's dream came back to him, his -dream of marble halls and of love that was "still the same." He saw -himself playing to thronged audiences, with Tony close to him, unseen, -intangible, but there--with all the sweet memories of Lingfield and -Brambletye revived and re-established, her friendship, candour, and -tenderness "still the same." - -Then he understood. Gulfs unbridgeable might lie between the convict -with his stained and broken life and the simple little schoolgirl of -Shovelstrode. But the well-known violinist who played for "big -salaries," who "filled the Albert Hall."... A terrible thing had -happened to Nigel--he had begun to hope. When hope has been a long time -away, the return of it is like the return of sensation to a frost-bitten -limb. It pricks, it burns, it tortures. It tortured Nigel till a cry of -anguish burst from him, bitterer than in any of his fits of despair. He -bent forward, clapping his hand to his side. - -Hope showed him the doors of his prison flung wide at last. For long -years he had never dreamed of escape, he was a captive, so fast in -prison that he could not get forth--free only among the dead. But now -the doors were open and he could go out. His music would raise him up -out of the pit, bring him back to an earth washed in rain and spring, to -touch the trembling innocence of the lilies, and drink the sweetness of -the eternal May. - -"Oh, God! Oh, God!--I want to be free! I want to be free!" - -The cry was not a prayer so much as the cry of his great hunger, -finding voice at last--"I want to be free! I want to be free!" - -His mind dropped hastily to practical details. He had seen von -Gleichroeder's address on his card, and that tough memory of his, which -was sometimes a curse to him, held it fast. He would write and tell him -he had changed his mind. It would be humiliating, but it must be done. -Then he would go to London, and work--and work. It was not only the -topmost pinnacle that could lift him out of his old life, the name he -would make for himself need not be a great name--as long as it was a -fair name. That was what he wanted, and would struggle for--a fair name. -Hard work, an honest livelihood, self-denial, constant communion with -the beautiful and inspired, would purge his soul of its defilement. The -hideous stain of his crime would be wiped off. When he had lived for -years in poverty and honesty, when he had brought by his music a little -sunshine into poor lives like those he had smitten, when the fields of -three counties had ceased to reproach him for his treachery, and the -name of Furlonger had some faint lustre from his bearing it--then he -would be free. And when he was free he would allow himself--not to claim -Tony's friendship or anything else beyond him, but just to think of -her--think of her with hope. - -Oh, Tony, little Tony! his little love! - -For weeks now he had known that he loved her. Though he had never dared -think of her as a woman, he wanted her. He had wanted women before, he -had had his adventures with them--though not perhaps as many as the -average man--but they had all been stale and ordinary, the stock line, -the job lot, which eager, extravagant youth pays high for as a novelty. -Now he had something new. He loved a little girl, scarcely more than a -child, parted from him by a dozen barriers of his own erecting. He loved -her because she was good and innocent, and had given him perfect -comradeship; most of all he loved her because of the barriers between -them, because she lived utterly apart from him, in a foreign land of -liberty and hope and uprightness, towards which he must strive hourly if -he were to gain even the frontiers. - -He scowled a little. He was not blind, and he knew that he would have to -go into slavery, perhaps for a long time, before this new freedom was -won. Even in an hour he had been able to see that von Gleichroeder was a -technique-fiend, and would make matters hot for his clumsy pupil. He -also realized that though the German had borne good humouredly with his -insolence, he would not be so patient when he became his master. Yes--he -would have a master--he would have to practise scales and exercises--he -would be reprimanded, lectured, ordered about. Herr von Gleichroeder -would be his master, and the tacit sympathy between them would but make -their relations more galling. - -There would be other sacrifices too. He would have to say good-bye to -Sparrow Hall, and to Len and Janey. He caught his breath--God! how he -loved Len and Janey! He had been brutal and heartless to them again and -again, but he loved them with a love that was half pain in its -intensity. He would have to be away from them perhaps for years. Yet -when he came back he would bring them a gift--the same gift that he -would bring Tony--a fair name. That was what he owed every one--the -world, his brother and sister, his little love. - -The very fact that he was taking his "stinking past" with him into the -future would to some extent remove its offensiveness. It was all very -well to talk of "starting afresh under another name." What he wanted was -to raise his old name--the name of Furlonger--out of the dust. The -convict should not just quietly disappear, he should be transfigured -into the artist, publicly, before the whole world. As his degradation -had been public, the comment of cheap newspapers, so should his -exaltation. - -A thundering knock at the door broke into his dreams. - -"Nigel, in the devil's name, get up!--breakfast's waiting." - -The next moment Len was in the room, tearing the bed-clothes off him. - -"You _are_ a fat lot of use on the farm!--I've got through half the -morning's work without you." - -"Then you won't miss me so much when I'm gone." - -"Gone where?" - -"To London." - -Nigel began to dress himself--Len stared at him gaping. - -"To London! why, you aren't going there, are you?" - -"I am." - -"To that man von what's-his-name?" - -"Of course." - -Len stared harder than ever. Then he suddenly lost his temper. - -"'Of course'!--there's no 'of course' about it--except 'of course not.' -Why, you told him you wouldn't hear of such a thing." - -"But I may change my mind, mayn't I?" - -"No--you mayn't. Look here, Nigel, you've led sister and self an -infernal dance for the last three months. Can't you chuck it?" - -"I'm going to chuck it--by leaving this place." - -Leonard saw his brother was in earnest. He came quickly towards him, and -laid his hand on his shoulder. - -"What have we done to upset you, old man?" - -"Nothing--you've always been sports." - -"Then why are you going?" - -Nigel hesitated. He could not bring himself to tell even this brother of -his sacred, half-formed plans. - -"You won't miss me," he faltered. - -"Won't miss you! Won't miss you!--what the devil d'you mean?" - -"I'm no use on the farm--I laze and I slack. You'll get on much better -without me." - -"Gammon! You're tumbling into it nicely, and if you go, I'll have to -hire a man--and there'll be the expense of your keep in London. No, no, -old chap--that won't wash." - -"Wait till you've tried it." - -"Haven't I been trying it for three years? Besides, my boy, this is only -beating round the bush. The main fact is that Janey and I would miss you -simply damnably." - -"Not really," said Nigel, his mouth drooping with a great tenderness, -"you'd soon feel the relief of being rid of me and my tantrums." - -There was a knock at the door. - -"That's Janey," cried Len. "Come in, old girl--I want you." - -Janey came in. Nigel was nearly dressed, and had begun to shave. - -"Breakfast's----" began Janey. - -"Yes--I know all about breakfast. That isn't what's the matter. Len -wants you to join him in trying to persuade me not to go to London." - -"But you're not going to London!..." - -"I'm writing this morning to von Gleichroeder to say I've changed my -mind." - -"No!... Nigel!" cried Janey. - -For a moment she stood as if paralyzed, then suddenly she darted towards -him, and flung her arms round him, looking up beseechingly into his -face. - -"Nigel! no!--you mustn't leave us--I can't bear it. Oh, say you won't!" - -"Damn you, Janey!--can't you see I've got a razor in my hand?" - -She was taking it even worse than he had expected. She seemed actually -terrified. - -"I can't live here without you," she cried brokenly, "indeed I can't." - -He gently disengaged himself. - -"Most people's difficulty," he said, deliberately lathering his chin, -"has not been how to live without me, but how to live with me." - -"But I can't live without you." - -"You've got Len." - -"But he's only--only half." - -"The better half. I'm a rotten lot, Janey. You'll be far happier when -I'm gone. I'm a sulky brute--don't contradict me; I know it. I'm a -sulky, bad-tempered brute. Again and again I've spoiled your happiness -and the lad's--I've done nothing but snap and snarl at you, and I've -gone whining about the place when you wanted to be cheerful. You've both -been utter sports to put up with me so long--you'll notice the -difference when I'm away, if you can't realise it now." - -Janey was sitting on the bed, drowned in tears. - -"Aren't you happy with us?" asked Leonard. - -"Hardly--or I shouldn't be going." - -He spoke with all the exaggerated brutality of the man who sees himself -obliged to hurt those he loves. - -"It's not your fault," he continued in a gentler voice, "it's mine. I'm -such a waster. I'm a miserable, restless rotter, bound to make myself -and every one else unhappy. Now if I go to London, I shall work--I shall -have something to live for." - -"Fame, you mean," sobbed Janey. - -"Well, something of that kind." - -He had finished shaving, and came and sat down by her on the bed, -forcing her drowned eyes to look into his. - -"Janey, don't you want me to be famous? Wouldn't you like to be the -sister of a well-known violinist instead of Convict Seventy-six? -Wouldn't you like to see me fill the Albert Hall?" - -"Fill hell!" shouted Leonard. "D'you really believe all the rot that old -bounder spoke?" - -"Well, it isn't likely he'd teach me for nothing if he didn't expect to -make something out of me." - -"Yes--that'll be just what he'll do--and he'll make a fat lot more than -you will." - -"Oh, don't go!" sobbed Janey. - -Nigel looked wretchedly from one to the other. - -"Janey," he cried, drawing her close to him, and quivering in the agony -of his appeal, "Janey, can't you understand?--I want to start a new -life, I want to throw off all my beastly past. I want to make my -name--your name--clean and honourable. I dragged it into the mud, and I -must pull it out again. Oh, I've suffered so, Janey. I can't get out of -prison, I feel more helplessly shut up than ever I did at Parkhurst. But -now I--can be--free." - -The last words burst from him in a choking cry. He flung himself back -from her, and looked into her eyes. Then he was surprised, for he saw in -them, swimming in tears, a glimmer of understanding. - -"Janey," he continued, putting his lips close to her face, and mumbling -his appeal almost incoherently, "I can't expect you to grasp all that -this means to me. You're good, you're pure--you don't know what it is -to have a horrible stain on your heart, which all your tears don't seem -able to wash away. But can't you put yourself for a moment in my place -and realise what it is to hunger for a decent life, to dream of -whiteness and purity and innocence, and burn to make them yours?--to be -willing to give the whole world--just to be--clean?" - -"I think I can," said Janey. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE SERMON ON FORGIVENESS - - -Half-an-hour later the three Furlongers sat down to a cold breakfast. -They were almost silent, for there was nothing more to be said. The -matter was settled. Nigel had found an unexpected ally in Janet, and had -carried his point. Directly after breakfast he wrote to von -Gleichroeder. It was a difficult letter, for it meant nothing less than -eating humble pie, but for that very reason he did not take long over -it. An envelope addressed in his large, scrawling hand was soon ready to -be posted. - -It was a clear, cold day, this feast of Stephen. A frosty sunshine -crisped the grass, scattering the damps of yesterday's fog. The lane -smelled of frost as Nigel walked up it to the post-office. But he did -not see it as it was--in the duress and beggarliness of winter; he saw -it as it would be, bursting with spring, full of scent and softness and -song. He pictured those naked bushes when spring had clothed them, those -grey banks when spring had fired them--the hedges were full of future -song, the hollows of primroses to be. - -He posted his letter, then stood for a moment, looking southward. The -sunshine was so clear that the rims of distant windows gleamed with -white across the fields. He could see the windows of Shovelstrode.... - -Dared he? - -After all, he would have to. He could not leave Sparrow Hall without -seeing Tony. He would not tell her of her place in his plans, but he -owed it to her and to himself that she should think of him as a man -living uprightly, striving after honour. Now she was thinking of him as -a scoundrel and an outcast--he came into her thoughts with a shudder. It -must not be. - -At the same time he was afraid. It gave him a strange, cold qualm to -think he was afraid of Tony, once his comrade, now his love--but he was. -If he meant to see her, he must go at once, before his resolve lost -strength with spontaneity. He turned towards the south, where the -sunshine lay. - -As he came near Shovelstrode his quakings grew. After all, by the time -he had made himself worthy to think of her, she would have given herself -to another. He could not even hint that he wanted her to wait. He must -trust to her aloofness to keep her free, and the memory of their -friendship to keep alive in her heart a little spark that he could some -day fan into flame. But it was all rather hopeless, a leap in the dark. - -Perhaps, even, she would refuse to see him. He remembered the look in -her eyes when she had turned from him by Goatsluck Farm. All the -steel-cold virtue, all the ignorant horror, all the cruelty of youth had -been in that look. Perhaps she had turned from him for ever. Perhaps -nothing that he could ever achieve or be would wipe out from her memory -his foul betrayal of others and herself. - -But he went too far in his fears for utter despair. Reaction set -in--hope began once more to lacerate him, and whipped him forward to -make his last desperate appeal to the fates that had always hitherto -been deaf and blind. - -He hesitated a moment when he came to the house. The servants might know -who he was and not allow him in, or he might be seen by some of the -family. It struck him that he had better go and look for her in the park -before risking himself on the doorstep. She had once told him that she -often wandered among the pines. - -He slipped round behind the lodge, and was skirting the lawn at the back -of the house, when he saw one of the French windows open and a girl come -out with her dog. His heart gave a suffocating leap, and something -seemed to rise in his throat and stay there, making him gulp -idiotically. He had never before felt any emotion at the sight of -her--just pleasure, a calm, slow-moving comfort. But to-day his head -swam, and he could hardly see her as she came running and skipping -across the lawn in a manner wholly at variance with her long skirts and -coiled-up hair. - -She turned aside before she reached the bushes that hid him, and he just -managed to call after her-- - -"Tony!--Tony!" - -The dog barked, and the next minute had scented him, and came cantering -over the grass. Tony stood still and listened. She looked uncertain, and -he called again-- - -"Tony!" - -She turned quickly, and slipped behind the bushes, running to him along -the path. When she was a few yards off she stopped dead. - -"Mr. Furlonger...." - -She stood outlined against a patch of wintry sky. It was the first time -that he had seen her since her return. He thought that she was paler -than in the valiant days of their friendship, and certainly the way she -did her hair gave her a grown-up look. The stifling sensation in his -throat became worse, and he could not speak. - -"What is it ... Mr. Furlonger?" - -"I--I want to speak to you." - -"Oh, no! I can't!" Her voice was quite childish. - -"I must--please do." - -She hesitated a moment. - -"Then come into the shrubbery. We can be seen here from the house." - -"I know. I'm not here to get you into trouble. I--I only came to say -good-bye." - -"Good-bye," she repeated vaguely, not quite understanding him, for her -heart had said good-bye to him long ago. - -"Yes--I'm going to London." - -They were walking away from the house to where the pine-needles were -thick under their feet--on a little, moist path smelling of winter. The -sunshine came slanting down on Tony as she stopped, showing up her slim, -strong figure in a cold purity of light. It rested on her hair, and he -saw golden threads in it--in her eyes, and he saw golden sparks in them. -For the first time he realised how beautiful she was in all the -assurance and unconsciousness of her youth. He longed to tell her so. -Instead he muttered-- - -"How grown-up you look." - -"Do I?--it's my hair, I suppose." - -"Did they make you put it up?" - -"Aunt Maggie said I was old enough--and I think so too." - -"I hope you don't mind my coming here to see you." He was desperately -embarrassed, and her manner did not reassure him. "I'm going away, you -see, to study music, and I--I thought I should like to say good-bye." - -"Oh, no," she said rather awkwardly, her excessive youth showing nowhere -more clearly than in her inability to put him at his ease. "Oh, no, I'm -glad you came--to say good-bye." - -"I'm going to work very hard. There's a fellow--Eitel von Gleichroeder, -I don't know if you've heard of him--who's taken a fancy to me, and says -he'll coach me if I'll take up the violin professionally." - -"I didn't know you played." - -"Yes--but I'd no idea I was any good till I met this chap. He says I -ought to make quite a decent thing out of it. I--I think it's worth -trying." - -"Oh, yes." - -"You see," he continued, his voice shaking with emotion, "I want to -start a new life--to be respectable, I suppose you'd call it. If I win -fame as a violinist--and von Gleichroeder thinks I may--I--I shall have -lived down everything." - -"Yes ... of course." - -It was embarrassment, not lack of interest, that made her replies so -trite. Memories of their friendship--now dim and far-off, separated from -her by many wonderful happenings--were creeping up to her and filling -her with a vague uneasiness. - -As for Nigel, he realised now what had taken place. He understood why -his tongue had suddenly become tied in her presence, and his eagerness -collapsed into shuffling uncouthness. He had come to Shovelstrode to -speak to a little girl--and he had found a woman. Tony the schoolgirl, -the hoyden, the gay comrade, was now nothing but a little ghost haunting -the slopes of Ashdown and the secret lanes of Kent. In her place stood a -woman--come suddenly, as the woman always comes--and the woman, he knew, -was trying to call back the girl, and see things from her eyes once -more--and could not. - -"Tony--Miss Strife--I wanted to tell you this, just to show you I'm not -always going to be a convict on ticket-of-leave." - -"I'm sure you won't. I hope you'll become very famous." - -The words passed her lips in jerks. Her memories of him carried -something very like repulsion. The more she struggled to revisualise the -comradeship of two months ago, the greater was her distaste and -humiliation. The kindest attitude possible for her now was one of -embarrassed shyness. At first she had tried to heal herself with her -memories, but as soon as she had worked back to them she found their -sweet secrets all sicklied with bitterness and shame. - -He looked steadfastly at her, and he saw what had happened. - -"Tony--you don't want to know me any longer--you want to forget we ever -were friends. There's no good denying it, for I can see it." - -She stood motionless, her lips white, her hands clenched in front of -her. - -"It's true--I can see it," he repeated. - -She did not speak. Her memories were calling very loud, and there were -tears in the voices, softening the shame. - -"You can't bear the thought of having once been my friend." - -Tears were rising in her throat, and with her tears the little -school-girl who had run away came back, and showed her face again before -she went for ever. - -"Oh, it's hurt me!" she cried. "You don't know how it's hurt me!" - -"To know I was a bad 'un?" He grasped the shaking hand she thrust out -before her. - -"Yes--I can't bear to think...." - -"But I've changed--I swear I have. I'm going to live a decent life; and -you're going to help me--by just saying you believe I can." - -She shuddered, and pulled her hand away. - -"I tell you I've changed," he exclaimed bitterly; "won't you believe -me?" - -She was crying now. - -"You don't understand ... you don't understand ... what one feels about -men like you." - -He winced. - -"You don't know what I felt ... when I heard...." - -"Tony!" he cried, "you _must_ forgive me." - -"I do forgive you--it's not me you've hurt--but----" - -"'But' you don't forgive me, and it is you I've hurt--that's what your -'but' means." - -There was another silence, broken only by her muffled crying and the -throbbing of the wind in the pine-tops. Nigel felt that his old life was -struggling in its cerements to spring up and strangle the new life at -its birth. - -"I can't understand," sobbed the girl, "how you or any man could have -done such a horrible thing. You've been merciless and cruel and grasping -and unworthy--and you won my friendship by false pretences, by lies and -shams--when all the time you knew that if I'd had any idea who you -really were I wouldn't have let you come near me. Oh, it probably seems -only a little thing to you, but it's dreadful for me to think I've given -my friendship to a man who's been a--a cad." - -His anger kindled, for her inexperience and ignorance no longer -attracted him--they were now only fragments that remained of something -he had worshipped. - -"Then are you going to inquire into the history of every man you meet, -in case any one else should 'win your friendship under false -pretences'? Most men have had a little shake up in their pasts." - -"You don't call yours a little shake up, do you?" - -The retort was obvious, and he flushed--but at the same time it gave him -an unwonted courage. - -"No, of course not. But you mustn't think it's been just as easy for me -to keep straight as for you. Do you realise what being a man means?--it -means to be tempted." - -"Women are tempted." - -He laughed. - -"But not like men." - -He saw the incredulousness of her eyes, and once more his rage flared -up. - -"You don't understand!" he cried, "you don't understand!" - -Then it struck him that she would never understand, that she would go -through life with her narrow ideas, acquired in a girls' school and -nurtured in her home. All her divine womanly powers of sympathy and -forgiveness would be strangled by her ignorance and her hard-and-fast -rules based on inexperience. She was the only woman he knew of her -class, but he knew the limitations of that class, and Tony would soon be -bound by them like the others. Janey was so different--Janey realised -what one felt like when one simply had to go on the bust, when one came -beastly muckers. She scolded, but she understood. Tony did not scold, -and she did not understand. - -"I want you to understand," he said painfully. - -"What?" - -"About me--about other men." - -"Why do you think I don't understand?" - -"You don't!--you don't! You simply can't--and if you go on as you are, -you never will. Oh, I wish you could! You're too good to be like--other -women." - -Something in his nervous, excited manner frightened her, and strange to -say that faint thrill of fear removed the shame which had tarnished her -attitude towards him that day. Once more she felt the subtle magic of -his unusualness--the attraction of Mr. Smith. - -"Tell me," she said in a low voice, "tell me about yourself." - -He laughed a little. - -"Oh, my story is just every man's. I've mucked it a bit worse, that's -all. But the fight's pretty well as hard with all of us. Directly we're -grown up, almost before, there are people going about whose paid -business it is to tempt us. Tempting us, just when Nature has made it -most difficult for us to resist, is the profession of thousands of human -beings. We fall--we often fall--for if we didn't a powerful set would -have empty pockets--so they see that we fall. And then we can't pick -ourselves up, we sink deeper and deeper into the mud ... and some of us -touch bottom." - -He paused, but she did not speak. Her face was turned away. - -"The horrible thing I did," he continued almost roughly, "which, if -you'd only believe me, I loathe as much as you do--I did only as the -consequence of other things, not quite so bad, before it. If a woman -like you had come along when I first fell--I was only nineteen--she -might have pulled me up again. But she didn't come. Other women came, -and they knocked me flatter. They couldn't forgive. Poor devils! I don't -blame them--they'd a great deal to forgive. I went down--and down--till -it became a sort of habit to lie there in the ditch. Then you came, and -I--I wanted to get up." - -She still looked away from him, but her head was bowed. - -"Oh, Tony--won't you give me a hand?" - -"How can I?" - -"By just believing I can and will do better, and by saying that if I -live a decent life, and pull my name out of the dirt, and make myself -fit to know you, I may be your--friend. You've a right to punish me, but -I ask you to put aside that right for--for pity's sake." - -"I don't see why you want my forgiveness so much--why it means such a -lot to you." - -"It means the world to me. Oh, Tony--little pal that was--forgive me! -Life's a hard, rotten, wretched thing, and if there was no one to -forgive...." - -"I'll try." - -"Oh, please try! If you think, you'll come to understand things -presently, even if you can't now. It's for your own sake as well as mine -I ask it. Think how many a man who lies in the mud wouldn't be there if -only he had some woman to forgive him." - -"I'll try----" she repeated falteringly. - -"Then I've got what'll keep me going for the present. And, Tony, you'll -believe that I can and will behave decently, and make myself worthy to -be your--your friend?" - -"Yes, I'll believe it." - -"Thank you." - -She was trembling from head to foot. - -"Good-bye," he said. - -"Good-bye." - -He took her hand, and longed to kiss it. But he was still humble and -afraid, and let it fall. - -"Tony--Tony--you will have to forgive me a great many things ... because -I am so very hungry." - - - - -BOOK II - -THE WORLD AGAINST THE THREE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -GLIMPSES AND DREAMS - - -I - -There was a foam of anemones in the hollows of Furnace Wood. The wind -crept over the heads of the hazel bushes, bowing them gently, and -shaking out of them the scent of their budding. From the young grass and -tender, vivid mosses crept up more scents, faint, moist and earthy. The -sky was grey behind the stooping hazels, but glimmered with the yellow -promise of noon. - -Janet Furlonger and Quentin Lowe had met to say good-bye in Furnace -Wood. The scent of spring was in Janey's clothes, and when her lover -drew her head down to his shoulder he tasted spring in her hair. But -there was not spring on her lips when he sought them--only the salt wash -of sorrow. - -"Why do you cry, little Janey? This is the beginning of hope." - -Another tear slid down towards her mouth, but she wiped it away--he must -not drink her tears. - -"Quentin ... I hope it won't be for long." - -"No, no--not long, little Janey, sweet, not long. It can't be. In six -months, perhaps in less, you'll have a letter asking you to come up to -town and marry a poor but independent journalist." - -"You really think that this time you're going to succeed?" - -"Of course. Do you imagine I'd touch Rider's idiotic rag with the tongs -if I didn't look on it as a stepping-stone to better things. There's a -mixed metaphor, Janey. Didn't you notice it?" - -"No, dear." - -"You're not critical enough, little one. You're worthy of good -prose--when I'm too weak and heavy-hearted for poetry." - -The wind sighed towards them, bringing the scent of hidden water. - -"I must leave you, my own--or I shall be late. Now for months of hard -work and hungry dreams of Janey, who will be given at last to my great -hunger. Little heart, do you know what it is to hunger?" - -She trembled. "Yes." - -"Then pity me. Pity me from the fields when you walk in them, as you and -I have so often walked, over fallen leaves--pity me from your fire when -you sit by it and see in the embers things too beautiful to be--from -your meals when you eat them--you and I have had only one meal together, -Janey--and from your bed when you lie waking in it. Janey, Janey--pity -me." - -"Pity ... yes...." - -He was holding her in his arms, looking into her beautiful, haggard -face. A sudden pang contracted her limbs, then released them into an -abandonment of weakness. - -"Quentin ... promise me that you will never forget how much you loved -me." - -"Janey!" - -"Promise me." - -"Janey, how dare you!--'loved you'! What do you mean?" - -"Oh, please promise!" - -She was crying. He had never seen her like this. Hitherto at their -meetings she had left the stress and earthquake of love to him, fronting -it with a sweet, half-timid calm. Now she clung to him, twisted and -trembled. - -"Promise, Quentin." - -"Well, since you're such a silly little thing, I will. Listen. 'I -promise never to forget how much I loved you.' There, you darling fool." - -"Thank you ..." she said weakly. - -He drew her close, kissed her, and laughed at her. - -"Janey--you're the spring, with its doubts and distresses. You were the -autumn when autumn was here, all tanned and flushed and rumpled, with -September in your eyes. Now you're the spring, thin, soft, aloof and -wondering--you're sunshine behind a cloud--you're the promise of August -and heavy apple-boughs." - -"And you'll never forget how much you loved me...." - - -II - -The golden lights of late afternoon were kindled in London, warring with -the smoky remnants of an April day. They shone on the wet pavements and -mud-slopped streets--down Oxford Street poured the full blaze of the -sunset, flamy, fogged, mysterious, crinkling into dull purples behind -the Circus and the spire in Langham Place. - -The Queen's Hall was emptying--crowds poured out, taxi-horns answered -taxi-whistles, and the surge of the streets swept by, gathering up the -units, and whirling them into the nothingness of many people. It -gathered up Nigel Furlonger, and rushed him, like a bubble on a torrent, -down Regent Street, with his face to the darkness of the south--lit from -below by the first flash of the electric advertisements in Piccadilly -Circus, from above by the first pale, useless glimmer of a star. - -He walked quickly, his chin lifted, but mechanically taking his part in -the general hustle, not too much in dreamland to make way, shift, pause, -or plunge, as the ballet of the pavements might require. His hands were -clenched in his pockets. He, perhaps alone among those hundreds, saw the -timid star. - -A dream was threading through his heart, knitting up the tags of -longing, regret and hope that fluttered there. A definite scheme seemed -now to explain the sorrow of the world. The armies of the sorrowful had -received marching orders, had marched to music, had been given a nation, -and a song. Nigel had heard the Eroica Symphony. - -In his ears was still the bourdon of drums, the sigh of strings, the -lilt of wood-wind, the restless drone of brasses. He had heard sorrow -claim its charter of rights, vindicate its pleadings, fight, triumph and -crown itself. He had seen the life-story of the sorrowful man, presented -not as a tragedy or a humiliation, a shame to be veiled, but as a -pageant, a tremendous spectacle, set to music, lighted, staged, -applauded. - -At first the sorrowful man was half afraid, he sought refuge and -disguise in laughter, he pined for distraction and a long sleep. But -each time he touched his desire, the wailings of heavenly wood-wind -called him onward to holier, darker things. He had dropped the dear, -dustless prize, and gone boldly on into the fire and blackness.... A -thick, dark cloud swagged on the precipices of frozen mountains, frowned -over deserts of snow. The sorrowful man stumbled in the dark, and his -loud crying and the flurry of his seeking rose in a wail against the -thudding drums of fate. Gold crept into the cloud, curling out from -under it like a flame, and the sorrowful man seemed to see a human face -looking down on him, and a hand that held seven stars.... "Who made the -Seven Stars and Orion...." It was by the light of those stars in the -Hero's hand that the sorrowful man saw, in a sudden awful wonder, that -he was not alone--he marched in the ranks of a huge army. All round him, -over the frozen plain, under the cloud with its lightnings, towards the -blackness of the boundless void, marched the army of the sorrowful, -unafraid. They marched in mail, helmeted, plated, with drawn swords. The -ground shook with the thunder of their tread, the mountains quaked, the -darkness smoked, the heavens heeled over, toppled and scattered before -the conquering host whom the Lord had stricken--triumphant, fearless, -proud, crowned and pierced.... - -Footsteps overtook Nigel, and he heard the greeting of a fellow -student. - -"You're in the clouds, old man. Who sent you there? Beethoven?" - -Nigel stared. - -"But the only cosmic genius is Offenbach." - -"You mean the 'Orphée'?" - -"Yes--and 'Hoffmann.' Life isn't a triumphal march, for all Beethoven -would make it--it's comic opera, with just a pinch of the bizarre and a -spice of the macabre. That's Offenbach." - -Furlonger was still marching with the stricken army. - -"When a man suffers," continued the student, "the gods laugh, the world -laughs, and last of all--if he's a sport--the man laughs too." - -"Sorrow is a triumph," said Nigel, dreamily. - -"Not at all, old man--sorrow is a commonplace. The question is, what are -we to make of the commonplace--a pageant or a joke? I'm not sure that -Offenbach hasn't given a better answer than Beethoven." - - -III - -In a small room in Gower Street a man lay on his bed, his face crammed -into the pillow, his shoulders high against his ears, his legs twisted -in a rigid lock of endurance. Now and then a shudder went through him, -but it was the shudder of something taut and stiff, over which the -merest surface tremble can pass. - -In his hand he crushed a letter. Behind his teeth words were forming, -and fighting through to his colourless lips. "Janey!--my Janey! Oh, my -God! I can't bear this." - -He suddenly twisted himself round on to his back, and faced the aching, -yellow square of the window, where a May day was mocked by rain. There -was a pipe close to the window, and the water poured from it in a quick -tinkling trickle, cheering in rhythm, tragic in tone. Quentin unfolded -Janey's letter. - -He read it--but that word is inadequate, for he read it in the same -spirit as an Egyptian priest might read the glyphs of his divinity, -seeing in each sign a volume of esoteric meaning, so that every jot and -tittle was worthy of long minutes' contemplation. - -It was some time since Janey's letters had ceased to be for Quentin what -she hoped. Literally they were rather bald and laboured, for Janey was -no penwoman, but she put a wealth of thought and passion into the -straggling lines, and for a long while he had seen this. But now he saw -much more, she would have trembled to think of the meaning he read into -her words--he tested each phrase for the insincerity he felt sure it -must conceal, he hunted up and down the pages for that monster unknown -to Janet, the _arrière pensée_. Her letters were a torture to him--they -tortured his brain with shadows and seekings, they tortured his heart -with blue fires of misgiving and scorchings of jealousy. She did not -write oftener than once a week, but the torment of a single letter -lasted till its successor at once varied and renewed it. - -Lying there in the hideous dusk of what should have been a summer -afternoon, Quentin wondered if the doom of love and lovers had not been -spoken him--"thou canst not see My Face and live." - -It was a vital fear. Before he had brought his love to its consummation, -snatched the veil from its mysteries, and looked it in the face, it had, -in spite of hours of anguish, been his comfort, the strongest, -tenderest, purest thing in his life. But now he saw, without much -searching, that this love, though deeper and fiercer than ever, belonged -somehow to his lower self. To realise it brought despair instead of -comfort, wreckage instead of calm. He dared not, as in former days, -plunge his sick heart into it as into a spring of healing waters--rather -it was a scalding fountain, bubbling and seething out of death. - -He had hoped that perhaps separation would make him calmer. Of late he -had often denied himself the sight of Janey in that same vain hope. But -now, as then, he found her letters almost as disintegrating as her -presence--indeed more so, since they gave wider scope to his familiar -demon of doubt. He wondered if he would ever find rest. Would marriage -give it to him? He started up suddenly on the bed. An awful thought was -thrust like a sword against his heart--the thought that even in marriage -he would not find peace. - -He had fallen into the habit of looking on marriage as the end of -sorrows--and now, when fate and hard work seemed to have brought it -within gazing-distance of hope, he suddenly saw that it would be as full -of torment as his present state; or rather, more so--just as his present -state was an intensification of the pain of earlier days. He -realised--hardly definitely, but with horrible acuteness--that he had -allowed love to frustrate love, and that by his demand to look into that -great dread Face, he had brought on himself scorching and blindness and -doom. - -"Thou canst not see my Face and live." - -He sprang off the bed. His pulses were hammering, his blood was thick, a -kind of film obscured his eyes, so that he groped his way to the -dressing-table. A clock struck four, and he suddenly remembered an -engagement he had that afternoon. He would go--it would distract him. He -might forget Janey--if only for an hour, he would be free of the torment -that each thought of her carried like poison in a golden bowl. It was -strange, it was terrible, that he should ever have come to want to -forget Janey--and it was not because he did not love her; he loved her a -hundred times more passionately than ever. But the love which had once -been his strength and salve had now become a rotten sickness of the -soul. - -He dressed himself, removed as far as possible the stains of sorrow and -exhaustion from his face, and plunged out to take his place in the -restless, ill-managed pageant of the pavements, where threads are -tangled, characters lost, and cues unheard. He was going to a -semi-literary gathering at a friend's flat in Coleherne Gardens. He did -not look forward to it particularly, but it might help him in his -twofold struggle--to win Janey in the future and forget her for the -present. - -The room was crowded. Hallidie was presiding over a mixed assembly of -more-or-less celebrities with that debonair self-confidence which had -helped make him a famous novelist in spite of his novels. There were one -or two great ones present, just to raise the level--he did not introduce -them to Lowe. He knew exactly whom they would like to meet, and Lowe, he -felt, would let the conversation down, just when it was becoming yeasty -with literary wit. There were other people in the room who showed a -tendency to do this, and Hallidie had carefully introduced them to one -another, so that they could all fail mutually in a well-upholstered -corner. - -"Ah--Lowe. Glad to see you. Come, let me introduce you to Miss -Strife"--and sweeping Quentin past the renowned author of _Life and How -to Bear It_, and Dompter, the little, insignificant, world-famous -sea-poet, he presented him to a very young girl, sitting alone on a -divan. - -Quentin's first feeling was one of outrage. What right had Hallidie to -drag him away from the pulse of things, so vital to his struggling -ambition, and condemn him to atrophy with a flapper. He stared down at -her disapprovingly--then something in her wistful look disarmed him. - -"I believe our fathers are neighbours in the country," he said stiffly. - -He did not notice her reply. It was not that which made him stop his -furious glances at Hallidie and sit down beside her. She was evidently -very young. There was a lack of sophistication about her hair-dressing -which proclaimed an early attempt, her frock was simple and girlish, her -face alert and innocent. - -Quentin found himself gulping in his throat, almost as if tears had -found their way there at last; for he suddenly realised how new and -beautiful it was to sit beside a woman and not be tormented. As he -looked at her delicate profile, the pure curves of her chin and -collarless neck, his heart became suddenly still. There was a great -calm. Peace had come down on him like water. Simplicity rested on his -parched thoughts like rain-clouds on a desert. He seemed suddenly to -come back to life, to the world, and to see them in the calm, usual -light of every day. The racket, the glare, the sense of being in an -abnormal relation to his surroundings--all were gone. For the first time -in his complicated, sophisticated, catastrophic life, Quentin Lowe was -at peace. - - -IV - -It was late in June. A haze wimpled the pine-trees of Shovelstrode, and -the heather between their trunks was in full flower. The old house -shimmered in the haze and sunshine, and stared away to yellow fields of -buttercups and distances of brown and blue. - -Tony and Awdrey Strife were lying in the shadow of a chestnut on the -lawn. Two young gracious figures in muslins, they lay with their chins -on their hands, and looked away towards the golden weald. They did not -speak much, for the post had just come, and they were reading their -letters. Awdrey giggled to herself a good deal over hers, but Tony was -serious--the corners of her mouth even drooped a little, but whether -from sorrow or tenderness or both it would be hard to say. Suddenly she -made an exclamation. - -"What's the matter?" asked Awdrey. - -"It's a letter from Furlonger." - -"_The_ Furlonger!" - -"Yes--he's written me quite a long letter." - -"What cheek. I thought you'd seen the last of him." - -"He came to say good-bye before he went to London." - -"Oh----" - -Awdrey rolled over on her side, and stared hard at her sister. - -"Did he know you were in town last month?" - -"No--I've never written to him, and this is the first time he's written -to me." - -"Then he hasn't shown unseemly eagerness--it's nearly six months since -he left. What does he say?--anything exciting?" - -"Exciting for him. Von Gleichroeder is giving a pupils' concert at the -Bechstein, and Mr. Furlonger is going to play." - -"A solo?" - -"Yes--something by Scriabin. He's only had six months' teaching, but von -Gleichroeder's so pleased with him that he's going to let him play at -this concert of his. Then he'll finish his course, and then he'll start -professionally." - -"Good Lord!--it sounds thrilling for an ex-convict. Let's see his -letter." - -"Here it is. No," changing suddenly, "I think I'd rather read it to -you." - -"Right-O! Excuse a smile." - -"Don't be an idiot, Awdrey. Now listen; he says: 'Von Gleichroeder's -concert is fixed for the twenty-seventh'--why, that's next Friday--'and -it's been settled that I'm to play Scriabin's second Prelude. It sounds -like cats fighting, but it's exciting stuff. Von Gleichroeder is -tremendously keen on the ultra-moderns--nothing makes him madder than to -hear Verdi or Gounod or Rossini. So I play d'Indy and Stravinsky and -Strauss and Sibelius; except when I'm alone in my digs--and then I have -the old tunes out, for I like them best.'" - -She did not read the next paragraph aloud. - -"I've been having a hard fight for it, Tony--but I'm pulling through. -Music has helped me, and the memory of our friendship, and the thought -that you're trying to understand me and forgive me." - -"Well, I wish him luck," said Awdrey; "what a good thing von -Gleichroeder found him out!" - -"Yes, he'll have his chance now--his chance of a decent life." - -"Nonsense, Tony! That's not what he's after--fame and dibs, my dear -girl, fame and dibs." - -"He told me he was accepting von Gleichroeder's offer because he wanted -to be--good." - -"Well, London's a queer place to go for that." - -"He's gone there to work. He had no chance here." - -"More chance than he'll have there--you bet he's painted the place -pretty red by this time." - -Her sister was about to retort sharply, when a man suddenly came round -the corner of the house towards them. - -"Awdrey!" cried Tony, springing up. "Here's Quentin!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME - - -The door was wide open at Sparrow Hall, and a square of sunshine lay on -the kitchen floor. In the little flower-stuffed garden bees were humming -lazily, and a thrush was singing in the last of the laburnum. Tangles of -roses trailed over the farm-house walls, they hung round the -window-frames, darkening the rooms, and over the door, sending faint -perfumes to Janey as she sat in the kitchen. - -She looked pale and washed-out with the heat. The outlines of her -splendid figure were drooping, and there was an ominous hollowing of the -curves of her face and arms. She sat at the table, her cheek resting on -her palm, reading from a pile of letters. They were long letters, -closely written in a sharp, scrawling hand, on thin paper that crackled -gently as she fingered it. Every now and then she looked up anxiously, -and seemed to listen. Then her head would bow again, and the paper would -crackle softly as before. - -At last the garden gate clicked, and she saw the postman's cap coming up -the path between the rows of sweet peas. She sprang to her feet, -trembling and fighting for her self-command. She reached the door just -as he lifted his hand to knock. - -"A letter for you, miss," and old Winkworth smiled genially. - -The colour rushed over Janey's cheeks like a wave, then as a wave ebbed -out again. She took the letter with a hand that shook piteously, her -lips parted and a low laugh broke from them. Then suddenly her -expression changed--in such a manner that Winkworth muttered anxiously-- - -"Fine afternoon, ain't it, miss?" - -"Yes--a glorious afternoon. Good-day, Winkworth." - -"Good-day, miss," and he shambled off. - -Janey turned into the house, and dropping into her chair by the table, -began to sob childishly. It was more from exhaustion than grief--the -exhaustion of hopes strained to breaking-point, and then allowed to -relax again into disappointment and frustration. She was so dreadfully -tired--she so longed to sleep, quietly, deeply, at once. She laid her -head on the table, and her shoulders heaved, straining and struggling as -if the burden of her sorrow were physical. - -Then suddenly she noticed the unopened letter, and her sobs broke out -with even greater vehemence. Nigel! poor Nigel! She had not opened his -letter--she had flung it aside and forgotten it, because it was not -Quentin's. It was the day of his concert, too--what a beast she felt! - -She tore open the envelope, and wiped away the tears that blinded her. - - - "MY OWN DEAR JANEY, - - "This is just to keep myself from thinking of that damned concert. - It's scaring me a bit--more than a bit, in fact. Who would have - thought that any one with my past could suffer from stage - fright?--but that little thing of Scriabin's is the very devil. Old - von G. has been ragging me no end over it--we nearly came to blows - last practice. I hope you and the lad don't mind my not wanting you - to come up for the show; I feel it would be the last straw for you - two to see me make a fool of myself--not that I mean to, but you - never know what may happen. Cheer up--you shall come and help me - when I fill the Albert Hall. - - "By the way, I saw that little bounder Quentin Lowe at a concert at - the Queen's last Sunday. - - "Now, good-bye; I'm turning into bed. This time to-morrow it'll all - be over, and I'll send you a telegram. Greetings to the lad. - - "Ever yours, dear, - "NIGEL." - - -Janey folded the letter with trembling hands. It filled her with a kind -of pitiful anguish, for she knew that the only thing in it that -interested her was the reference to Quentin. Nigel's wonderful concert, -about which she and Len had dreamed so many dreams, had faded into the -background of her thoughts, driven out by her sleepless, bruising -anxiety for her lover. - -It was over a fortnight since he had written. She had before her his -last letter, in which he said: "I will write again in a day or two, and -tell you the exact date of my return." She had waited, but the letter -had not come. She had written, but had had no answer. What could have -happened? - -There had been nothing in the past few weeks to make her expect this -silence. His last bid for independence had met with more success than -the others. He had fought hard against failure and discouragement, and -had now found work on one or two good dailies. Their marriage was at -last in sight. He was expected home for a couple of weeks' holiday, then -he would work on through the autumn, and there was no reason why, if -things prospered, they should not be married soon after Christmas. - -Yes--at last their marriage was a thing to be reckoned with, talked -about, and planned for. For the first time Janey could consider such -things as home and outfit, breaking the news to her brothers, and -leaving Sparrow Hall--all were now within the range of probability and -expectation. But a terrible gloom had settled on these last days. It was -not merely her sorrow at leaving the farm and the boys--it was something -less accountable and more tempestuous than that. It had its source in -Quentin's letters. She could see that he was not happy--their marriage, -their longed-for, prayed-for, wept-for, worked-for marriage, was not -bringing him happiness. On the contrary, his suffering seemed to have -increased. His doubts and forebodings had been transferred from material -circumstances to more subtle terrors of soul--he doubted the future more -passionately, because more spiritually, than ever. - -Janey had not been able to understand this at first, but in time his -attitude had communicated itself to her, though whether her distrust was -independent or merely a reflection of his, it would be hard to say. -Anyhow, she doubted--fiercely, miserably, despondingly. She had started, -on his recommendation, to make herself some clothes, but the work lagged -and depressed her. She found herself hungering for the early times of -their courtship, when their marriage was a dream made golden by -distance. She thought of the days when his name had rung like bells in -her heart, without a horrid dissonance of fear, when his letters were -pure joy, and the thought of meeting him pure anticipation. Would those -days return?--And now, here was his silence, consuming her. Why didn't -he write? He had been so eager in his last letter, though, as usual, -eagerness had soon been throttled by despair. - - - "I shall have you--I shall have you at last, my beautiful, tall - Janey, for whom I hunger. But I am filled with doubts. There are - some men in whose mouths manna turns to dust and the water of life - to gall. Everything I touch is doomed. Either my soul or my body - betrays me--my soul is so hot and my body so weak--so damnably - weak. If only my hot soul had been given a stout body, or my weak - body a weak soul ... then I should have been happy. But now it is - the eternal fight between fire and water." - - -Janey pushed the letter aside, and picked up another. She had been -trying to comfort herself with Quentin's letters, but they were not on -the whole of a comforting nature. His restless misery was in them all. -If his last letter had been happy, she would not have worried nearly so -much. She would have put down his silence to some trite external -cause--pressure of work or indefiniteness of plans--he had always been -an erratic correspondent. But his unhappiness opened a dozen roads to -her morbid imaginings. It was dreadful to think that all she had given -to Quentin had only made him more unhappy. - -Perhaps he was too miserable to write--not likely, since he was one of -those men whom despair makes voluble, but nevertheless a real terror to -her unreason. Perhaps he had not received her last letter, and thought -that she had played him false--he had always been jealous and inclined -to suspicion. This last idea obtained a hold on her that would have been -impossible had not her mind been weakened by anxiety. She had heard of -letters going astray in the post, and probably Quentin had been -expecting one from her, and not receiving it had been too proud to write -himself. Or perhaps he had received it, but had thought it cold. He had -often taken her to task for some fancied coldness which she had never -meant. - -In her desperation she resolved to write again. Hastily cramming his -letters into the boot-box where she unromantically kept them, she seized -paper and ink, and began to scrawl despairingly-- - - - "MY DARLING, DARLING BOY, - - "Why don't you write? Didn't you get my last letter? I posted it on - the 16th. Quentin, I can't stand this suspense. Are you unhappy? - Oh, my boy, my boy, my heart aches for you. I know you suffer--and - I can't bear it----" - - -The pen fell from her shaking hand as footsteps sounded in the garden. -The next minute Leonard came in--luckily for Janet he was not very -observant. - -"Well, Janey--I've sent off the wire." - -"What wire?" she asked dully. - -"To the old bounder, of course--to buck him up for to-night. I said -'Cheer up. You'll soon be dead.' That ought to encourage him." - -Janey smiled wanly. - -"Meantime I've got a piece of news for you. It'll make you laugh. But -let's have a drink first--I'm dreadfully thirsty. This weather dries one -up like blazes." - -"There's beer in the cupboard." - -"Right-O! Now we'll drink to Nigel's very good health. Have some, old -girl. No? But I say, you look as if you needed it. You're as white as -chalk." - -"It's only the heat. What's your news, Len?" - -"Nothing much, really--only that little misshapen monkey Quentin Lowe's -engaged to be married." - -"Quentin Lowe...." - -Janey's voice seemed to her to come from very far away, as if some one -in another part of the room were speaking. She grew sick and faint, but -at the same time knew it was all ridiculous. - -"Yes--I don't wonder you're surprised. Guess whom to." - -"Are you sure--quite sure?" - -"Yes, of course. I had it from his father. Guess whom to." - -"I can't ... I--I can't believe it." - -"Yes, it's no end of a joke, isn't it? You'd never think a woman would -be fool enough to have him, when you can get the genuine article from -any organ-grinder. But stop laughing, Janey, and guess who it is." - -"I--I can't.... Did you really hear it from his father?... It can't be -true. Quentin's in London." - -"He's been there for the last three months, but he came home on -Wednesday." - -"Wednesday----" - -"Yes--why not? But you haven't guessed who the girl is yet." - -"I can't guess ... tell me, Len." - -"Well, it's Strife's youngest daughter, the one that's just come out." - -Janet made a grab at Leonard's half-emptied glass and drained it. - -"That's it--drink her health. She'll need it." - -"Len--did--did you really hear it from old Lowe?" - -"Well, I heard it first of all in the Wheatsheaf. I've been as thirsty -as hell all the afternoon, so on my way back from the post-office I -turned in at the old pub for a pint. Dunk told me, Dunk of Golden -Compasses. Then no sooner had I got outside than I saw the old -devil-dodger prancing along, and I couldn't resist howling to -him--'Hear your son's engaged--wish him victory in the strife.' He -looked poisonous, so I just said, 'You'll be letting strife into your -household.' To which he deigned reply, 'I -am--ah--um--completely--ah--satisfied with -my--ah--son's--um--matrimonial choice." - -Janey managed to reach the window. - -"He met her a lot in town, I believe. Of course, he'd known her father -down here, but had never met the girl herself. I believe it all happened -pretty quick. Dunk says so. I don't see how he knows, but every one -always seems to know everything about engaged couples." - -"Is that all?" - -"What more do you want?--I'm off now to Cherrygarden Farm--I promised -Wilsher I'd be round to look at those chicks of his." - -"Don't be long...." - -"What time's supper?" - -"Any time you like." - -"Well, make it half-past eight. It's a good peg over to Cherrygarden, -and if I come back by Dormans I can send another wire to Nigel." - -"Oh, don't, Len!" - -"Why ever not?" - -"I don't see that it's so ... so very important that he should know." - -"About what?" - -"The--the engagement." - -"You silly old girl! I wasn't going to wire him about that--waste of a -good sixpence that would be! But don't you realise that at eight -to-night _the_ concert begins? I telegraphed to him an hour ago, just -to buck him up beforehand--next time I want to catch him in full -squeak." - -"Very well--but, Len ... don't be late." - -She was still standing by the window, but something in her words made -him go across to her. - -"You're feeling seedy, Janey?" - -"Just a bit washed-out." - -"It's the heat, I expect. It's made me feel a little queer too." - -"Then ought you to go to Cherrygarden?" - -"I must--and it's getting cooler now. Take care of yourself, old sister, -and don't sit too much in this hot kitchen." - -He squeezed her hand, and went out. She watched him go, blessing his -obtuseness, even though it was leaving her to fight through her awful -hour alone. He went down the path, and out at the gate--then she -staggered back into the room, and fell in a heap against the table. - -She had not fainted, though she longed to faint--to win the respite of -forgetfulness at whatever cost, if only for a minute. She lay an inert, -huddled mass against the table-leg, motionless except for a long shudder -now and then. All power had left her limbs--they indeed might be in a -swoon--but her brain throbbed with a dazzling consciousness; it seemed -as if it had drawn into itself all the consciousness of her body, -leaving senses dull, nerves dumb, and muscles slack, in order to prime -itself with the whole range of feeling. - -Strange to say, pain was not the paramount emotion, and despair was -scarcely present. Rather, she was consumed by a passionate sense of -doubt--of Quentin, of herself, of the whole world. It was like the -sudden removal of a prop which one had thought could not be shaken--it -was like a sudden precipitation into a world where the ordinary cosmic -laws did not hold--she seemed almost to doubt her own identity in that -first gasp of revelation. - -It could not be true. Quentin could not have failed her like this. -Leonard must be mistaken. If one were to see the sun setting in the east -or the sea on fire one would doubt one's senses, one would not doubt the -universal laws. Neither would she doubt Quentin--she rather would doubt -Leonard's senses, doubt her own. - -She had not in the whole course of her love doubted Quentin. It was he -who had doubted her, who had tormented her with his distrusts and -jealousies. "I'm only a misshapen little bounder, Janey--the first -decent man who comes along will snatch you from me. But he will never -love you as I do--Janey, Janey, little Janey" ... the words seemed to -come from outside her, from the shadowy corners of the room. She sat up -and listened. They came again--"Janey, my own little love, my little -heart--our love wounds, but it is the wound of immortality, the wound -which must always be when the Infinitely Great lifts up and gathers to -itself the infinitely little." ... "Stand by me, stand by me--I have -nothing but my sword. I threw away my shield long ago. If you do not -stand by me I shall fall." ... "Janey, love, dear little love, with eyes -like September."... - -She crouched back in terror. Was she going mad? No, these were only -words from Quentin's letters--the letters she had just read--ringing in -her strung and distracted brain. - -"Love, my little sweet love, do you think of me sometimes in the long -evenings when I think of you?--sometimes when I am thinking of you, I -tremble lest you should not be thinking of me...." "Do you know how -often I dream of you, Janey? You come to me so often in sleep--once you -stood between me and the window, and I saw the stars through your hair. -Oh, God!--when I dream I hold you in my arms, and wake with them -empty."... - -She could stand it no longer. She sprang to her feet--the strength of -desperation had come at last. There was one only who could tell her -which she was to doubt--her own senses or, as it seemed to her, the -cosmic laws of his love. - -She would go over to Redpale Farm--she would see Quentin, she would have -an explanation. There would be one--and she would take her stand boldly -beside him, against his father, against the whole world--though she, -like him, had thrown away her shield long ago. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -ONLY A BOY - - -It was about four o'clock, and in spite of what Leonard said, not much -cooler than at noon. The sun scorched on the hay-grass, drawing out of -it a drowsy perfume, which a faint, hot breeze scattered into the -hedges. The trees scarcely moved, and their shadows were rusted with the -curling sorrel. Clumps of dog-roses and elder flowers splashed the -bushes with sudden pinks and whites, while vetches trailed their purples -less startlingly in the hedgerows. - -Janey walked fast, and every now and then she ran for little sprints. -Her breath sobbed in her throat, her eyes were fixed and her hands -clenched. She climbed recklessly over gates, and plunged through copses; -her hair was soon almost on her shoulders, flying from her face in -wisps, straggling round her ears; her face became flushed and moist with -the heat--she tore her sleeve, and scraps of bramble hung on her skirt. -What woman but Janey would have rushed to confront a faithless lover in -such a state? But even now, when almost any one would have realised how -much depended on her appearance, she was careless and oblivious. She did -not feel in the least dismayed at the start given by the servant who -admitted her, nor, later, by her own reflection in a mirror in the -study. - -It was the same little book-lined room in which she had had tea with -Quentin on her first visit to Redpale. There was the glorious Eastern -rug which he had said "had her tintings--her browns and whites and -reds." There was the big pewter jar that had then held chrysanthemums, -but held roses now. They were delicate white roses, faintly, sweetly -scented. Janey went over to them and laid her hot face against them. She -could hardly tell why, but they seemed to bring into the room an alien -atmosphere. Quentin had never given her white roses--as a matter of fact -he had given her scarcely any garden flowers, except chrysanthemums--he -had once said that only wild flowers were for wild things. She thought -of bunches of buttercups, of broom with bursting pods, of hazel sprays -and tawny grasses. Now she suddenly wished that he would give her a -white rose. She took one out of the jar, and was trying to fasten it in -her breast when footsteps sounded outside the room. - -She turned deadly pale, and dropped the rose. For the first time she -felt that she had been foolish to come. Quentin might be angry with her, -for her coming would rouse his father's suspicions. Her hurry and -desperation might prejudice him against her. In an unaccustomed qualm -she realised that she was flushed, dishevelled and perspiring. She felt -at a disadvantage, and drew back as the door opened, seeking the shadows -by the hearth. - -"Janey!" - -He stood in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his chin thrust forward, -his pale face bright in the gleaming afternoon. His youth struck her -with a sudden appeal--his youth and delicacy, both emphasised in the -soft yellow light--and a sob tore up through her breast. - -"Oh ..." she said, and moved towards him. - -He shut the door. - -"Oh, I'm sorry I came!" she cried. - -He did not speak, but came forward, stopping abruptly a few feet away. - -"Janey--I want to explain...." - -"Explain...." She had not thought there would be any explanation -needed--or, if needed, possible. - -"Yes--I ought to have written, but I couldn't, somehow--or rather, I -wrote you a dozen letters, and tore them all up." - -She wondered why she felt so calm. - -"I--I asked my father to call and see you." - -"You mean to say--he knows?" - -"Yes." - -"Oh, my God!" - -Her calmness staggered, and all but collapsed. For the first time her -doubts gave way to even bitterer realisation. This confession to -Quentin's father, this betrayal of the secret she had spent her health -and happiness for four years to keep, made her grasp what an hour ago -had seemed beyond the reach even of credulity. - -"Quentin--why did you tell him?--how could you!--after all we've -suffered...." - -"I--I--I was desperate, Janey, I had to tell some one, and he was so -sympathetic--much more than I'd expected." - -"When did you tell him?" - -"The night I came back from town." - -"After the--the rest was settled?" - -He nodded. - -"Quentin, have you told _her_?" She was accepting the impossible quite -meekly now. - -"No, no!--I can't tell _her_." - -She waited a moment for what she thought the inevitable entreaty not to -betray him. Thank God!--it did not come. - -"She would never forgive you," she said slowly. "Young girls don't." - -"And you, Janey...." - -She drew back from him. - -"You can't ask me that now." - -"Why?" - -"Well--well, can't you see I hardly realise things as yet. An hour ago I -preferred to doubt my own senses rather than doubt you. Now----" - -"You doubt me." - -"No, I don't doubt you. I'm convinced--that you're a cad." - -Her voice, clear at the beginning of the sentence, had sunk almost to a -whisper. He shrank back, wincing before her gentleness. - -She herself wondered how long it would last, this unnatural calm. It -came to her quite easily, she did not have to fight for it, and yet the -general sensation was of being under an anæsthetic. She only half -realised her surroundings, this horrible new earth on which she was -wandering homeless; her emotions seemed dull and inadequate to the -situation--it would be a relief if she could feel more. - -Then suddenly feeling came--it came in a tide, a tempest, a whirlwind. -It shook her like an earthquake and blasted her like a furnace. She -staggered sideways, as a great gloom darkled on her eyes. Then the -shadows parted, and she saw Quentin's face, half turned away--pale, -fragile, sullen, the face of a boy--of a boy in despair. - -"Quentin!" she cried. "Oh, my boy--my little boy! You aren't going to -behave like a cad." - -"But I am a cad, my dear Janey." - -He spoke brutally, in the stress of feeling. - -"Oh, Quentin!--Quentin!" - -She was losing not only her calm, but her dignity--yet she did not heed -it. She sprang towards him, seized his hands, and gasped her words close -to his ear, as unconsciously he turned his head from her. - -"Quentin, you can't forsake me--not now--not after all I've given -you--you can't, you can't! You loved me so much--you love me still. You -can't have stopped loving me all of a sudden like this. And if you love -me, you can't forsake me. Quentin, I shall die if you forsake me." - -"Janey--let me explain. I can't explain if you're so frenzied. Oh, -Janey, don't faint." - -She fell back from him suddenly, and he caught her in his arms. - -The soft weight of her, her warmth, the familiar scent of her hair and -her tumbled gown, snatched him back into departing days. He suddenly -lost his self-command, or rather his sense of the present. He clasped -her to him, and kissed her and kissed her--as eagerly, passionately and -tenderly as ever in Furnace Wood. She did not resist or shrink, her -eyes were closed, and she lay back a dead weight in his arms, drinking -her last despairing draught of happiness.... His clasp grew tighter--oh, -that he would crush the life out of her as she lay there under his -lips!... - -Then suddenly he dropped his arms, and they staggered back from each -other, piteously conscious once more of the present and its doom. - -"Janey, Janey ... I can't--I mustn't love you." - -"But you do love me----" - -She sank into a chair, and covered her face. - -"Yes--I love you. But it's in byways of love. Can't you understand?" - -She shook her head. - -"Don't you see that, all through, my love for you has been unworthy--the -worst in me?..." - -She tried to speak, but her words were unintelligible. - -"You and I have never been happy together----" - -"Never?..." - -"Yes--at times. But it was a blasting, scorching happiness--there was no -peace in it. We doubted each other." - -"I never doubted you." - -"Yes, you did. When I said good-bye to you before going to London, you -made me promise never to forget how much I'd loved you." - -"But it wasn't you I doubted then. I doubted fate, chance, God, anything -you like--but not you." - -She had recovered her self-control, and her voice was hard and even. - -"Oh, don't, Janey!" - -"Why not?--why should I spare you? You haven't spared me." - -"You mustn't think I intended you to--to hear things in this way. I'd -meant to give you an explanation first. But the news leaked out----" - -"Well, you can give me an explanation now." - -"I'll try--but it will be very difficult," he said falteringly. "You're -like a flood to me--I feel giddy and helpless when I'm with you. I don't -think I'll ever be able to make you understand. I wish you hadn't come -like this--I wish----" - -"Please go on, Quentin." - -Her manner disconcerted him. He could not understand her alternations -between hysteria and stolid calm. - -"You mustn't think I don't realise I've behaved like a skunk. But I -don't want to dwell on it--it would only be putting mud on my face to -make you pity me--but I do ask you to try to understand me.... Janey, -I've done this for your good as well as mine. You shared the misery and -ruin of my love. In saving myself, I've saved you too. Janey, -Janey--don't you see that our love was nothing but a rotten sickness of -the soul?" - -He looked at her anxiously, but her face was expressionless as wood. - -"You and I have always been more or less wretched together, and though -at first I felt our unhappiness was doing us good--strengthening us and -purifying us--of late I felt it was doing us harm, it was disorganising -and unmanning us...." - -He paused--even an outburst of fury or denial would have been welcome. - -"To begin with," he continued in an uncertain voice, "I thought it was -the hopelessness of it all that was making it so dreadful, but when our -marriage was actually in sight--of hope, at least--I felt matters were -only getting worse. My thoughts were like sand and fire--my love was -like the salt water I compared it to long ago, with madness in each -draught. I felt our marriage would be a bigger hell than anything that -had gone before it--and yet, I wanted you! Oh, God! I wanted you!" - -She bowed forward suddenly, over her clenched hands. - -"Janey, Janey--I don't want to hurt you more than I must. It's not your -fault that every thought of you was fire and poison to me. You were just -a weapon in fate's hands to wound me--we were both in fate's hands, to -wound each other." - -Paradoxically it was at that moment the old impulse returned. He came -forward, holding out his arms to her. But this time she shrank back, -cowering into the chair. Her movement brought him to his senses. - -"You see how I can hardly speak to you. I must get on, and get done. I -want to tell you how I met _her_ ... Tony." - -Janey shuddered. She had now come to the most awful pain of all. - -"Tony ..." repeated Quentin. She noticed how he dwelt on the word, as if -he were drawing strength from it, and at the same time she saw a slight -change in his manner. He lifted his head and spoke more steadily. - -"I met her at a literary function, and I sat beside her all the evening. -I remember every minute--I didn't speak much, nor did she, but a -wonderful simplicity and calm seemed to radiate from her, a beautiful -innocence---- What is it, Janey?" - -"Nothing--go on." - -"She was so young, scarcely more than a child--young and sweet. When I -got home that night I felt for the first time an infinite peace in my -soul--I felt all quiet and simple. I didn't worry or brood any more. I -wasn't in love with her then--oh, no!--but I wanted to meet her again, -just for the quiet of it. I did meet her shortly afterwards, and it was -as beautiful as before. Then suddenly it all rushed over me--I wanted -her, for my own; because she was pure and childlike and simple and -inexperienced." - -The confidence of his voice had grown, and in his eyes was something -Janey had never seen there before. She now realised a little what Tony -meant to him--what she, Janey, had never meant. She knew now that she -could never win him back, and more, that she did not particularly want -to. Tony stood to Quentin for all that was lovely and heroic in -womanhood, whereas she, his Janey, had never been more to him than the -incarnation of his own desperate passions. She stepped back, and the -action was symbolical--she stepped out of his way. Her pleadings would -no longer harass and shake him, she would leave him to his salvation, -since he loved it better than the woman who had meekly renounced hers -for his sake. - -"I grew desperate for her," continued Quentin, in the new assured voice. -"Oh, don't think I gave you up without a struggle!--I had a dreadful -time. I suffered horribly. But what will not a man do for his soul? I -felt that my soul was at stake. It's damned rot to talk of men turning -away from salvation--no man can get a real chance of salvation and not -grasp it at once. Oh, don't think it didn't cut me to the heart to treat -you as I did! I felt a swine and a cad, but I saw that I was grasping my -only chance of redemption--and yours too. I couldn't help it, I tell -you--no man can. Oh, don't think that if I could have saved myself with -you, I wouldn't have done it rather than.... Oh, my God!--but I -couldn't." - -There are moments in a woman's life when she is simply staggered by the -selfishness of the male, and yet to every woman there is something -inevitable about it, so that it does not stir up her rage and contempt, -as it would if she saw it in her own sex. Janey felt no anger with -Quentin, she only thought how pitifully young he looked. - -There was a pause--a long pause, broken by the rustling of the wind in -the garden. Janey's eyes were fixed on Quentin's face, her whole being -seemed concentrated upon it, all her thoughts, all her passion, all her -pity. Poor child! poor, poor boy! - -"Tony is very young," she said suddenly. - -"Yes, only seventeen." - -"And she's very good and gentle and well-bred." - -He nodded. - -"And she's never done anything really wrong." - -"No." - -There was another silence. This time it was Quentin who stared at Janey. -He was still strong in the assurance Tony gave him; he was glad that -they had begun to discuss her--he had not that feeling of being left -alone with Janey, which at first had threatened to make the interview so -terrible. At one time it had seemed almost as if the past had risen to -swamp him--but now Tony had come to hold back the floods. The thought of -her changed everything somehow, altered the old values, weakened what -before had been invincible. Janey's face stood out from the shadows, -washed in the indiscreet light of the afternoon, and for the first time -he noticed a certain age and weariness about it. She was twenty-eight, -nearly four years older than he, but he had never thought of her in -relation to years and time. She had been to him an eternity of youth, -her age was as irrelevant as the age of a play of Shakespeare or a -symphony of Beethoven. But now he realised that she was -twenty-eight--and looked it. There were hollows under her cheek-bones, -where full, firm flesh should have been; there were tiny lines branching -from the corners of her eyes, very faint, still undoubtedly there; and -the autumnal colour on her cheeks did not lie as evenly as it might. - -These discoveries brought him a strange sense of relief. He had hitherto -looked on her loveliness as unapproachable, and the thought of her -physical perfection had been a mighty factor in the war that had raged -so devastatingly in his heart. But now he saw that it was no longer to -be reckoned with. Tony was, in point of fact, more beautiful than Janey. -His eyes travelled down from her face, and saw her collar all askew, her -blouse hanging sloppily out at the waist, her shoe-string untied. Tony -always wore such dainty muslins, such soft, pretty white things.... Then -he noticed Janey's hair. For the first time he wondered whether she -brushed it often enough. - -His spirits revived wonderfully during this contemplation, and with them -a surge of tender pity towards her. He did not want her to feel -humiliated by his unfaithfulness. - -"Janey, you mustn't think I don't thank you and honour you for all -you've been to me." - -"You don't know what I've been to you." - -"What do you mean?" - -"You don't realise what I've sacrificed for you. You talk of Tony -Strife's purity and innocence as if it was more to her credit to have -them than for me to have given them up--for your sake." - -"Janey----" - -"Listen, Quentin. There's one thing this girl will never do for you--I -did it--and I think that now you despise me for it, in spite of your -words. You don't know what it cost me. I did my best to hide my pain -from you, because you were happy; but now I think you ought to know that -this thing for which you despise me was--was the greatest act of -self-sacrifice in my whole life. Oh, Quentin, I always meant to keep -straight, because of my brothers, and because--because I wanted to be -pure and good. Oh, I loved goodness and purity--I love them still, quite -as much as Tony Strife loves them--and there were the poor boys, with -only my example to restrain them. And then I loved you--and you asked me -to climb over the gates of Paradise with you, because they would never -be unlocked. Oh, God! I yielded because I loved you so. I gave up what -was dearer to me than anything else in the world, the one thing I was -struggling to keep unspotted, for my own sake and the boys'. I gave it -up to you--and now ... and now ... you talk about another woman's purity -and innocence." - -Her voice died into tearless silence. - -"Janey, you mustn't feel like that--you mustn't think that I reproach -you. It's myself I blame--not you." - -"But you do--you do--and I ought to have known it from the first." - -He could not speak, the words stuck to his tongue--he wanted to fall at -her feet, but could not, for he knew it would be mockery. - -"I can't say anything," he stammered huskily; "we're just the victims of -a damnable mistake, and the less we say about it the better. Each word -one of us speaks is a wound for the other. There's only this left-- - - - 'And throughout all eternity - I forgive you, you forgive me-- - As our dear Redeemer said: - This the wine and this the bread.'" - - -"You don't believe in the dear Redeemer, do you?" - -"Of course not--but it's poetry." - - -They had neither of them realised that the interview was near an end, -but these last words seemed to have finished it somehow. They were both -standing, and the silence remained unbroken. - -Then suddenly Janey moved. An absolutely new impulse had seized her. She -went over to the glass, and looked at herself in it. Then she smoothed -her hair, arranged her gown, made it tidy at the waist, and buttoned it -at the wrists. Quentin watched her in blank wonder--he had never before -seen her pay the slightest heed to her appearance. But to-day she stood -a full five minutes before the glass, patting, smoothing, -arranging--settling every fold of her careless garments with minutest -care. Then she turned to him. - -"Good-bye, Quentin." - -Her head was held high--one would scarcely know her in her sleekness and -order. - -"Janey--you forgive me." - -She did not speak. - -"Janey--for God's sake!--oh, please forgive me!--because I've suffered -so much, because I've wanted you so, because I've struggled to find -redemption...." - -His eyes burned, full of entreaty. But at first she could not answer -him. She moved slowly towards the door, but stopped on the threshold, -and looked back at him, her heart hot and sick in her breast with pity. -She had never realised Quentin's youth so absolutely and heartrendingly -as to-day. - -"I forgive you," she said, "but not for any of those reasons. I forgive -you because you are--oh, God!--only a boy." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -FLAMES - - -Janet walked quickly through the darkening country. A power from behind -seemed to be driving her on--a hot, smoky power of uttermost shame. It -was symbolised by the thunder-vapour that curled in the east, a black, -swagging cloud that lumbered towards the sunset over reaches of -heat-washed sky. - -She hardly realised how she had won through that interview at Redpale -Farm. The details were dim and jumbled in her memory, like the details -of what has taken place just before an accident or during an illness. -She hoped she had not been undignified, but really did not care very -much about it. The tension which had characterised both her calmness and -her hysteria was gone--her emotions seemed to flop. Unlike so many -women, pride gave her no support in her dreadful hour. - -But her feelings were merely relaxed, not subdued, and her loose, -run-down nerves quivered as agonisedly as during their stretch and -strain. The realisation of all she had lost swept over her heart, -engulfing it. The very fields through which she walked were part of this -realisation--it was here, or it was there, that she had stood with -Quentin on such and such a day, or had watched him coming towards her -out of the mist-blurred distance, or seen him go from her, stopping to -raise his arm in farewell, just there, where the foxgloves lifted purple -poles in the ditches of Starswhorne. She could see the thickets of -Furnace Wood, hazed over with heat--they were haunted now, she would -never go near Furnace Wood again. Two ghosts wandered up and down its -heat-baked paths, rustled in the hazels, and stood where the tufted -hedge shut off Furnace Field--loving and dumb. They were not the ghosts -of dead bodies, but of dead selves--of two who walked apart in distant -ways, who would never again meet each other save in memory and in sleep. - -A metallic hardness had dropped upon the day. The arch of the sky was -steel, sunless, yet bright with a cold sheen; at the rim it dipped to -copper, hot and sullen, save where in the west two brazen bars sent out -harsh lights to rest on the fields and make them too like brass. - -Janet at last reached Sparrow Hall, and as she did so, for the first -time felt physical fatigue. It came upon her in a spasm--she was just -able to stagger into the kitchen, and sink down in her accustomed chair, -every muscle aching and exhausted, her head splitting with pain, and her -body shuddering with a sudden and unaccountable sickness. - -For some time she did not move, she just fought with the sheer physical -discomfort of it all. Her head lay on the table, her arms were spread -over the wood, and the collapsed line of her shoulders was of utter -powerlessness and pain. Then two tears rolled slowly from her eyes--they -were part of her physical plight, and for it alone she wept. For the -sorrow of her soul it seemed as if she could only weep dry salt. - -Oh, merciful God!--Quentin looked upon her love as his ruin, and turned -from her in panic to another woman. In this other love he would find the -peace and happiness and goodness that Janey had ached and striven for -years to give him; he would learn to forget the wicked Janey Furlonger, -whose love had all but been his perdition, who had brought him to sin -and torture and despair--and now would lie in the background of his -heart, as an evil thing we cover up and pray to forget. This young, -innocent girl would save him from his memories of the woman who had -given more for his sake than Tony Strife would ever dream of giving. He -did not realise her sacrifice--she had given up for his sake the -innocence and purity that were more to her simple soul than life, and -now he turned from her because she had them not. - -Then for the first time a convulsion of wrath seized Janey. For the -first time she saw the cruelty and outrage of it all. Her anger blazed -up--against Quentin, against the world, against herself. His last letter -lay on the table. She seized it, and thrust it into the fire. Then she -noticed the box that held his other letters. She seized that too, and -crammed it into the grate. Long tongues of flame shot out, and suddenly -one of them caught her dress--she screamed, flames and smoke seemed to -wrap her round, and in madness she rushed to the door. A man was in the -passage. He grasped her, and held her to him, beating out the flames. - -"Quentin!" she shrieked, "Quentin! Quentin!" - -"Janey--darling sister! There! it's all over now. The fire's out. Are -you much hurt?" - -"Quentin! Quentin!" - -Leonard picked her up bodily, and carried her into the kitchen, sitting -down by the fire with her on his knee. He began to examine her. Her -skirt was nothing but charred rags, her face and hands were black with -grime, and there was a horrible smell of singed hair, but she did not -seem to be actually burnt. She was trembling from head to feet, her face -hidden against his breast. - -"I don't think you're really hurt, dear. What a lucky chance I happened -to be there! If I'd done as I said and gone to Cherrygarden, you might -have been burnt to death. How did you do it, Janey?" - -"I was burning Quentin's letters.... Oh, Quentin! Quentin!" - -The last dregs of Janey's self-control were gone. Anxiety, shock, grief, -humiliation, love, despair and sickening, physical fright, all crowded -into a few short hours, had almost deprived her of her reason. - -"Quentin! Quentin!" she cried, clinging to Leonard. - -She was so tall that he had difficulty in holding her on his knee while -she struggled. - -"Janey, I can't understand, dearest. Who's Quentin?--not Quentin Lowe?" - -"Yes--Quentin Lowe. Lenny, Lenny--he doesn't love me any more." - -Leonard kissed her smoke-grimed face repeatedly. He was utterly -bewildered. - -"He doesn't love me any more," she continued, gasping. "He loves Tony -Strife--he's going to marry her. Lenny, he's a devil." - -"My darling, can't you tell me what it is? Did you ever love him?" - -"Oh, I loved him! I loved him! I gave up all I had to him. Lenny, he -thinks my love was his ruin ... he wants to be happy and good, and he -thinks he can't be either if he loves me ... he says-- - - - 'And throughout all eternity - I forgive you, you forgive me.'" - - -"My poor old Janey, I'm going to carry you upstairs." - -"I can walk," and she tried to stand, but he had only just time to catch -her. - -"I'm going to carry you. Poor, poor Janey--see what a big baby you are." - -He carried her up the rickety stairs, into her room, laying her on the -bed. - -"Would you like to undress?" - -"No--no--Lenny, don't leave me." - -He was in despair. - -"Janey, dearest, I wish you'd tell me what's happened. I can't comfort -you properly when I don't know. Do you really mean to say that you love -Quentin Lowe?" - -"I love him ... oh, I love him ... but he's a devil." - -"Did he know?--did he love you?" - -"Yes, he loved me ... and he made me give up everything for his sake ... -and now he's going to marry another woman ... Oh, Lenny, Lenny, I want -Nigel!" - -"Janey--don't--I simply can't bear this. Don't give way so--he isn't -worth it." - -"Oh, I knew you'd say that." - -"I won't say it if you don't like it. But don't be in despair--you'll -soon feel better--you'll get over it. And meantime there's Nigel and -me...." - -"Oh, I want Nigel!" - -"I'll wire to him to come down for the week-end, after his concert." - -"Lenny ... you'll never forsake me?" - -"What on earth are you talking about?" - -"I don't expect--I daren't----" - -"What do you mean?" - -"The disgrace ..." - -He stared at her in bewilderment. - -"Oh, Lenny ... I don't think you understand." - - -She had made him understand at last--and in the process had strangely -enough recovered something of her self-control. At first she had thought -his brain could never receive this ghastly new impression; but gradually -she had seen the colour fade from his lips, while a terrible sternness -crept into his eyes; she had seen his hand go up to his forehead with -the swift yet uncertain movement of one who has been smitten. - -"My God!" - -Leonard stepped back from the bed. - -She lay gazing at him like a drowning woman. She saw the stern lines of -his mouth--had girls any right to expect their brothers to forgive them -such things? Yet if Lenny turned from her ... if she lost not only -Quentin but the boys.... - -For a moment there was silence in the little room, with its faded reds -and casement open to the fields. - -Then suddenly Leonard sprang forward, stooped, and caught Janey in his -arms, turning her face to his breast. - - -They clung together in silence, both trembling. The first faint wind of -the evening crept in and ruffled their hair. - -"You won't love me so much now." - -"I will love you more--but, by God! I'll kill that man!" - -"No--no!--Len, no!" - -"Hush, dear, don't get excited again." - -"But you must promise ... he--he's only a boy." - -"Boy be damned! He's a skunk--he's a loathly little reptile, that's all. -He isn't worthy to sweep out your cinders, and he--oh, God, Janey! I'd -give my life to-morrow for the privilege of wringing his neck to-night." - -"Len, promise me you won't hurt him--I--I shall die if you do." - -"Well, I'll promise to leave him alone for the present, because I've -got you to look after. I want you to go to sleep, dear. Do you think you -could sleep?" - -"I'm sure I couldn't." - -"You could if I mixed you some nice hot brandy and water. Let me go -downstairs and get some." - -"Oh, Lenny--I'm frightened of being alone." - -"But it won't take me a minute--the kettle's on the fire." - -The combined longing for a stimulant and for oblivion was too intense -for Janey to resist. - -"You're sure you won't be long?" - -"Yes--I promise--just down and up again." - -"Then thank you, Len." - -He went down to the kitchen, and mixed a pretty stiff grog--for himself. -Janey had been too over-wrought to notice that her brother was trembling -and flushed, and that there was a strange, drawn look about his face. He -had turned back half-way to Cherrygarden because he felt "queer," and to -this no doubt she owed her life. In the horror and confusion of the last -half-hour he had forgotten his own illness, but now it was growing upon -him, and he must fight it for her sake. He drank a tumblerful of brandy -and water, then mixed some for Janey, and went upstairs. - -He helped her take off her charred skirt and bodice, and wrapped her in -a dressing-gown. He bathed her smoky face and hands, then he pulled a -rug over her, and gave her the brandy. It was a strong dose for a woman, -and in spite of all she had said she was soon asleep. - -He sat down beside her and closed his eyes. The soft air fanned him, -and the scents of the little garden steamed up and scattered themselves -in the room. - -Janey lay with her head sunk deep in the pillow, her face half-buried in -it, and her breathing came heavily, almost in sobs. Her knees were drawn -up, and her arms crossed on her breast, the hands twisted -together--there was something pathetic and childish in the huddled -attitude. - -Leonard thought to himself-- - -"It's nearly time for Nigel's concert--I wonder if he's thinking of -Janey and me." - - - - -CHAPTER V - -COWSANISH - - -Leonard dozed a little, but he did not sleep. A leaden weariness was in -his limbs, but his heart and brain were horribly active, forbidding -rest. His heart was full of rage, and his brain was full of images--he -could doze only till these last crystallised in dreams, when their -vividness woke him up at once. He woke each time with a start and a -vague feeling of uneasiness and alarm. He feared he was going to be -ill--just when Janey needed him so badly. He must bear up till -to-morrow; by then she would be better, to-night she was helpless -without him. He looked at the cramped figure on the bed, and his throat -tightened with sorrow, shame and rage. - -She should be avenged--he swore it. Lowe should be made to realise that -it was not with impunity that one dragged women like Janey into the mud -and then climbed out over their shoulders. He should be made to grovel -to her and implore her forgiveness. Len had not quite settled his course -of action, but he had fixed the results. Lowe was a worm, a miserable, -loathly, little, wriggling worm, and he had slimed a lily--he should -squirm under a decent man's boot.... - -The room darkened. The curtains, fluttering in the dusk-wind, were like -ghosts. The line of woods on the horizon became dim, and an owl called -from them suddenly. Then a procession of clouds began to flit solemnly -across the window--driven from the south-west. They were brown against -the bottomless grey, and there was a kind of majestic rhythm in their -march before the wind. - -Len rose with a shudder--somehow he could not sit still. He went to the -window and looked out. Then he remembered that he had not shut in the -fowls for the night or stalled the cows. He would have to leave Janey -for a little and attend to the farm. He stepped back and looked at her. -Her bed was in darkness, and all he could see was a long, black mass on -the paleness of the bed-clothes. She was sleeping heavily, with quick, -stertorous breathing, and it was not likely that she would wake for some -time--he had certainly better go now, while she slept so well. - -He crept quietly from the room and down the dark stairs. Outside the -breeze puffed healingly upon him, cooling him with a sweet dampness as -he climbed into the stream-field where the cows were pastured. The mists -were too high and clammy for them to be left out at night, and the man -had gone home after milking them. He called to them softly, and great -shadows began to move out of the fogs towards him. The peace of the -twilight and of his work with the calm, milk-smelling beasts, was so -great that, in spite of rage and suffering, a kind of dreamy comfort -came to Len--a quiet he felt only in the fields. He began to whistle as -he drove the cows home before him. Then suddenly the whistling made him -remember Nigel's concert. - -He had meant to send off a second telegram, which Nigel would receive -just before he went on the platform at the Bechstein. The last -shattering hour had made him forget his plan, and he realised that if -his brother was to have his message of good-cheer it must be sent at -once. But how? There was still time, but he could not leave the house, -even on such an errand--and yet his brother must be "bucked up" at all -costs. To-morrow he would send another wire, asking him to come down for -the week-end, but he thought it as well not to risk alarming him -to-night. Len pondered a minute, then suddenly it occurred to him that -he could give his telegram to the postman, who was due to pass Sparrow -Hall on his way back from his round. By a lucky chance there was a -telegraph-form in the house; Len filled it in, and then ran out with it -to the lane. - -He looked up at Janey's window--all was quiet, only the white curtains -fluttered out on the wind; anyhow he would hear if she woke and called -him. The lane was very dark--the sky was still faintly light above it, -but night had fallen between the hedges. He heard footsteps, and saw a -figure coming down Wilderwick hill. - -"Hullo, Winkworth!" he cried, "I want you to do something for me." - -He stepped out into the middle of the lane, and at the same time the -figure began to climb the stile into Wilderwick meadows. - -"Hi!" shouted Len--he suddenly realised that on fine dry nights the -postman would take the field-path to Dormans. - -"Hi!" he shouted, running after him. "Winkworth!--I've a----". - -The words died on his tongue. He had reached the stile, and saw standing -on the further side of it, on the high ground which the darkness had not -reached--with the last of the western light upon his face--Quentin Lowe. - -For a moment both men stared at each other, then Lowe moved away. Len -stood stock still, a queer grimace on his features. - -"Were you calling me, sir?" - -A voice behind him made him start. The postman had come out of the -darkness and stood at his elbow. - -"I thought I heard you shout 'Winkworth' when I was far up the hill. -Anything you want, Mus' Furlonger?" - -"Yes--yes--would you take this telegram to Dormans, and see it sent off? -Here's a bob...." - -His voice sounded vague, somehow, as if it were a mechanical process -unconnected with his real self. He stood watching the old postman as he -climbed the stile and took the turning for Dormans, where the track -divided. A minute later a figure became silhouetted against the sky on -his right; the path to Cowden and the valley farms dipped abruptly a few -yards beyond the stile, then climbed to the high grounds near Goatsluck -Wood. Quentin Lowe was clearly visible as he hurried away towards -Kent--almost as if he feared pursuit. - -Leonard stared after him, his eyes bright with hate and fever. A kind of -delirium was in his brain as he watched that thick-set, slouching -figure, caricatured into a dwarf by his fury and the cheverel light. -Then suddenly he bounded forward. - -He forgot all about the illness that was creeping over him, and Janey -alone in the dark house. Or rather, he told himself that he would be up -with Quentin in a minute, and would have settled him in a couple more. -He would drag him back to Sparrow Hall by the scruff of the neck, and -Janey, poor, outraged Janey, should be his judge, and taste triumph even -in her despair. - -He climbed the stile and ran up the path, plunging recklessly through -the tall, ghostly buttercups, glowing faintly in the twilight. He had -soon lost the path, a mere borstall, and was trampling the hay-grass, -but he did not slack. - -Quentin had for the moment disappeared. The trees of Goatsluck Wood -waved against the sky: Len was conscious of a kind of illusion as he -approached them--it seemed as if they were very far away, then suddenly -he found himself on the tangled rim of the wood, the boughs shuddering -and rustling over him, as he groped his way into the darkness. - -He had to run along the hedge till he found the stile, and he realised -that Lowe now had a good start. But he would not stop, nor defer his -vengeance to another, more auspicious, day. Janey would probably not -wake till the next morning--and meantime his blood was up. He was not -quite sure what he should do to Quentin when he overtook him--he was not -worth killing, that would only mean more sorrow for Janey, but he had -ideas of pounding him more or less to a jelly and then dragging him back -to Sparrow Hall and making him kiss the ground at Janey's feet, and -grovel and slobber for her forgiveness, with other humiliations which he -did not think for a minute his sister would not enjoy. - -Meantime he floundered stupidly among the trees. The path was not often -used, and the undergrowth had become tangled across it--branches of ash -and hazel whipped his cheeks, and brambles caught his feet and sent him -stumbling. Once he fell full length, with the soft suck of mud under his -body, and once he had to stop and fight for his breath which had been -knocked out of him by the low bough of an oak. It was very dark in -Goatsluck Wood--like a dark dream. He looked up and saw shuddering -patches of sky, and they intensified the strange dream spell, for he -seemed to be moving through them, tossed by the wind and scorched by -whirling stars. - -Then suddenly a meadow swam towards him--another meadow full of -buttercups, all gleaming faintly in the marriage of twilight and -moonlight that revelled over the fields. A soft wind baffed him, and -cooled his lips with little drops of rain. He pounded on through the -buttercups, thought and self-consciousness both almost swallowed up in -the abnormal consciousness of environment that accompanies certain -states of fever. He saw the moon hanging low and yellow in the east, he -saw long, tangled hedges, and tufts of wood--and all round him, in -meadow after meadow, that ceaseless shimmer of buttercups, as the wind -puffed through them and bowed them to the moon. - -Then suddenly he saw Quentin Lowe. His pace had slackened, for he had -not seen Furlonger for some minutes, but the next moment he looked over -his shoulder and hurried on again. - -"Stop!" cried Leonard. - -The figure hunched itself against the wind and plunged on. - -"Stop!" gasped Len, and calling up all his strength broke into a run. - -Quentin looked back, and saw that he was running. He himself was too -proud to run, but he doubled against the hedge, and changing his -direction, walked towards Langerish, so that Len nearly overran him. - -But just in time he saw the short, heavy figure groping along the rim of -the buttercups, and the chase took a southward direction. - -Len had not the breath to run far--he wondered vaguely what had winded -him. He came panting after Quentin, always the same distance behind; he -no longer cried "Stop!"--just padded gasping after him. - -They skirted the meadow known as Watch Oak, then followed the grass lane -to Golden Pot and the outhouses of Anstiel. Quentin was trying to work -his way back towards Kent and the valley of the hammer ponds, but -Leonard drove him obstinately southwards. He was beginning to gain on -him a little. Quentin could hear his footsteps, and he knew why he was -following him. - -A sick dread was creeping up Lowe's back--he looked round at the -shuddering woods and that strange sky of storm and stars, and he -trembled with the presentiment that he saw them all for the last time. -Furlonger was a great, big, burly brute--and Furlonger would kill him. -Perhaps, after all, he deserved to die--the country through which he -plunged in this horrible death-chase had a reproach in each spinney, a -regret in each field. And yet his heart was stiff with defiance--what -right had the gods to dangle salvation before a man's eyes, and then -slay him when he grasped it? A sob rose in his throat. The gates of -Paradise had rolled back for him at last--and must he die just inside -them? - -His defiance grew. He would not be robbed of his salvation. To grasp it -he had let go more than he dared think. The gods should not mock him -with their gifts--or rather, merchandise. They should not take his awful -price, and then deny the goods. Life should not suddenly turn and smile -on him, and then hurry away. He called after departing Life--"I will not -let thee go except thou bless me...." - -He bent his head and began to run. - -Then suddenly his mood changed. The power that had steadied his voice -and straightened his back during his terrible interview with Janey, had -not forsaken him now. He loved Tony Strife, and he was too proud in her -love to play the coward. He would not run away from fate. It should not -be said of Tony's lover that he had died running away. He stopped -abruptly, swung round and faced Furlonger. - -Leonard was so surprised at this change of tactics that for a moment he -did not speak. He stood staring at Lowe, his hands clenched, his muscles -taut, his veins boiling and throbbing. The two men faced each other in -the corner of a high field known as Cowsanish. On one side a hedgerow -was whispering with winds, on the other the ground sloped downwards to a -ruined outhouse--then it dipped suddenly, and the distance was full of -mists, through which could be seen blotches of woods and farmhouse -lights. The sky was still wind-swept and scattered with stars. - -"What do you want?" asked Lowe at last. - -Leonard mumbled a little before he spoke. "To wring your neck." - -"Why?" - -"You know why." - -Furlonger's mouth was working with passion, and his eyes were -deliriously bright. He really meant to wring Lowe's neck. He had -forgotten his earlier schemes of vengeance--nothing would suffice him -now but the extreme, the uttermost. - -Lowe folded his arms across his chest, and called up all his memories of -Tony. - -"You want to kill me," he said in a struggling voice, "because of what -I've done to Janey--but I tell you it's been a blessing to her as well -as to me. We were both in the mud together, and now I've got out it'll -be easier for her to do so." - -"You've blighted her with your damned love!" cried Leonard incoherently, -"she's half dead, she's in the mud, she's in hell. When you got out, as -you call it, you kicked her deeper in." - -"But there's no good killing me for it." - -"Why?" - -Len asked the question almost lamely. He felt giddy and inert, and -Quentin's words seemed to be trickling past him somehow--it was a -strange feeling he could not quite realise. - -"Why?--because you'll probably be hanged for it, and that won't do your -sister any good. Besides"--and here his voice quickened suddenly into -passion--"you've no right to kill me for grasping my only chance of -salvation." - -"Damn your salvation!--I'm not going to kill you for getting out of the -ditch, but for dragging her into it--Janey, my sister, whose shoes you -aren't worthy to clean." - -Lowe quailed for a moment. Furlonger's eyes were blazing, and he -crouched back as if for a spring. - -"There's no good gassing about it," he said thickly, "if I let you talk, -you'll talk me stupid. I'm going to wring your neck because you dragged -my Janey into your own beastly hell, and then when you saw the chance, -climbed out over her shoulders, and left her to rot there. She's ill, I -tell you--she's half dead--and I'm going to kill you for it." - -Quentin flung a last imploring look at the silent fields with their -waving, whispering grass. The clouds were scattering now, and the sky -blazed with stars. The night was full of the scent of hay.... In a -moment they would be lost in a black, choking whirl, that sky, those -stars--that sweet smell of hay. He sniffed at it. He thought of the huge -mown meadow by Shovelstrode, where only yesterday he and Tony had -lounged and played. He heard the voices of the workers, as they turned -the great swathes, and shook them on their forks, filling the air with -fragrance; he saw Tony in a muslin frock, with the white rose he had -given her in her breast. He saw the sun on the coils of her -mouse-coloured hair--heard her say some little, trivial, slangy thing -that had somehow made him kiss her. He remembered that kiss, so sweet, -so cool, so calm--and, as he drew back his head, the look of her -innocent eyes.... - -But once more the thought of Tony put courage into him. If he must die -inside the gates of Paradise, he would die worthily of the woman who had -opened them to him. For her sake he would die game--it was the only -thing he had left to do for her now. He would die with a proud face and -a high courage--and his last conscious thought should be of Tony, who, -if only for a few short days, had allowed him to see what love can be -when it comes in white. - -He braced himself up, flung back his shoulders, and waited for the -attack. - -It came. - -Furlonger sprang forward and seized Quentin by the throat. For a moment -they swayed together, Lowe snatching at the other's hands and struggling -with the frenzy of despair. His eyes bulged, his lips blackened, and -still he fought. Then the darkness began to rush over him--first in -little clouds, then in long, black sweeps. - -"Janey!... Janey!" he cried. - - -He opened his eyes at last. He was lying under the hedge, his cheek -scratched, his hands twisted in the grass. He stirred feebly, then sat -up, still crouching back against the hazel. Furlonger lay prone among -the buttercups, his chin turned up sharply, the moonlight blazing on his -face. Then Lowe remembered how things had happened--how the sickening -grip on his throat had suddenly relaxed, and he had gone crashing -backwards into the brambles, while something fell with a heavy thud at -his feet. - -He wondered if Furlonger was dead. He went and looked into his face. The -features were strangely drawn, and there was a look of desperate anxiety -in their contraction. Then suddenly the eyes opened and looked up into -Lowe's, full of terror and fever. - -"What's happened? Who's there? Oh, my God!" - -Remembrance had come with a spasm of that ghastly face. Leonard sat up -in the grass, and held his hands to his head. - -"I'm ill, I think," he muttered. - -He must have fainted--fainted through the stress and horror of it all, -just when his enemy's breath had nearly sobbed away under his hands. - -"You'd better go home," said Quentin. - -Leonard did not speak. He still sat there in a piteous huddle--and then -suddenly tremor after tremor began to go through him. He shuddered from -head to foot, his teeth chattered, and his limbs shook so that he could -not rise. - -"I want some water--I want something to drink," he panted. - -Quentin put his hands under his shoulders to help him get up. He felt -quite generously towards him now. He had been snatched by a timely -accident from death, and could afford to pity this poor fellow who had -tried to kill him, but failed. - -"Let me help you home." - -"No--by God!" - -"Let me--you're ill." - -"Yes, I was ill when I started after you--or you wouldn't be alive and -grinning at me now. I was a fool--I should have waited. But look out for -me another day, you skunk!" - -The ghastly rigor choked his last words. The look of terror and anxiety -deepened on his face. Then at last he managed to stumble up. - -"I--I'm going home," he stuttered, and felt sick as he realised he would -have to pass again through Goatsluck Wood. - -"And you won't let me go with you?" - -"No--I shan't let myself owe you anything, for I mean to kill you some -day." - -"I advise you not to threaten me--I might be obliged to take proceedings -against you." - -"A pretty mess you'd be in if you did. I suppose you don't want your new -girl to hear about Janey?" - -Quentin flushed. - -"If I wasn't obliged to shield my sister," continued Len, "I'd tell that -girl myself. But you know my tongue's tied--besides, I'd rather kill -you." - -"The secret might come out that way too. No, Furlonger, if you are wise -you'll let me alone." - -He drew back a little as he spoke--the friendly reaction was passing. He -had always hated Janey's brothers, because he was jealous of her love -for them; and now, though the original reason was gone, he still hated -them for the cause of that reason--for what he believed was the -foundation of Janey's love, their physical strength and fitness. - -However, there was not much of either to be seen in Leonard now. He -swayed pitifully as he stood there facing Quentin, and though his lips -moved, no sounds came past them. Then he turned away. Lowe watched him -stagger across the field. He expected him to fall every minute, except -once, when for some strange reason he expected him to turn back and -confront him again. But he neither fell nor turned. He stumbled blindly -on, then disappeared into the next field. - -For a moment or two Quentin stood alone in the great meadow, under the -hurrying sky. The scent of hay no longer blew to him wistfully, but -triumphantly, like the fragrance of festal wine. He spread out his arms, -and stood there in the quivering, scented hush, while the wind cooled -his damp forehead, and ruffled the hair back from it tenderly. - -Then he turned homewards from Cowsanish. - -But he had not gone far before he altered his direction. He struck again -southwards, through the grass lanes that wind past Old Surrey Hall, -towards Shovelstrode. He would lay his thankfulness, his deliverance, -his redemption, at Tony's feet--at the feet of the woman who symbolised -them all. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -AND I ALSO DREAMED - - -Behind the stage at the Bechstein Hall one could hear the applause that -burst from the auditorium. Nigel listened hungrily. He wondered whether -those hands would clap and those feet stamp when it was his turn to -leave the platform, his violin under his arm. He stood leaning against -the wall, his fiddle already out of its case, but still wrapped tenderly -in silks. The little group of girls and men who were whispering together -not far off sent him from time to time glances of mingled curiosity and -admiration. - -There was a big difference between the convict with his close-cropped -hair and disreputable clothes, and this young man in orthodox evening -dress, whose hair was brushed in a heavy, shining mass from his -forehead, to hang over his ears and neck in the approved musician's -style. Nigel had been unable to resist this rather primitive piece of -swank--besides, it was symbolical, it marked the contrast between what -he had been in the days of his shame, and what he was now in the days of -regeneration. The girl who had just come off the stage stared at him -half amused, half envying. - -"Do you come on soon?" - -"Yes--after this next thing." - -"Just a little bit nervous?" - -He nodded. - -As a matter of fact, he was in a mortal funk. He would not have -believed it possible that he could be afraid of a crowd of strangers, -who were nothing to him and to whom he was nothing. But infinite things -were at stake. If he failed, if he made an ass of himself, he pushed -further away, if not altogether out of sight, the dream in which for the -last six months he had worked and lived. On the other hand, if he -succeeded, if to-morrow's papers took his name out of the gutter, just -as four years ago they had helped to kick it in, his dream would be -transmuted into hope. The violin he clutched so desperately was no mere -instrument of music, but an instrument of redemption, the token of that -dear salvation which if a man but see truly he must grasp. - -Six months had gone by since he left Sparrow Hall, and during them he -had worked desperately with scanty rest. He had flung his proud -self-will and undisciplined love of prettiness into mechanical exercises -for fingers and bow, he had subjected his taste for the tuneful and -sentimental to Herr von Gleichroeder's dissonantal preferences. But he -had been happy--his dream had always been with him, and had breathed all -the sentimentality of hope into the dry bones of Chabrier, Chausson and -Strauss. He had found it everywhere--even in his bow exercises. - -He was happy, too, in his environment--the companionship of his -fellow-students with their young, clear spirits and enthusiasm. Most of -them knew his story, but in their careless code it did not tell much -against him, for every one admired him for his originality and liked -him for his desperate pluck. So Nigel found a new form of gratification -for that strange part of him born in prison. The companionship of an -unripe little school-girl with her slang, the sight of children dancing -in the dusk, had been succeeded by many a racket with young men and -women of his own age--Bohemian supper-parties, followed by impromptu -concerts or startling variety turns; expeditions in rowdy throngs to a -theatre or music-hall; small, friendly meals with some -fellow-enthusiast, who confessed in private an admiration for Gounod.... -It was a draught of new life to him; he loved it all--down to the -constant musical jargon, the endless "shop." Much of his bitterness was -leaving him, his sullen bouts were rarer, even the lines of his face -were growing rounded and more boyish. - -Chausson's "Chanson Perpetuelle" drawled and wailed its way towards a -close. Nigel's muscles tightened to prevent a shudder. To-night the hall -would be full of the friends and relations of the students; they had -come out to encourage their respective prodigies, and his item on the -programme would belong, so to speak, to no one. He almost wished he had -not forbidden Len and Janey to come--at least they would have made a -noise. - -The thought of Len and Janey brought an additional stake into the game. -He must succeed for their sakes too. He must justify to them his -departure from Sparrow Hall. If he failed, they would look upon it as a -mere piece of obstinate cruelty, they would plague him to return, and -he, in all the sickness of failure, would find it hard to resist them. - -Another round of applause ... the "Chanson Perpetuelle" had ended, and -the singer, a self-confident little contralto, came off, with the string -quartet which had accompanied her. Herr von Gleichroeder bustled up, and -there was some talk of an encore, which was in the end refused. Then he -turned to Nigel. - -"You'd better go on at once. Here are two telegrams for you--but you -mustn't wait." - -Nigel stuffed the two yellow envelopes into his pocket, and moved -mechanically towards the stage. Two telegrams--a sick hope was in his -heart--one was from Len, he knew; but the other ... Tony knew the date -of his concert; perhaps.... He dared not think it, yet that "perhaps" -made him hold his head high as he walked on the stage. - -He bowed stiffly. Von Gleichroeder had spent a long time trying to teach -him a graceful bow. He remembered his last public appearance, and it -made him not only stiff but a trifle hard. There was no applause at -first--no one in the hall knew him; then a kind-hearted old lady felt -sorry for the poor young man who had no one to encourage him, and gave a -feeble clap, which was more disconcerting than silence. - -The accompanist struck the chord--his fiddle was soon in tune and he -lifted it to his shoulder. A cold chill ran down his back--he had -entirely forgotten the first bars of the Prelude. - -The accompanist had some preliminary business. Nigel listened to him in -detached horror, as if he were the spectator of some dreadful scene with -which he had absolutely no connection. He heard the music crashing -through familiar phrases--only five bars more--only three--only one-- - -Then there was a pause-bar--a very long pause. - -Then suddenly he realised that he had been playing for some time. The -violin was warm under his chin, the bow warm between his fingers. He -knew that if he stopped to think about it all, he was lost. It was -always fatal for him to think of his music as so many little black signs -on paper, and it was nearly as fatal for him to think of it as so many -movements of his bow or positions of his fingers. Von Gleichroeder had -always had to combat his pupil's tendency to play almost entirely by -ear, lost meanwhile in a kind of sentimental dream--in the transports of -which he swayed violently from side to side and generally looked -ridiculous. - -To-night he slapped into the Scriabin with tremendous vigour--the -infinite pains he had spent during the last six months showing clearly -in the ease with which he surmounted its technical difficulties. But the -watchful ear of von Gleichroeder told him that his pupil was playing -subconsciously, so to speak--from his heart, rather than his head. If -anything--the slipping of a peg or a sudden noise in the hall--were to -interrupt him, to wake him up, all would be lost. - -But luckily nothing happened. Nigel was roused only by the last crash -of his bow on the strings. The Prelude was finished, and at the same -time a desperate panic seized him. He forgot to bow, and bolted headlong -from the stage. - -The audience applauded heartily, and his fellow-students crowded round -him with congratulations. - -"Well done, old man!--pulled it off splendidly," and his back was -vigorously thumped. - -"Worked up beautifully over the climax." - -"But played G instead of B in the last bar but one," added a precise -youth. - -"Muddled your runs in that chromatic bit," put in some one else, -encouraged. - -"Go on and bow--go on and bow," blustered von Gleichroeder, hurrying up. - -Nigel bowed perfunctorily and came back. The clapping did not subside. - -"I don't allow encores," said the German, "but you're in luck, my -friend, in luck." - -The colour was darkening on Nigel's face. It was his hour of triumph. He -wished Tony was there, and Janey and Leonard--he would let them come to -his next concert. - -He went on and bowed again--he had to appear several times before the -demand for an encore was given up as hopeless, and the applause -gradually died away. - -He went to the back of the stage and sat down, holding his head in his -hands. He wanted to be alone, and to read his telegrams. The future was -now a flaming promise--his feet at last were set on the honourable way. -He let his mind lose itself in its dream, and for a moment he was -conscious of nothing but infinite hope. From the stage a plaintive, -bizarre air of Moussorgski's came to him. To be Russian was to von -Gleichroeder synonymous with to be modern, and Moussorgski and Rimsky -Korsakov were encouraged where their French or Italian contemporaries -were banned. Every now and then a little slow ripple brought an end to -strange wailing dissonances; it was played without much fire--without -much feeling--but it haunted. - -Nigel opened his first telegram. It read-- - -"Go it, old chap--laurels is cheap." - -That was from Leonard, and a half tender, half humorous smile crept over -Furlonger's grim mouth. Dear old Len!--dear old Janey! How he wished -they were there! He would wire to them the first thing to-morrow and -tell them of his success. - -Then suddenly the smile passed away, and his hands shook a little. Who -had sent the second telegram? - -He tore nervously at the envelope. Had Tony remembered him? one word of -encouragement from her was worth all the clappings and stampings of the -audience, all the eulogies of the press.... - - - "And I also dreamed, which pleased me most, - That you loved me still the same...." - - -He took out the telegram and unfolded it. It ran-- - -"Come at once. Leonard is ill. Janey." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -WOODS AT NIGHT - - -The little star melody wailed on, rippled characteristically and died. -Even then Nigel did not move, he sat with his hands dropped between his -knees, still holding Janey's telegram. He seemed to be sitting alone, in -a black corner of space, stricken, blank, forsaken. - -Then suddenly he recovered himself. "Come at once." He must go at once. -He sprang to his feet, pushed his way past one or two meaningless -shadows who called after him meaningless words, and the next minute -found himself in the passage behind the stage. Seizing his hat and -overcoat from the wall, he hurried to the stage-door. The street outside -was quiet, at either end were lights and commotion, but the street -itself was plunged in echoing peace. A strange fear assaulted Nigel--he -hurried into Oxford Street and hailed a taxi. Then he knew what he was -afraid of--the opportunity to sit and think. - -He tried not to think--he tried to find refuge from thought even in the -words that had smitten him. "Come at once. Leonard is ill."--he repeated -them over and over, striving for mere mechanical processes. The taxi -threaded swiftly through the traffic, the lights swung past with the -roar and the whistles. Luckily the streets were not much crowded at -that hour--it was just before the closing of the theatres and the -consequent rush.... - -He was at Victoria, and a porter had told him that the next train for -East Grinstead did not start for half-an-hour. He paced miserably up and -down, cursing the blank time, gnawed by conjectures. "Leonard is ill." -Len was hardly ever ill, and it must be something serious, or Janey -would not have said "Come at once." It must have been sudden too, for -the two telegrams had been handed to him together. Perhaps there had -been an accident. Perhaps Len was dead. Ice seemed to form suddenly on -Nigel's heart--Janey might be trying to break the news gently by saying -his brother was ill. No doubt Len was dead---- Oh, Lenny, Lenny! - -A strange thing had happened. The dream in which he had lived and worked -and slept and eaten for the last six months had suddenly fallen back -from him, leaving him utterly alone with his brother and sister. His -life in London, with all its struggle and ambition, was as something far -off, unreal; no part of his life seemed real, except what he had spent -with Len and Janey. After all did anything really matter as much as -they? They had been with him always, and his dream had sustained him -only a few months. He thought of their childhood together in the old -Sussex house, of their adventures and scrapes and hide-and-seeks; he -thought of their growing-up, of the wonderful discoveries they had made -about themselves, and shared; he thought of their arrival at Sparrow -Hall, full of pluck and plans, of the difficulties that had damped the -one and dashed the other--of the awful disgrace that had separated the -three Furlongers for damnable years. Len and Janey had been his pals, -his comrades, his comforters before he had so much as heard of Tony. She -was not dethroned, his dream was not dead, but the past which he had -half impatiently thrust behind him was coming back to show that it, as -well as the future, held treasures and the immortality of love. - -The half-hour was nearly over, and the platform was dotted with men and -women in evening dress, who had come up from the country to the -theatres, and now were going home by the last train. Nigel shut himself -into a third-class carriage. The train was not very crowded, and no one -disturbed him. Almost mechanically he lighted a cigarette, then leaned -back, closing his eyes. - -The train began to move--it pulled itself together with a shudder, then -slid slowly out of the station. Signal lights swept past, whistles -wailed up out of the darkness and died away--suburban stations -gleamed--then the train swung out into the night. - -Both the windows were wide open, and the wind blew in on Nigel, but he -did not notice it. His cigarette had gone out, but he still sucked and -bit the end, filling his mouth with strings of tobacco, which he did not -notice either, though every now and then he mechanically spat them out. -All he was conscious of was the pungent smell of night, which invaded -even the rushing train. He knew that the trees were heavy and the hedges -tangled with their green--he tried to fling his imagination into some -sheltered hollow by a wood, and find rest there. He tried to think of -sheep and grass and flowers and watching stars. But it was no use--the -night was full of the restlessness of the pulsing train, he could not -escape from the train, which throbbed like his heart, and by its -throbbing seemed to hold his heart a prisoner in it, as if some -mysterious astral link connected the two pulses. The train was the heart -of the night and darkness, pulsing in ceaseless despair, and he was the -heart of the train, pulsing despairingly too, the very centre of sorrow. -It was a definite strain for him to realise this, and yet somehow the -sensation would not relax--it was infinite relief when at last the -great, noisy heart, the heart of the train, stopped beating, though its -silence brought with it a sudden wrench and shock, like death. - -Nigel stumbled out on the East Grinstead platform, his limbs cramped, -his head swimming. He thought of taking a cab, but by the time he had -roused up the local livery stables and set off in one of their concerns -he could almost have reached Sparrow Hall by the fields. A walk would do -him good. The night was fine, though it smelled of rain. - -He had soon left the town behind him, and struck across the fields by -St. Margaret's convent. There was no moon, but the stars were unusually -lustrous, and the distance was clear, Oxted chalk quarry showing a pale -scar on the northern hills. Now and then dark sweeps of cloud passed -swiftly overhead, and the wind came in sudden gusts, whistling over the -fields, and throbbing through the woods with a great swish of leaves. -Nigel had not seen the Three Counties since Easter, which had been early -and bleak. The London months since then had to a certain extent -denaturalised him, and he was conscious of a vague strangeness in the -fields. It was, moreover, four years since he had seen them in their -June lushness--the scent of grass was brought him pungently now and -then, the scent of leaves, the scent of water. - -He crossed from Sussex into Surrey at Hackenden, then plunged through -Ashplats Wood into the Wilderwick road. His footsteps were like shadows -on the awful silence that filled the night. The stars were flashing from -a coal-black sky--between the high hedges only a wisp of the great waste -was visible with its dazzle of constellations. Nigel saw Cancer burning -his lamps in the west, while straight above him hung the sign of Libra, -brilliant, cold, unearthly. Surely the stars were larger and brighter -to-night than was normal, than was good. He wished he was at Sparrow -Hall. It could not be that he was frightened of the stars, and yet -somehow they seemed part of an evil dream. Perhaps he would wake to find -himself in his Notting Hill lodgings--perhaps his dream would go on for -ever, eternal, malevolent, but still a dream--he would lie on in his bed -at Notting Hill, and people would shake him and try to wake him, and, -when they could not wake him, take him and bury him--and he would lie in -the earth, deep, with a stone over him--but still with his awful dream -of night and high hedges, terror and stars.... - -He had come to Sparrow Hall. He saw the tall, black chimney against a -mass of stars--it seemed to be canting a little, perhaps that was part -of the dream. There was a light in Len's room, and the next moment some -one moved between it and the window. - -"Janey ..." called Nigel softly. - -His voice rose with the scents of the garden, in the hush of the night. -The next minute there were footsteps on the stairs, then the door flew -open, and Janey was in Nigel's arms. - -They clung together for several moments. The door had slammed in the -draught, and the darkness crept softly round them like an embrace. The -dream slipped from Nigel--his silly and hideous nightmare of stars. This -quivering, tear-stained woman in his arms had brought him into the -reality of sorrow. - -"Where is he?--what's happened?" he asked, still holding Janey. - -"He's upstairs in bed--he's very ill, Nigel." - -"But he's not dead?" - -"Not yet." - -"Is there any hope?" - -"Not much--he's got pneumonia. It's dreadful." - -"Has the doctor seen him?" - -"Yes--he's been gone only an hour. He said you were to be sent for at -once. Oh, Nigel, Nigel, it's my fault!" - -"What d'you mean?" - -"I was wretched and selfish--he'd been queer all the afternoon, and I -didn't notice it. I thought only of myself. Then he went out while I was -asleep, and when he came back.... Oh, Nigel!... the doctor says he -practically did for himself by going out then." - -Nigel did not understand, but his mind made no effort to grasp at -details. - -"I'd better go at once," he said; "is he conscious?" - -"Yes--but he says funny things sometimes." - -She led the way upstairs, and the next minute they were in Leonard's -room. It was a queer little room, extremely low, with bulging walls, -sagging beams and an uneven floor. Len lay propped very high with -pillows. His face was drawn and feverish--he was literally fighting for -his breath, and his lips were blue. - -He smiled when he saw Nigel. - -"Hullo, old man!... good of you to come.... Lord!"--as he saw his -clothes--"put me among the nuts." - -"Don't talk," said his brother sharply. - -"Your hair ..." panted Len. - -"Shut up!" - -Len pointed to a glass of water by the bed. Janey gave him a drink. He -began to cough violently, and his face became purple. Nigel felt sick. - -"I--I'm better," gasped Leonard. "I--I had ... a beastly stitch ... but -it's gone." - -"When's the doctor coming again?" Nigel asked Janet. - -"The first thing to-morrow." - -"He ought to have a nurse." - -"Oh, no!" cried Len; "you and Janey can manage me ... between you ... -I'll soon be all right ... I don't want any little Tottie Coughdrop -fussing round." - -"He's dreadful," said Janey, "he will talk." - -"How long has he been like this?" - -"As I tell you, he'd been feeling queer all the afternoon. Then I -crocked up for some silly reason, and instead of being properly attended -to, he had to look after me"--a sob broke into her voice, and she pulled -Nigel aside. "The doctor says it's a frightfully acute case," she -whispered. - -"But ... but" interrupted Len, "Nigel hasn't told us ... about the -concert ... where's the laurel crown?... left it in the train?" - -"Oh, do shut up! I'll tell you anything you like if you'll hold your -tongue." - -"Tell him while I'm giving him his milk," said Janey; "the doctor -ordered him milk every two hours, but he simply won't take it." - -"I'll make him," said his brother grimly. - -"I'll go and fetch it--you stay with him, Nigel." - -She left the room, and Len lay silent a moment, looking out at the -stars. - -"Old man," he whispered suddenly, "while Janey's away ... I want to -tell you something." - -"What is it?--can't it wait till you're better?" - -"No.... It's this.... She ... she's in ... infernal trouble." - -Nigel quailed. - -"What is it, Len?" - -"She'd rather tell you herself ... she's going to ... all I want to say -is ... when you hear, just remember that ... she's our Janey." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -VIGIL - - -The doctor called early the next morning, and looked serious. Leonard -had had a restless night, and his symptoms were becoming very grave. He -still kept up his efforts at conversation, though they were more painful -than ever. - -"I--I'm not going to die, Doc," he panted. - -"Well, keep quiet, and we'll see about it," said the doctor. - -"But have you heard about my brother?... the one who fills the Albert -Hall?... Oh, 'ninety-nine,' since you insist." - -Nigel had been sent over to Dormans the first thing in the morning, to -buy up all the papers he could. Several of them had a report of von -Gleichroeder's concert, and most of these mentioned Nigel's performance -favourably. - -"Mr. Furlonger has undoubtedly a great deal to learn on the mechanical -side of his art, but he has a wonderful force of temperament, which last -night compensated in many ways for faulty technique. He even managed to -work some emotional beauty into Scriabin's bundle of tricks, and one can -imagine that in music which depended on the beautiful instead of on the -bizarre for its appeal, he would have the chance, which was denied him -last night, of a really fine performance. We do not say that Mr. -Furlonger will ever be a master, but if he will avoid fashionable -gymnastics and not despise such out-of-date considerations as beauty and -harmony, he may become a temperamental violinist of the first order." -All the critics, more or less, had a hit at the "advanced" type of -music, and Nigel imagined von Gleichroeder's wrath. - -Len insisted on having all the criticisms read to him, and a thrill of -pride went through even Janey's numb breast. She had never tried to -speak to Nigel alone, and he gave her no hint that he knew she was in -trouble. But when his heart was not bursting with anxiety for Len, it -brimmed with compassion for Janey. She might have been nursing her -brother for weeks instead of hours to judge by her haggard face, white -lips, and faded eyes. Her movements were listless, and her figure in -rest had the droop of utter exhaustion. - -She and Nigel divided the nursing between them. Len was never left -alone. He had to be fed every two hours, and it generally took both of -them to do it, as he was very perverse in the matter of meals, saying -that the food choked him. In the afternoon he became a little delirious. -He seemed to be trying to ask for things, and yet to be unable to say -what he really meant, often saying something quite different. He was -intensely pathetic in his weakness. This dulling, or rather disturbance, -of his faculties seemed to distress him far more than his difficult -breathing or the pain in his side. Now and then he would hold out his -hands piteously to Nigel and Janey, and would lie for some time holding -the hand of each, his brown eyes staring at them imploringly, as if they -were fighting for the powers of speech which the tongue had lost--in -the way that the eyes of animals often fight. - -They tried to make him go to sleep, but he was always restless and -awake. They read to him, talked to him and to each other, with no -success. Outside, the day was dull, yet warm and steamy. Every now and -then a shower would rustle noisily on the leaves, and after it passed -there would be many drippings. - -Nigel went out for an hour or two's work on the farm when evening fell. -It seemed extraordinary that only some eighteen hours lay between him -and the concert at the Bechstein Hall. That part of his life had been -put aside--not for ever, perhaps, but none the less temporarily banished -by a usurping present. Some day, no doubt, he would put on the last six -months again, just as he would put on the dress clothes he had folded -away, but now he wore corduroys and the last eighteen hours. - -At six the doctor called again. He shook his head at the sight of -Leonard. - -"He must have a nurse," he said. - -"Oh, no ... for heaven's sake!" groaned Len. - -"Nigel and I can nurse him," said Janey. - -"My dear young lady, have you seen your own face in the glass?" - -Len raised himself with difficulty on his pillows. - -"Lord, Janey!--you look quite cooked up.... I say, old girl, I won't -have it.... Doctor, I surrender." - -"I don't know whether I can send any one in to-night--but I'll try. -Anyhow, to-morrow morning--now 'ninety-nine,' please." - -Nigel went over to East Grinstead for ice and fruit. Len was dreadfully -thirsty all the evening. They put bags of ice on his forehead and sides, -but it did not seem to cool him much. The doctor had left a -sleeping-draught, to be administered the last thing at night. - -"If I take it," said Len, "will you two go to bed?" - -"Janey will," said Nigel. "I'll have a shake-down in here." - -"Well, it'll keep me quiet, I suppose ... so I'll take the beastly -thing.... I want to sleep ... but I don't want to die.... I won't die, -in fact." - -"Don't talk of it, old man." - -He lifted Len in his strong arms, and settled him more comfortably in -the bedclothes. Then he gave him the sleeping-draught. - -The window was wide open, and one could hear the rain pattering on the -lilac bushes. The wind, sweet-smelling with damp and hay, puffed the -curtains into the room, then sucked them back. A fire was burning low on -the hearth. Janey went and sat beside it. Nigel sat by the bed, for -between sleeping and waking his brother suffered from strange fears. - -At last, after a few sighs and struggles, Len fell asleep, still high on -his pillows, the lines of his face very tired and grim. There was a -little light in the room, or rather the mingled lights of a dying fire -and a fighting moon. Nigel rose softly, and went over to Janet. - -"You must go to bed." - -"No--I'd rather stay here." - -"You must have some sleep, or you'll be worn out." - -"I couldn't sleep." - -The words broke from her in a strangling sigh, and the next minute his -arm crept round her, for he remembered Leonard's words. - -"Dear Janey ..." he whispered. - -She began to cry. - -For a moment or two he held her to him, helping her to choke her sobs -against his breast. - -"Won't you tell me what it is?" - -"How do you know there's anything more than that?" and she pointed -towards the bed. - -"Len told me." - -"About Quentin?..." - -"Quentin!" - -"Yes--I thought you said he'd told you." - -"He told me you were wretched about something. But who's Quentin?--not -Quentin Lowe?" - -They were the very words Len had used, and Janey shuddered. - -"Yes ..." she said faintly, "Quentin Lowe." - -"But----" - -"You'll never understand.... I hid it from you for three years." - -"Hid what, Janey?" - -"My--my love." - -Nigel's arm dropped from her waist, but hers was round his neck, and -she clung to him feverishly. - -"Yes, I loved him. I loved him and I pitied him ... and I wanted, I -tried, to help him--and--and I've been his ruin--and another woman has -saved him." - -Nigel was speechless. What astonished him, the man of secrets, most, was -that Janey should have had a secret from him for three years. - -"Don't tremble so, darling--but tell me about it. I won't be hard on -you." - -"You will--when you know all." - -"Does Len know all?" - -"Yes." - -He glanced over to the sleeping man, then put back his arm round Janey's -waist. - -"Now tell me--all." - -Janey told him--all. - - -For some moments there was silence. The rain was still beating on the -leaves, but the moon had torn through the clouds, and flung a white -patch over Leonard's feet. The fire was just a red lump, and Janey and -Nigel, sitting outside the moonrays, were lost in darkness. - -Janey wondered when her brother would speak. She could see the outline -of his face, blurred in the shadows. He held his head high, and he had -not dropped his arm from her waist, but his free hand was clenched--then -she felt the other clench against her side. Sickening fears assailed -her. Why did he not speak? Only that arm round her gave her hope.... - -Then suddenly he took it away, and put both his hands over his face. -She saw his shoulders quiver, just for a moment, then for what seemed -long moments he did not move. - -A paralysis of horror was creeping towards her heart. He was taking -things even worse than she had expected, but they did not seem to fill -him with anger so much as with grief. His body was crumpled as if under -a load, and when he suddenly dropped his hands and looked up at her, she -drew back shuddering from what she saw in his eyes. - -"My poor boy!--I wish I hadn't told you." - -"Oh, God!--oh, God!" - -Something in his cowering, hopeless attitude woke all the divine -motherhood in Janey. She forgot her fear of unforgiveness, her danger of -a rebuff, and put her arms round him, drawing his head to her breast. - -"My poor Nigel ... my poor, poor lad!"--so she comforted him for the -shame he felt for her. - -After a time, when thought was not quite swallowed up in tenderness, she -began to wonder why he let her hold him so. - -Then suddenly he rose, and began to pace up and down the room--up and -down, up and down, swinging round sharply at the corners, but always, -she noticed with a gulp, treading softly for fear of waking Len. She -watched him in numb despair. The minutes dragged on. Now and then he put -his hand over his brow, as if he fought either for or against some -memory, now and then he bent his head so low that she could not see his -face. She wondered how much longer she would be able to endure it. - -"Nigel----" she whispered at last. - -He stopped and turned towards her. - -"Nigel ..." - -"What is it?" - -"For heaven's sake ... don't keep me in suspense." - -"Suspense about what?" - -"Your forgiveness." - -In a moment he was at her side. - -"Janey--if I thought you could be doubting that----" - -He put his arms round her, and the relief was so sudden that she burst -into tears. - -"What a selfish hound I am!--wrapped up in my own beastly feelings, and -forgetting yours. But I never imagined you could think----" - -"I thought ... perhaps you couldn't." - -"Janey, how dare you!" - -"When you got up and walked about ..." - -"I know--I know. But that wasn't anger against you--my poor, outraged, -suffering darling," and he covered her face with kisses. - -She clung to him in a passion of love and relief. - -"Oh, you're good--you and Len!" - -"Nonsense, Janey. You mustn't talk like that. We're not worthy to tie -your shoes--we never shall be. How could you think we'd turn against -you? It's him, that little, loathly cad, that----" - -"Oh, hush, dear--I can't bear it." - -His rage was stronger and fiercer than Len's, his whole body quivered in -the passion of it. Then suddenly it changed unaccountably to grief, and -his head fell back against her shoulder, the eyes dull, the mouth old -and drawn. She thought it was for her, and he hugged his poor, dead -secret too tight to grant her the mercy of disillusion. - -The night wore on, and they clung together on the hearthstone, where -cinders fell and glowed, making the only sound, the only light, in the -room. Two lost children, they huddled together in the only warm place -they had left--each other's arms. - - -There was a feeble sigh, a feeble stirring in the bed--just as the first -of the morning came between the curtains, and pointed like a finger into -the gloom. - -"Lenny...." - -Janet and Nigel rose, wearily dropping their stiff arms from each other, -and went over to the bed. - -"How long have you been awake?" - -"Only just woke up ... would you draw back the curtains?" - -Nigel pulled them back, and a white dawn shuddered into the room. - -"What time is it?" - -"About three--can't you go to sleep again?" - -"No--I've wakened for good ... I mean ... I mean ..." - -"What, old man?" - -"I think I am going to die after all." - -"No, Lenny, no...." - -"It's rather a come down ... after saying I wouldn't ... but I feel so -tired." - -His face was spread over with a ghastly pallor, and something which -Nigel and Janey could not exactly define, which indeed they hardly saw -with their bodily sight, but which impressed them vaguely as a kind of -film. - -"I'm going to die," he repeated, plucking with cold fingers at the -sheet. - -"I'll go and fetch the doctor," cried Nigel. - -"No ... I don't want you to leave me." - -"But we must do something." - -"There's nothing to do ... only talk to me ... and don't let me get -funky." - -"You might look out of the window, Nigel, and see if any one's passing," -said Janey. - -There was not likely to be any one at that hour, but he thrust his head -out and eagerly scanned the lane. The rain had stopped, though the sky -was shagged over with masses of cloud. One or two stars glimmered wanly -above the woods. It was the constellation of Orion, setting. - -"There's no one," said Nigel, "nor likely to be--I must go, Len." - -"Oh, no ... don't ... don't leave me ... the doctor couldn't do -anything.... Perhaps I won't die ... only I hate the dark." - -A strangling pity seized Nigel. He went over to his brother, and sat -down beside the bed, taking his hand. - -"There, there, old boy, don't worry. We'll both stay with you. I'll hold -this hand, and Janey 'ull hold the other, and you'll soon get over it." - -Len lay shivering and gasping. Nigel and Janey looked into each other's -eyes across him, and swallowed their grief. - -"I--I expect it's nothing," panted Leonard. "One often feels low at this -time of night." - -They leaned upon the bed each side of him, and suddenly Janey thrust out -her hand and grasped Nigel's across him. - -"Now we're all three holding hands," she said. - -The minutes flew by. A clock was ticking--measuring them out. - -"Kiss me ..." moaned Leonard suddenly. - -They both stooped and kissed him. - -He shut his eyes, then opened them, and a strange, piteous resignation -was in their glazing depths. - -"I'm sorry ... I must die.... I'm so tired." - -"You will go to sleep, Len." - -"No ... I'm too tired ... it wouldn't be enough." - -Janey's tears fell on his face. - -"Don't cry, Janey ... it's--it's all right.... Remember me to the doctor -... and say my last words were 'ninety-nine' ... laugh, Janey ... it's a -joke." - -"Lenny, Lenny...." - -There was another silence, and a faint flush tinted the watery sky. A -bird chirrupped in the eaves of Sparrow Hall. - -"Hold my hands tighter," gasped Len. - -They both gripped tighter. - -"And give my love to Tottie Coughdrop ... and say I'm sorry to have -missed her.... Tighter ... oh!... tighter." - -His breath came in a fierce, whistling rush, and he sat bolt upright, -gripping their hands and struggling. - -"Nigel, fetch the doctor!" shrieked Janey. - -But Len had his brother's hand in the agonised grip of dying. - -"Tighter ... oh, tighter...." - -There was another whistling rush of breath, but this time no -struggle--only a sigh. - -Len fell back on the pillow, and the terror passed suddenly from his -face. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -AND YOU ALSO SAID ... - - -During the week that followed Leonard's death, there was a succession of -heavy storms. Chill sodden winds drove June from the fields, and -substituted a bleak mock-autumn. Sparrow Hall was full of the moaning -winds--they sped down the passages, and throbbed against the doors, they -whistled through cracks and chinks, and rumbled in the chimneys. - -Janey was in bed for the first few days; she had collapsed utterly. The -two blows which had fallen on her almost together had smitten her into a -kind of numbness, in which she lay, white and stiff and tearless, -through the windy hours. Nigel scarcely ever left her, and he scarcely -ever spoke to her--they just crouched together, she on the bed, he on a -chair beside it, their fingers twined, both dumbly busy with the -problems of death and anguish that had assaulted their lives. - -Meantime the routine of the house and farm remained unbroken. The "man" -looked after the latter, and through the former moved a figure that -seemed strangely out of place. When "Tottie Coughdrop" arrived the -morning after Len's death, she proved to be no more or less than a -novice from St. Margaret's Convent, and finding her ministrations as -truly needed as if her patient had been alive, she did not leave on -finding him dead. - -She nursed Janey--at least she did for her the little that Nigel could -not do; she dusted and cooked; she made Furlonger eat, the stiffest duty -of all. It used to hurt Nigel when he thought how Len would have enjoyed -seeing him sit down to supper every night with a nun. - -Novice Unity Agnes also undertook all the arrangements for the -funeral--which had always been a nightmare to Nigel and Janey. Moreover, -the day before, she went to East Grinstead and bought a black skirt and -blouse and hat for Janey, who but for her would never have thought of -going into mourning at all; and though her charity was not able to -overcome her diffidence and buy a mourning suit for Nigel, she sewed -black bands on all his coats. - -That was how it happened that the funeral of Leonard Furlonger was such -a surprise to the inhabitants of the Three Counties. The coffin was met -at the church door by the choir headed by a crucifix, and the service -was read by a priest in a black cope. There were hymns too--Novice Unity -Agnes's favourites, all about as appropriate as "How doth the little -busy bee"--and incense, and a little collection of nuns, persuaded by -the kind-hearted novice to swell the scanty number of mourners. In fact, -as Nigel remarked bitterly, the whole thing was a joke, and it was a -shame Len had missed it. - -He and Janey walked home alone, arm in arm, through the wet lanes. As -usual, they did not speak, but they strained close together as the -solitude of the fields crept round them. The rain had cleared, but the -wind was still romping in the hedges--little tearful spreads of sky -showed among the clouds, very pale and rain-washed, soon swallowed up by -moving shapes of storm. - -Janet went to bed early. She had suddenly found that she could sleep, -and her appetite for sleep became abnormal. She woke each morning -greedily counting the hours till night. In the old careless days she had -never set such store on sleep, because it had meant merely strengthening -and resting and refreshing; now it meant what was more to her than -anything else in life--forgetting. - -Nigel could not sleep. In his heart the lights were not yet all put out. -There were flashes of terror and sparks of desire, and dull flares of -conjecture. He had sometimes hesitated whether he should tell Janey his -secret, but had drawn back on each occasion, urged partly by the thought -of adding to her burden, but principally by a feeling of shame. His -wonderful dream, which had sustained him so triumphantly during six -months of work and sacrifice, had now shrivelled into a poor little -secret, such as school-girls nurture--a love which must always be hidden -and silent and unconsummated. - -His brain ached with regrets and revisualisations, quaked with -apprehension and the knowledge of his own utter helplessness in the face -of circumstances. The thought of Lowe's perfidy to Janet would rouse in -him a sweat of rage from his poor attempts at sleep. Janey stood to -Nigel for all that was noble, meek and understanding, and that she -should be treated heartlessly and lightly by a scoundrel not worthy to -black her boots, was a thought that drove him nearly rabid with hate. -What was he to do to save Tony from this swine? He knew perfectly well -how she would look upon him if she heard his story. He remembered the -hard, stiff little figure in the garden of Shovelstrode--"You won my -friendship under false pretences." What would she say to the cad who had -won by false pretences not only her friendship but her body, her heart -and her soul? Yet he could never tell her the truth. He would not betray -Janet even to this girl he loved, and a vague accusation could easily be -denied by Lowe, and was not likely to be believed by Tony. - -Often he envied Len--lost in cool sleep, free from responsibilities and -problems, eased for ever from the soul-chafing burdens of hate and love. - - -It was the beginning of July. Sunshine baked on the fields, and drank -the green out of the grass, so that the fields were brown, with splashes -of yellow where the buttercups still grew. In the hedges the wild -elder-rose sent out its sickening sweetness, while from the ditches came -the even more cloying fragrance of the meadowsweet. The haze of a great -heat veiled the distance from Nigel, as he tramped over the parched -grass into Kent. He saw the roofs of Scarlets and Redpale shimmering in -the valley of the hammer ponds, but beyond them was a fiery, thundering -dusk, which swallowed up the hills of Cowden in the east. - -He walked with bent head and arms slack. He often took these lonely -walks, undaunted by either storm or swelter. He knew that Janey missed -him, but he could not keep his body still while his mind ran to and fro -so desperately. - -His walks were full of dark and furious planning of schemes that came to -nothing. He roamed aimlessly through the country, without noticing where -he went--except that he half unconsciously avoided the roads and wider -lanes. He was desperate because his brain worked so slowly, a cloud -seemed to lie on it, and he had a tendency to lose the thread of his -ideas after he had followed them a little way. - -This afternoon he was wandering towards the valley of the hammer ponds. -It was nearly seven when he came to Furnace Wood. The sun was swimming -to the west through whorls of heat. A sullen glow crawled over the sky, -nearly brown in the west. The air hung heavy in the wood, laden with the -pungency of midsummer flowers and grasses--scarcely a leaf stirred, -though now and then an unaccountable rustling shudder passed through the -thickets. - -Weariness dropped on Nigel like a cloak--he was used to it. It was not -really physical, only the deadly striving of his soul reaching out to -his body and exhausting it. He flung himself down in a clump of bracken -and tansy, sinking down in it, till everything was shut out by the tall, -earth-smelling stalks. This was what he often found himself longing for -with a desperate physical desire--a little corner, cool and quiet and -green, shut off from life, where he could drowse--and forget. - -This evening only the first part of his desire was satisfied. He had his -corner, but he could not drowse in it. His limbs lay inert, but his -thoughts kicked painfully. His brain hammered with old impressions, -which, instead of wearing away with time, each day bored and jarred with -renewed power. He was the victim of an abnormally acute mentality--just -as to a swollen limb the lightest touch is painful, so to Nigel's brain -inflamed with grief and struggle, every impression was like a blow, an -enduring source of agony. - -He heard footsteps on the path. No one could see him--it was still quite -light in the fields, but in the wood was dusk and a blurring of -outlines; besides, he was deeply buried in the tall stalks. However, -though he could not be seen, he could see, for on the path stood a -golden pillar of sunshine into which the footsteps must pass. Nigel -wondered if it could be Lowe, returning early for some reason from -Shovelstrode. But the steps did not sound heavy enough, and the next -minute he saw the white of a woman's dress through the trees. In an -instant his limbs had shrunk together, for another of those sickening -blows had smitten his brain. The figure had passed out of the pillar of -sunset, but he had seen Tony Strife as she went by. - -She was dressed in white, and wore no hat, only a muslin scarf over her -hair. She carried a cloak on her arm, and Furlonger realised that she -must be going to dine at Redpale. The sight of Tony--he had not seen -her since he lost her, or rather his dream of her--threw him into a fit -of torment. He flung himself back among the stalks, and rolled there, -biting them, suddenly mad with pain. - -The next moment he started up. A thud and a low cry came from a few -yards further on. - -Nigel sprang to his feet. He remembered that not far off the path ran by -the mouth of a disused chalk quarry, from which it was divided only by a -very rickety fence. Suppose.... He crashed through the bushes to the -path, and dashed along it to the chalk-pit. Something white lay only a -few feet from the dreadful brink. - -Just here the path was in darkness--hazel bushes and a dense thicket of -alder shut out the sun. For a moment he could not make out clearly what -had happened, but was immediately reassured by seeing Tony sit up, and -try to struggle to her feet. - -"What is it?" she cried, hearing his steps behind her. "Who's there?" - -"Are you hurt?" - -"Oh, Mr. Furlonger...." - -She made another struggle to rise, but could not without his hand. - -"Are you hurt?" he repeated. - -"No-o-o." - -"I think you are a little." - -He was trembling all over, and hoped she did not notice it. - -"I fell over some wire, just here, where the path is so dark. I might -have gone over the edge," she added with a shudder. - -"You had a lucky escape--but I'm afraid you're hurt." - -"It isn't much. I may have twisted my ankle a bit, that's all." - -She stood there in the shadows, her white dress gleaming like a moth, -her face mysterious in the disarray of her wrap. Nigel's eyes devoured -her, while his heart filled itself with inexpressible pain. - -"Take my arm," he said huskily, "and I'll help you back to -Shovelstrode." - -"Oh, no!--I'll go on to Redpale. It's much nearer--if you'll be so kind -as to help me." - -"But how about getting home?" - -"My fiancé, Mr. Lowe, will drive me home. He was to have fetched me too, -but at the last moment he had to go up to town, and couldn't be back in -time." - -"Are you sure you're well enough to go out to dinner?" He hated the idea -of taking her to Redpale. - -"Oh, quite--this is nothing. Besides, dining at Redpale is just like -dining at home--I don't call it going 'out' to dinner." - -Furlonger winced, and gave her his arm, hoping she would not notice how -it shook. - -They walked slowly out of Furnace Wood, towards the leaden east. Tony -limped slightly, and Nigel wanted to carry her, but he dared not risk -his patched self-control too far. - -"You should never have come all this way alone," he said gruffly, -"these woods by the quarries are dangerous." - -"I expect my father will be furious when he finds out what I've done. -But I hoped that if I walked across the fields, instead of driving round -by the road, I--I might meet my fiancé on his way home from the -station." - -A tremulous archness crept into her voice. Nigel shuddered. - -"I'm pleased I met you," she said gently, after a pause, "because I -wanted to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am about your brother." - -"Thank you." - -"And I want to tell you that I'm so glad about your success in London. I -saw in the papers how you distinguished yourself at Herr von -Gleichroeder's concert." - -Nigel did not speak. - -"I suppose you'll soon be going back to town?" she went on timidly. - -"I don't know. I can't leave my sister." - -"But you can take her with you. It would be a pity to throw up your -career just when everything looks so promising." - -They were not far from Redpale now. The sunset was creeping over the -sky--only the east before them was dark, banked high with thundery -vapour. Nigel could still hear Tony speaking, as if in a kind of dream. -His thoughts were busy elsewhere. - -"Won't you?" repeated Tony for the second time. - -"Won't I what?" - -"Go back to London, and make yourself famous." - -"I don't see much chance of that." - -"But I do--and so will you when you're not so unhappy. Now, to please -me, won't you promise to go back to London and make yourself a great -career? You and I used to be friends once--I hope we're friends -still--and I shall always be interested in everything you do. I expect -to see your name in a very high place some day. Now, for my sake, -promise to go back." - -"For your sake...." - -"Yes--since you won't go for your own." - -They had stopped a moment to rest her foot. Nigel lifted his eyes from -the grass and looked into hers--wondering. Was it true, was it even -possible, that she had never seen his love? She could not, or she would -not speak like this--"For my sake." After all, she would never expect -him to dare ... that would blind her to much that might have betrayed -him had he been worthier. No, she had not seen his love, and she had -never loved him. She had never loved any man but Quentin Lowe--he was -her first love, he had lit the first flame in her heart, and that heart -was his, in all its purity and burning. - -Standing there beside her in the sunset, her weight resting deliciously -on him as she raised her injured foot from the ground, he realised the -change that had come to Tony. Her manner was as entirely different from -her manner of six months ago at Shovelstrode as that had been different -from the manner of those still earlier days at Lingfield or Brambletye. -In those days, during their playtime, Tony had been a school-girl, a -delightful hoyden, the best pal and fellow-adventurer a man could have. -In December, in the garden at Shovelstrode, she had lost that valiant -girlhood, and at the same time her womanhood was unripe--she had been a -crude mixture of girl and woman, sometimes provokingly both, sometimes -repellingly neither. But to-day she was woman complete. Both her mind -and her body seemed to have stepped out of their green adolescence. -There was a certain dignity of curve about the tall figure resting -against him, which Nigel had not seen in the forest or in the garden; -there was a clear and confident look in the eyes which in earlier days -had been either wistful or timid; there was a heightened colour on the -cheeks. Her manner was full of gentle assurance, her speech easy and -sympathetic--as utterly different from the crude tactlessness of -Christmastide as from the school-girl rattle of November. - -Yes, Tony was a woman come into her kingdom, proud, sweet, compassionate -and strong. Quentin Lowe had made her this in the short weeks of his -love. Unworthy little cad as he was, he had yet been able to raise her -from girlhood to womanhood, to crown her with the diadem of her -heritage.... - -"Tony," cried Nigel, caught in a sudden storm of impulse, "do you love -Quentin Lowe?" - -"Love him!--why, of course.... Let's move on." - -"You're not angry with me?--I have my reason for asking." - -"No, I'm not angry. But what reason can you have?" - -"I remember," said Nigel desperately, "what you told me six months ago. -You said you couldn't forgive...." - -The colour rushed to his face, but he fought on. - -"There is something which I think you ought to know about him." - -"What do you mean?" - -She spoke sharply, but not quite so sharply as he had expected. - -"Miss Strife--it's very difficult for me ... but I think I ought----" - -"I suppose," she said, her voice faltering a little, "you're trying to -tell me--you think you ought to tell me--that Quentin hasn't always been -quite--quite worthy of himself. I know." - -"You know!" - -"Yes." - -There was silence, broken only by the swish of their footsteps through -the grass. - -"How did you know?--Who told you?" cried Furlonger suddenly. - -"I might ask--how do _you_ know?" - -"The girl--was a friend of mine...." - -"Oh, I'm sorry." - -"Don't mistake me. I--I didn't love her--not in that way, I mean. But, -Tony--who told you?" - -"Quentin." - -"My God!" - -"Why are you so surprised? It was right that he should tell me." - -"Of course. But I--I didn't think he would." - -Tony hesitated a moment--it struck Nigel that she was considering how -far she ought to take him into her confidence. The thought humiliated -him. - -"He did tell me," she said after a pause, "he told me everything, one -night, nearly three weeks ago, just before your brother died. He -suddenly came to Shovelstrode--very late, after we had all gone -upstairs. He wanted to see me--and I came down ... oh, I shall never -forget it! He was standing there, all white and tired--and very wet, as -if he'd been lying in the grass. He tried to speak, but he couldn't--and -I was frightened, like a silly ass, and I cried ... and then he told me -all about himself--and this girl." - -"And you?..." - -She shuddered. - -"I--I told him he must go." - -"You told him to go!"--his voice had a hungry catch in it. - -"Yes--I was a beast." - -Anxiety and scorn strove together in him. - -"But you changed your mind." - -She nodded. - -"Tony!" - -"Well, why not?" - -"Because it's paltry and weak of you--he doesn't deserve your -forgiveness--and you've no right to forgive him for what he did to -another woman." - -"Do you think I haven't considered that other woman?" - -"You must have. But--egad!--you're so calm about it. Don't you realise -what all this means--to her?" - -"You think I ought to make him marry her?" - -"Of course not--she wouldn't have him if she was paid. But--but how can -_you_ marry him, Tony?" - -She bit her lip. - -"I'm sorry I put things so bluntly, but I'm always a blundering ass when -I'm excited. Tony, you're not to marry this man." - -By her mounting colour he saw that he had said too much. - -"I beg your pardon--I know all this sounds like impertinent -interference. But it isn't. I've been worrying about it a lot--about -your marrying him. I felt you ought to know...." - -"Well, I do know--and I've forgiven him." - -"I'm not sure that isn't even worse than your not knowing." - -She stared at him in anger and surprise. - -"You say that!--you!--the man but for whom perhaps I never should have -forgiven him." - -Nigel gasped. "What do you mean?" - -"Well, at first, as I told you, I felt I couldn't forgive him. But -afterwards I remembered all you said." - -"_I_ said!" - -"Yes." - -"What?--When?" - -"Don't you remember that day you came over to Shovelstrode and said, -'You will have to forgive me a great many things because I am so very -hungry'?" - - -They had stopped again; the fields swelled round them, ghostly in the -lemon twilight, and a wistful radiance glowed on Tony's face. He -searched her eyes despairingly--he scarcely knew what for. The anger in -them had died, and in its place was a beautiful serenity and kindliness. -But that was not what he was looking for. His heart was full of hunger -and tears, yet he did not hunger or cry for the woman who stood before -him, but for the little girl he had known long months ago. - -"Quentin used almost the same words as you did," she said, breaking the -silence, "he told me how all his life he had been hungry, always craving -for something good and pure and satisfying, never able to reach it. Then -he met this girl, and he thought that he'd find in her all he was -seeking. But he found only sorrow--sorrow for them both. He was in -despair, in hell--and he believed I could help him out and make him a -good man again. Don't you remember how you said that a man's only chance -of rising out of the mud was for some woman to give him a hand and help -him up?" - -Nigel could not find words. A thick, misty horror was settling on him. -Had those poor pleadings of his dying self then turned against him in -his hour of need? - -"There was Quentin asking for my help," continued Tony. "Oh, I know I'm -no better than other girls, than the girl he used to love, but somehow -I can't help feeling I'm the girl sent to help Quentin. When I told him -he must go, he nearly went crazy ... his father said he was afraid he -would kill himself ... and I--I was nearly mad too, for I--oh, God! I -loved him." - -A sounding contralto note swept into her voice; it seemed to swell up -from her heart, from her heaving woman's breast on which her hands were -folded. - -"So I forgave him." - -"Tony!..." cried Nigel faintly. - -"Yes--I'm grateful to you. I'm afraid that when I saw you at -Shovelstrode I was very stupid and stiff--I was a horrid little beast, -and I couldn't forgive you for what was after all an honour you had done -me. Now I see how much your friendship meant to me. But for you, Quentin -and I might have been parted for ever." - -A stupid rage was tearing Furlonger, and there was a mockery of laughter -in it. He saw that his tragedy was after all only a farce--he was the -time-honoured lover of farce, who with infinite pains makes a ladder to -his lady's chamber, and then sees his rival swarm up it. There he stood, -forlorn, discomfited, frustrated--but also intensely comic. Perhaps the -student was right about Offenbach.... - -"I'm surprised that you should be so disgusted with me," said Tony. - -The ghostly laughter pealed again, and at the same time he remembered -that "if the man's a sport, he laughs too." He threw back his head, and -startled her with a hearty laugh. - -"Mr. Furlonger!" - -"I'm sorry--but things struck me suddenly as rather funny." - -"How?" - -"Oh, I don't suppose they'd strike you the same way. But it seems funny -you should care whether I'm disgusted or not." - -"I do--of course I do; and I can't see why you are disgusted. After all -you said...." - -"Damn all I said!--I'm sorry, but I never thought of a case like this." -He blushed, remembering the case he had thought of. - -They walked down the hill--they could see Redpale now, huddling beneath -them in its orchards. The colours of the sunset had grown fainter, and -pale, trembling lights burned on the barn-roofs and the pond. - -Their feet beat swiftly on the rustling grass. Furlonger's time was -short. - -"I'm going to try to be a big woman," said Tony softly, "a strong, brave -woman; and I don't want to think sentimental rot about a perfect knight -and a spotless hero and all that. I want to be a man's fighting -comrade--I want to feel he can't do without me. It was you who first -told me that I must take men as I find them--but not leave them so." - -"Tony, if only I thought there was any good in him----" - -"I tell you there's a mine of good in him. But he's never had a chance -till now. Our engagement is to be a very long one, and already I can see -a difference in him. It's not I that have done it--it's his love for -me. And all the sorrow he went through, when he thought he'd lost me, -seems to have made him gentler and humbler somehow. Quentin has suffered -dreadfully"--there was a little click in her throat--"and he wants so -much to be good and pure and true. And I've promised to help him, by -believing that he can and will do better." - -His own words were being mercilessly fired back at him. He remembered -how he had first breathed them to her, full of hope and entreaty. In the -face of such artillery his rout was complete. - -"Forgive him, Tony!" he cried. "Forgive him! But oh, forgive me, too!" - -They had reached the gate of Redpale Farm. He stopped--he would go no -further. - -"Tony--forgive me too." - -The words broke from his lips in an exceeding bitter cry. - -"Forgive you!--what for?" - -"For a great deal--for all you know of, and for the more you don't -know." - -"Of course I forgive you--but I thank you most." - -"No, you must forgive me most--are you sure that you forgive me for what -you don't know as well as for what you know?" - -"Quite sure"--her voice trembled a little, for he was beginning to -frighten her. - -"Then good-bye." - -"Good-bye. I--I hope I haven't brought you very far out of your way." - -He muttered something unintelligible, pulled off his cap, and left her. - -He walked quickly, pricked on by a discovery which was also a triumph. -Quentin Lowe had not taken Tony from him after all. The Tony he loved -had never known Quentin Lowe, she had been no man's friend but Nigel -Furlonger's--and so much his friend that when he had been taken from her -she would not stay without him, but herself had gone away. Quentin Lowe -loved a beautiful woman--proud and sweet and assured, with just a dash -of the prig about her. Nigel had never loved this woman, he had loved a -little girl--and the little girl who had been his comrade in the Kentish -lanes and the ruins of Brambletye, would never be any man's but his. - - -He plunged recklessly through the fields, and recklessly into Furnace -Wood. Lowe could not be far off. He must have missed the fast train from -Victoria, but the next one arrived only an hour or so later. Nigel -hurried through the wood, now coal dark, and full of a strange dread for -him--though he did not know of the ghosts which haunted it. As he caught -his first glimpse of the faintly crimsoned west, he saw a figure -outlined against it. Some one was coming down the slope of Furnace -Field. It must be Lowe. - -The two men met on the rim of the wood. It was a moment of blackness for -Quentin when he saw the blazing eyes and bitten lips of Furlonger. -Strange words broke from his tongue-- - -"Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!" - -Nigel's great body towered over him. His lips had shrunk back from his -teeth, which gleamed in the dying ugly light. Lowe remembered the other -Furlonger who was dead. In Furnace Wood fate would not tamper with -vengeance as at Cowsanish. - -Suddenly Nigel spoke. - -"Two good women have forgiven you--so I've nothing to say--or do. -Pass----" - -He moved out of the path, and waved his hand towards the wood. - -"Pass----" he said. - -Quentin hesitated a moment. - -"Won't--won't you shake hands?" - -"No. Pass--and for God's sake, pass quickly." - - - - -CHAPTER X - -A TOAST - - -A few faint stars were in the west as Nigel tramped towards it. They -seemed to swim up out of the eddies of crimson fog that floated -there--they seemed to be showing little candles of hope to the man who -turned his back on the east. The castle of the dayspring lay behind him, -swallowed in thundery murk, but before him were the lights of a broader -palace where dead hopes and dead hatreds keep state together. - -The west glowed and trembled and purpled--fiery rays rested on the -woods, and reached over the sky to the moon. Then against the purple -showed a tall chimney, rising from a high-roofed cottage that squatted -in the fields of Wilderwick. - -As Nigel walked down the hill towards Sparrow Hall, a great quickening -realisation struck his exhausted heart. He knew that his dream was not -dead. Tony, the light in which he had seen it, was gone for ever, but -the dream itself was still there in the dark. For six months he had -tried to lead a good and honourable life, and now, though the motive was -gone, the old desire remained as strong and white as ever. He could -never be as he had been before he met Tony. He knew now that it was not -she that had called him--she had merely opened his ears to a voice that -had been calling him all through his life, through struggle, lust and -pain, failure and hate--and was calling him still, through the utter -darkness. The child in him, which had desperately sought congenial -comradeship in a little girl, rose out of the wreck, and heard as in a -dream the voices of boys and girls in London, laughing, fooling and -ragging together, calling to all in him that was gay and young and -outrageous. He wanted to go back to London, he wanted to play and to -work, and to win for himself what he had once yearned to win for Tony. -His music, that one touch of the poetic and supernatural in his sordid, -materialistic life, would raise him up in this his Last Day, and give -him his heart's desire--his desire for a clean life and an honourable -name. - -He stood for a moment in the great lonely field--the last of the sun and -the first of the moon upon him, around him the dawning eternity of the -stars. Two hours ago he had been festering, sick, with his schemes, the -comrade of a hundred repulsive ideas. Now he was alone--utterly alone -with his one great ambition, stripped of the last rag of personal motive -that had clung to it--his ambition to be honest and pure and true. - -Tony had pointed him out the way, and directly he had taken it, she had -gone--to show it to another man, and walk in it with him. Nigel suddenly -pictured that man. He was at Redpale Farm ... he kneeled in the dust at -Tony's feet ... her hands were upon his head. In her he found -redemption, love and blessing--and dared he, Furlonger, grudge -redemption, love and blessing to any man? He did not grudge them--let -Quentin Lowe take them, walk in white with Tony, and be worthy of her. -Furlonger, too, would walk in white and be worthy--but he would walk -alone. - -No, not quite alone. He trod softly up the path to Sparrow Hall, between -the ranks of the folded flowers. The evening primroses and night-scented -stock sent their fragrance in with him at the door. The house was in -darkness, and he groped his way to the kitchen, where he found Janey. - -She was half asleep in the armchair by the fire--she had laid the -supper, that dreary little supper for two, and now lay huddled by the -dying embers, cold, in spite of the thick heat of the night. - -"Janey," whispered Nigel, as he kissed her. - -She started. - -"Oh, you're back at last!--what a time you've been!" - -"I'm sorry, dear. Come now, I'll light the lamp, and we'll have supper." - -She rose listlessly, and sat down opposite him. - -"It's a rotten supper--I don't cook so well as Novice Unity Agnes." - -"Nonsense! you cook quite well enough for me. Janey--will you come and -cook for me in London?" - -"In London?"--she stared at him blankly. - -"Yes, I must go back to my work--and I can't leave you here." - -"But--but--I don't understand--and what shall we do about the farm?" - -"We can sell it, and the money will keep us--just the two of us in a -workman's flat--till my training is over, and I'm earning money on my -own. Oh, Janey, I don't suppose I'll ever be rich or famous or that I'll -fill the Albert Hall--but I--I shall be more worthy of you, dear." - -"Of me!"--she laughed. - -"Yes. Don't you understand? I've got my dream back again--but there's an -empty place in it.... Will you fill it, Janey?" - -She looked questioningly at him with her great haggard eyes. - -"Who left it empty?" - -"Tony Strife," he said in a low voice. - -"Nigel!..." - -She rose to her feet and came to him. - -"My poor, poor boy." - -Her pity, the first he had received, had an unexpected effect on him. It -nearly unmanned him--he put up his hands to her neck, and drew down her -face to him, while his body shuddered. - -"Nigel ... did she know?" - -"No, never--thank God!" - -She stroked his hair, and held his head against her breast. - -"It was a hopeless dream, Janey." - -She could not contradict him. - -"But it helped me." - -"Then it was a good dream." - -He gently slipped himself free. - -"And now we'll say no more about it." - -After supper Janey asked Nigel to play to her. He often used to play to -her in the evenings, to relieve the aching weight of agony that gathered -on her with the dusk. She lay back in the armchair, her eyes closed, -wondering why Nigel's music, which she had used sometimes to hate, -soothed her so inexpressibly now. She always asked him to play when she -felt her heart was becoming hard--music seemed to melt down that stony -sense of outrage which sometimes grew like a cancer into her thoughts. -She would not, dared not, have a hard heart, and music was the only -thing at present that could keep it soft. - -She thought with gathering tears of the confession her brother had just -made her, but she would not let her mind dwell on it--somehow she felt -he would not like it. The episode did not belong to the surface of -things, it belonged to the hidden life of a secret man, a holy, hopeless -thing, to be guarded from the prying even of reverent thoughts. She knew -that though she and Nigel might often talk together of her sorrow, they -would never talk of his. - -He was playing a strange tune that pattered on the silence like rain. It -was the song of the man who has dreamed of love, who has wakened at last -to find it only a dream, and that he lies with empty arms on a hard -bed--and then suddenly realises that he has before him that which is -sweeter than sleep and dreams--the joy of the day's work. He played the -Prelude of the Day's Work, through which would trill the magic memory of -love--love, which is so much sweeter in memory and in dream than in -realisation. - -At last he put aside his violin, and going over to Janey, he knelt down -by her and kissed her tired face. - -"Oh, Nigel ... Nigel!" - -"You'll come with me to London, and help me in my new life?" - -"I want a new life too." - -"We'll start one together." - -"And--and you'll play the devil out of me when he comes?" - -"Always--and we won't have any secrets from each other, Janey." - -She smiled faintly. Her brother always amused her when he spoke of -secrets. - -There was silence for some minutes. The moon was leaving the window, -climbing high among the stars. A little wind began to flutter round -Sparrow Hall, whispering and throbbing. - -"I'm tired," said Janey. - -"You must go to bed." - -"Yes." - -"And you'll dream of the life you and I are going to live together--of -success for me, and happiness for you." - -She rose and put her hands on his shoulders. - -"Good-night, lad." - -"Good-night. I think I'm going to bed too. I think I can sleep to-night. -But before we go we must drink a toast, Janey." - -"A toast!--to whom?" - -"To--to two people who we thought were going to make you and me -happy--but are going to make each other happy instead." - -She did not answer for a moment. She and her brother stood facing each -other in the strange freak of lamplight and moonlight. Then she said-- - -"Yes. We must _want_ them to be happy, Nigel." - -He turned to the uncleared supper-table and poured out some of the red -wine that Janey drank in these days of her weakness. - -"We'll drink to their happiness, old sister. We won't go whining and -grudging because it isn't ours. Besides, we're going to have it some -day--we'll make a new lot of our own." - -"Yes, Nigel"--Janey's eyes had kindled--"we're not going to grudge them -what they've got, or be envious and mean." - -They faced each other across the table. The wind gave a sudden little -sigh round Sparrow Hall--blustered--and was still. - -"A toast!" cried Nigel, lifting his glass, "a toast!--To those who've -got what we have lost." - - -THE END - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Furlongers, by Sheila Kaye-Smith - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FURLONGERS *** - -***** This file should be named 56161-8.txt or 56161-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/6/56161/ - -Produced by ellinora, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Three Furlongers - -Author: Sheila Kaye-Smith - -Release Date: December 11, 2017 [EBook #56161] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FURLONGERS *** - - - - -Produced by ellinora, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class = "mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br /> -Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.<br /></p></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">THE THREE FURLONGERS</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="frontispiece" /></div> - -<p class="bold">With outstretched arms she rushed to one of them—<a href="#Page_10">Page 10</a></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<h1>THE THREE<br />FURLONGERS</h1> - -<p class="bold space-above">BY</p> - -<p class="bold2">SHEILA KAYE-SMITH</p> - -<p class="bold">AUTHOR OF "SPELL LAND," "ISLE OF THORNS," ETC.</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>There may be hope above,</div> -<div class="i1">There may be rest beneath;</div> -<div class="i1">We know not—only Death</div> -<div>Is palpable—and love.</div> -<div class="i6">—<span class="smcap">Dolben.</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="logo" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON<br />J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY<br />1914</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center space-above">COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</p> - -<p class="center space-above">ISSUED SEPTEMBER, 1914</p> - -<p class="center space-above">COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN UNDER THE TITLE<br />"THREE AGAINST THE WORLD"</p> - -<p class="center space-above">PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY<br />AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS<br />PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <th colspan="3" class="center">BOOK I</th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="3" class="center">THREE AGAINST THE WORLD</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smaller">CHAPTER</span></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>I.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Sparrow Hall</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>II.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Shovelstrode</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>III.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">In the Rain</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IV.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Fate's Afterthought</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>V.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">The Hero</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VI.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Thick Woods</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Over the Gates of Paradise</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VIII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Brambletye</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IX.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Some People Are Happy—In Different Ways</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>X.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Tony Backs an Outsider</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XI.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Disillusion at Sixteen</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Children Dancing in the Dusk</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XIII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Keeping Christmas</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XIV.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Woods at Dawn</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XV.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">The Sermon on Forgiveness</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="3" class="center"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <th colspan="3" class="center">BOOK II</th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="3" class="center">THE WORLD AGAINST THE THREE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smaller">CHAPTER</span></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>I.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Glimpses and Dreams</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>II.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">The Letter That Did Not Come</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>III.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Only a Boy</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IV.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Flames</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>V.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Cowsanish</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VI.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">And I Also Dreamed</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Woods at Night</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VIII.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">Vigil</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_268">268</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IX.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">And You Also Said</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_280">280</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>X.</td> - <td class="left"> <span class="smcap">A Toast</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<h2>BOOK I</h2> - -<p class="bold">THREE AGAINST THE WORLD</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">THE THREE FURLONGERS</p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER I</span> <span class="smaller">SPARROW HALL</span></h2> - -<p>The twilight was dropping over the fields of three counties—Surrey, -Kent and Sussex—all touching in the woods round Sparrow Hall. In the -sky above and in the fields below lights were creeping out one by one. -The Great Wain lit up over Cansiron, just as the farmer's wife set the -lamp in the window of Anstiel, and the lights of Dorman's Land were like -a reflection of the Pleiades above them.</p> - -<p>Janet Furlonger sat waiting in the kitchen of Sparrow Hall—now and then -springing up to lift the lid off the pot and smell the brown soup, or to -put her face to the window-pane and watch the creeping night, seen dimly -through the thick green glass and the mists that steamed up from the -fields of Wilderwick.</p> - -<p>Janet was immensely tall, and her movements were grand and free. In rest -she had a kind of statuesque dignity: she did not stoop, as if ashamed -of her height, but held herself proudly, with lifted chin. People used -to say that she walked as if she were showing off beautiful clothes. -This was meant to be a joke, for Janet's clothes were terrible—old,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> -and badly made. Hats, collars and waist-bands she evidently thought -superfluous; it was also fairly obvious that she dispensed with -stays—which caused scandal, not because her figure was bad, but because -it was too good. Wind, sun and rain had tinted her face to a delicate -wood-nut brown, through which the red glowed timidly, like the flush on -a spring catkin.</p> - -<p>Footsteps sounded on the frosty road, drawing steadily nearer. The next -minute the gate clicked. Janet started to her feet, flung open the -kitchen door, and ran out into the garden, between rows of -chrysanthemums still faintly sweet. Two men were coming up the path, and -with outstretched arms she rushed to one of them.</p> - -<p>"Nigel!—old man!"</p> - -<p>He did not speak, but folded her to him, bending his face to hers. It -was too dark for them to see each other distinctly. All that was clear -was the outline of the roof and chimney against the still tremulous -west.</p> - -<p>Janet pulled him softly up the path, into the doorway, where it was -darker still. She put up her hands to his face and gently felt the -outlines of his features. Then she began to laugh.</p> - -<p>"What a fool I am! Didn't I say I wasn't going to have any silly -sentimentality?—and here I am, simply wallowing in it. Come into the -kitchen, young men, and see what I've got for the satisfaction of your -gross appetites."</p> - -<p>They followed her into the kitchen, and she turned round and looked at -them both. They were very different. The elder brother, Leonard, was -like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> Janet—dark both of hair and eye, with a healthy red under his -tan. The younger's hair was between brown and auburn, and his eyes were -large and blue and innocent like a child's. His mouth was not like a -child's—indeed, there was a peculiar look of age in its drooping -corners, and his teeth flashed suddenly, almost vindictively, when he -spoke; it was lucky that they were so white and even, for he showed them -with every movement of his lips—two fierce, shining rows.</p> - -<p>"You're late," said Janet. "No, don't look at the clock, unless you've -remembered how to do the old sum. It's really something after nine, and -the train is supposed to get in at half-past seven."</p> - -<p>"Yes—but I got hung up at Grinstead station, playing guardian angel to -a kid."</p> - -<p>"Let's hope the kid didn't ask to see your wings," said Leonard. "Was it -a girl-kid or a boy-kid?"</p> - -<p>"A girl-kid. There were five of 'em in my carriage. They'd been sent -home from school for some reason or other, and this one evidently hadn't -let her people know, for when she got out at East Grinstead there was no -one to meet her. All the station cabs had been snapped up, and some -loathly bounder got hold of her—goodness knows what would have happened -if I hadn't turned up and managed to scatter him. I got her a taxi from -the Dorset, and sent her off in it to Shovelstrode."</p> - -<p>"Shovelstrode!—then she must be old Strife's daughter. What age was she?"</p> - -<p>"I should put her down at sixteen, but very innocent."</p> - -<p>"Pretty?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p><p>"Ye—es."</p> - -<p>"Nigel, my boy, you haven't let the grass grow under your feet."</p> - -<p>"Idiot!—we never exchanged a word except in the way of business. She -wanted to know my name, but I took care to say Smith. There was nothing -exciting about it at all—only an infernal loss of time."</p> - -<p>"Quite so. You didn't find me in a particularly good temper when you -turned up at Hackenden."</p> - -<p>"The first words that passed between us were—'Is that you, you ass?' -and 'Yes, you fool.' We haven't done the thing properly at all—we've -forgotten to fall on each other's necks."</p> - -<p>"Let's do it now," said Len, and the two boys collapsed into a mock -embrace, in the grips of which they staggered up and down the kitchen, -knocking over several chairs.</p> - -<p>"Oh, stop, you duffers!" shouted Janet; but she was laughing. "Nigel -hasn't changed a bit," she said to herself.</p> - -<p>"What have they been doing to your clothes?" asked Leonard, as his -brother finally hurled him off. "They stink, lad, they stink."</p> - -<p>"They've been fumigated," said Nigel. "I've worn off some of the reek in -the train, but to-morrow Janey shall peg 'em out to air."</p> - -<p>"We'll hang 'em across the road from the orchard. Lord! won't the -Wilderwick freaks sit up!"</p> - -<p>"It'll take ages to get that smell out," said Janet ruefully, "and your -hair, too, Nigel—when'll that look decent again?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p><p>"I say, stop your personal remarks, you two—and give me something to -eat. I'm all one aching void."</p> - -<p>Janet took the soup off the fire, and slopped it into three blue bowls. -Nigel went round the table, setting straight the spoons and forks, which -Janey seemed to have flung on from a distance.</p> - -<p>"What's that for?" she asked.</p> - -<p>The young man started, then flushed slightly.</p> - -<p>"Hullo! I didn't notice what I was doing. I always had to do that in -prison."</p> - -<p>"Put things straight?—what a good idea!"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Everything had to be straight—in rows. Ugh!"</p> - -<p>For the first time he looked self-conscious.</p> - -<p>"Well, it's a very good habit to have got into. You may be quite useful -now."</p> - -<p>"I'm damned if I'd have done it," said Leonard.</p> - -<p>"You had to do it," said Nigel; "if you didn't ..." and a shudder passed -over him.</p> - -<p>"What?" asked his brother and sister with interest.</p> - -<p>He flushed more deeply, and the muscles of his face quivered.</p> - -<p>Then a surprising, terrible thing happened—so surprising and so -terrible that Leonard and Janey could only stand and gape. Nigel hid his -face in his hands, and began to cry.</p> - -<p>For some moments they stared at him with blank, horror-stricken eyes. -Scarcely a minute ago he had been uproarious—forgetting pain and shame -in the substantial ecstasies of reunion, smothering—after the Furlonger -habit—all memories of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> anguish in a joke. Never since his earliest -manhood had they seen him cry, not even on the day they had said -good-bye to him for so long. Now he was crying miserably, weakly, -hopelessly—crying quietly like a child, his hands covering his eyes, -his shoulders shaking a little. Then suddenly he gasped, almost -whimpered—</p> - -<p>"Don't ask me those questions. Don't ask me any more questions."</p> - -<p>"Nigel," cried Janet, finding her tongue at last, "I'm so sorry. I -didn't know you minded. Please don't cry any more—it hurts us."</p> - -<p>"We didn't mean anything, old man," said Leonard huskily. "Do cheer up, -and forget all about it."</p> - -<p>Nigel took away his hands from his eyes, and Len and Janey glanced -quickly at each other. They had expected to see his face swollen and -disfigured, but except for a slight redness round the eyes it was quite -unchanged. They both knew that it is only the faces of those who cry -continually which are so little altered by tears.</p> - -<p>For a moment they could not speak. A chill seemed to have dropped on -Sparrow Hall, and all three heard the moaning of the wind—as it swept -up to the windows, rattled them, then seemed to hurry away, sighing over -the fields.</p> - -<p>"Come, drink your soup, old chap," said Janet, pulling up his chair to -the table. "Write me down an ass, a tactless ass," she growled to -herself; "but how could I know he would take on that way?"</p> - -<p>Nigel obediently began to swallow the soup,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> while Len and Janey talked -across him with laboured airiness about the weather. After the soup came -bacon and eggs, and potatoes cooked in their skins. Nigel's spirits -began to rise—he seemed childishly delighted with the food, though -Janet's cooking was sketchy in the extreme. When the meal was over, he -joined in the washing up, which was done at a sink in the corner of the -kitchen.</p> - -<p>"What sort of people are the Lowes?" he asked suddenly, polishing a fork -with a vigour and thoroughness which made Leonard and Janey tremble lest -he should realise what he was doing. "What sort of people are the Lowes?"</p> - -<p>Janet flushed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, they're quite ordinary," said Leonard, "quite ordinarily -unpleasant, I mean. The old chap's narrow and pious, like most -devil-dodgers, and the young 'un's like an ape."</p> - -<p>"And they've got all the Kent land?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's nothing to speak of. You know that end was always too low for -wheat"—poor Len was in a panic lest his brother should begin to cry again.</p> - -<p>But, strangely enough, Nigel was able to discuss the fallen fortunes of -Sparrow Hall with even less emotion than Len and Janey. The tides of his -grief seemed to find their way into small streams only. It was about the -side-issues of their tragedy that he asked most questions. Was Leonard -still going to have a man to help him, now his brother had -returned?—Was any profit likely to be made in their reduced -circumstances?—Was there any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> chance of buying back what they had sold -to Lowe?</p> - -<p>"We shall have to go quietly," said Len, "but I don't see why we -shouldn't pull through if we're careful. I've given Boorman a week's -notice. He can bump round here till it's up, and lend you a hand now and -then—I don't suppose you'll tumble into things just at first."</p> - -<p>Nigel suddenly turned away.</p> - -<p>"I'm going out—to have a look round the place."</p> - -<p>"Now!"</p> - -<p>"Yes—it's a beautiful clear night."</p> - -<p>Janet and Leonard moved towards the door.</p> - -<p>"I'm going alone," said Nigel shortly.</p> - -<p>Janet and Leonard stood still. They stared at each other, at first with -surprise, then a little forlornly, while their brother pulled on his -overcoat, and went out of the room.</p> - -<p>Never, since they could remember, had one of the Furlongers preferred to -be without the others.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was past midnight, and Janet was not yet asleep. She lay in bed, with -a lighted candle beside her, her hair tumbled over the pillow and over -her body, her neck gleaming through the heavy strands.</p> - -<p>Her room was full of warm splashes of colour. The bedspread and carpet, -though faded, glowed with sudden reds and gentle browns—faded red roses -were on the wall. The window was low, so that when she turned on the -pillow she could look straight out of it at a huddled mass of woods. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> -was uncurtained, and the stars flashed through the thick panes.</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door.</p> - -<p>"Come in"—and Nigel came in softly.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, old man."</p> - -<p>"I want to speak to you, Janey."</p> - -<p>"And I want to speak to you. Come and sit on the bed."</p> - -<p>"I—I want to say I'm sorry I cried this evening."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't!" gasped Janet.</p> - -<p>"It's a habit one gets into in prison—crying about little things. -Prison is made up of little things and crying about 'em—that's why it's -so hellish."</p> - -<p>Her hand groped on the coverlet for his.</p> - -<p>"I expect I'll get out of it—crying, I mean—now I'm back."</p> - -<p>"Don't let it worry you, old boy—we're pals, you and Len and I. -But—but—don't you really like us talking to you about prison?"</p> - -<p>He lifted his head quickly.</p> - -<p>"It all depends."</p> - -<p>"You see, there you were ragging and laughing about your clothes and -your hair and all that. So how was I to know you'd mind——"</p> - -<p>"But it's different. Oh, I don't suppose you'll understand—but it's -different. Having one's clothes fumigated and one's hair cut short is a -joke—it's funny, it's a joke, so I laughed. But being obliged to have -everything exactly straight—every damned fork in its damned place——" -he stopped suddenly and ground his teeth. "It's the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> little things that -are so infernal and degrading; big things one has to make oneself big to -tackle, somehow, and it helps. But the little things ... one just cries. -Listen, Janey. Once a fortnight they used to come and search us in our -cells. We used to stand there just in our vests and drawers, and they'd -pass their hands over us. Well, I could stand that, for it was -horrible—sickening and monstrous and horrible. But when you were -punished just because your tins weren't in the exact mathematical space -allotted to them—it wasn't horrible or monstrous at all, just childish -and silly; and when a dozen childish and silly things crowd into your -day, why, you become childish and silly yourself, that's all. What I -can't forgive prison isn't that it's made me hard or wicked or wretched, -but that it's made me childish and silly—so if I deserved hanging when -I went in, I'm hardly worth spanking now I've come out."</p> - -<p>"What I can't forgive prison is the miserable ideas you've picked up in -it."</p> - -<p>"There aren't any ideas in prison—only habits."</p> - -<p>He hid his face for a minute in the coverlet. Janet's hand crept over -his hair.</p> - -<p>"You'll soon be happy again, old boy," she whispered.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I shall."</p> - -<p>"I hope to God you will—and now, dear, it's dreadfully late, and you're -tired. Hadn't you better go to bed?"</p> - -<p>He turned to her impulsively.</p> - -<p>"You'll stick to me, you and Len?—whatever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> I'm like—even—even if I'm -not quite the same as I used to be."</p> - -<p>Strange to say, her impression of him was of an infinite childishness. -She realised with a pang that while for the last three years she and -Leonard had been growing older in their contact with a world of love and -sorrow, this boy, in spite of all he had suffered, had merely been shut -up with a few rules and habits. In many ways he was younger than when he -first went to gaol, more ignorant and more childish—he had lost his -grip of life. In other ways he was terribly, horribly older.</p> - -<p>She put her arms around his neck, and kissed this pathetic old child, -this poor childish old man.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER II</span> <span class="smaller">SHOVELSTRODE</span></h2> - -<p>A row of lights gleamed from Shovelstrode Manor, on the north slope of -Ashdown Forest. Shovelstrode was in Sussex, and looked straight over the -woods into Surrey and Kent. Round it the pines heaped up till they gave -a ragged edge to the hill behind it. Into the house they cast many -shadows, and even when at night they were curtained out of the lighted -rooms, one could hear them rustling and thrumming a strange tune.</p> - -<p>Tony Strife crept up the back stairs to the schoolroom. She paused for a -moment and listened to a distant buzz of voices. Her mother must be -having visitors, so she would not go near her—she would sit in the -schoolroom till it was time to dress for dinner. Tony was sixteen, -healthy and clean-limbed, with a thick mouse-coloured plait between her -shoulders. She wore a school-girl's blouse and skirt, with a tie of her -school cricket-colours. She had in her manner all the mixture of -confidence and deference which points to one who is paramount in her own -little world, but is for some reason cast adrift in another where she -has never been more than subordinate.</p> - -<p>The schoolroom was in darkness. The fire was unlighted and the blinds -were up, so that the shadows of the pines rushed over the square of -moonlight on the floor, waving and gliding and curtseying in the wind. -Tony, who had expected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> drawn blinds and a cosy fireside, was a little -dismayed at the dreariness of her kingdom. "I wonder if they got my -postcard," she thought forlornly. But the schoolroom was the schoolroom, -with or without a fire, and her own special province now that Awdrey had -grown up, and exchanged its austere boundaries for a world of calls and -dances and chiffons and flirtations. It was a little bit of the glorious -land of school from which she had been so abruptly exiled. For the first -time since her return a certain warmth glowed in her heart—she sat down -on the window-sill and looked out at the pines.</p> - -<p>She wondered how soon she would be able to go back to school. Perhaps -there would be no more cases, and the clear, all-sufficient life would -start again at the half-term. Meantime she would write every week to her -three best friends and the mistress she "had a rave on," she would work -up her algebra and perhaps get her remove into the sixth next term; and -she would finish that beastly nightgown she had been struggling with -ever since Easter, and be able to start a frock, like the rest of the -form.</p> - -<p>Her calculations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the -passage and a rather strident voice calling—</p> - -<p>"Tony! Tony!"</p> - -<p>The next minute the door flew open, and a girl a few years older than -herself burst in.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!—so you <i>are</i> home! I saw your box in the hall, and swore you -must have come back for some reason or other; but of course mother<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> -wouldn't believe me. What on earth have you come for?"</p> - -<p>"They've got whooping-cough at school, and Mrs. Arkwright sent us all -home. Didn't mother get my postcard?"</p> - -<p>"Postcard! of course not. We'd no idea you were coming, and your room -isn't ready for you, or anything. You ought to have known better than to -send only a card—they get kept back for days sometimes. And when you -arrived, why didn't you come into the drawing-room and see mother, -instead of sneaking up here?"</p> - -<p>"I thought you had visitors—I could hear them talking. I meant to come -down after I'd changed."</p> - -<p>"I see. Well, you'd better come now and speak to mother. She's quite -worried about your being here, or rather about my saying you're here -when she says you aren't."</p> - -<p>"Right-O!" and Tony followed her sister out of the room.</p> - -<p>In a way Awdrey was like her, but with a more piquant, impertinent cast -of features. She was dressed in the latest combination of fashion and -sport, with a very short skirt to display her pretty ankles and purple -silk stockings. She was strongly scented with some pleasant, flower-like -scent, which, however, made Tony wrinkle up her nose with disgust.</p> - -<p>"You were quite right about there being visitors," said the elder girl -in a more friendly tone. "Captain le Bourbourg was here, and as only -mother and I were in, I went with him to the door—complications, of -course!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p><p>"Ass," said Tony shortly.</p> - -<p>Awdrey giggled, apparently without resentment, and the next minute they -were in the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room at Shovelstrode was an emasculate room, plunged deep in -yellow and dull green. The furniture had a certain ineffectiveness about -it, in spite of its beauty. The only thing which was neither delicate -nor indefinite was the heavily beamed ceiling, reflecting the firelight. -The girls' mother lay on a sofa between the fire and the half-curtained -window, just where she could see the moon. She wore a yellow silk -wrapper, and on her breast lay dull, strangely set stones. She was -reading a little book of unorthodox mysticism, and others, in floppy -suède bindings, were on the table beside her.</p> - -<p>"Why, Antoinette!" she cried. "Whatever are you here for, child?"</p> - -<p>"They had whooping-cough at school," said Awdrey glibly, "and sent her -home—and the silly idiot wrote and told us on a postcard, which we'll -probably get some time next week."</p> - -<p>Lady Strife sighed.</p> - -<p>"It's very disturbing, my dear, very disturbing—for me, that's to say. -And as for your father, I expect he'll be furious. He hates things -happening in a disorderly way and people being in the wrong place."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry," said Tony, "but I'll work all the time I'm here, so I -really shan't lose anything by it."</p> - -<p>"Well, it's not your fault, of course," rather<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> doubtfully. "Come and -give me a kiss," she added, realising that the ceremony had been -omitted.</p> - -<p>"How are you, mother?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, about the same, thank you. Weak of body, but not, I trust, weak of -soul. I am wonderfully comforted by this little book of Sakrata -Balkrishna's. Our soul, he says, Tony, sits within us as a watcher, -holding aloof from the poor, suffering body, and weaving a new mantle of -flesh for its next Manvantara."</p> - -<p>"Buddhism?..." asked Tony awkwardly.</p> - -<p>"Buddhism! My dear child—as if I would have anything to do with that -modern corruption of pure Brahminical faith! No, Antoinette, this is the -ancient Vedantin philosophy, as old as the world. By the way, has your -box come?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I brought it with me in the taxi."</p> - -<p>"The taxi! You were lucky to find one at the station."</p> - -<p>"I didn't find it. A man got it for me from the Dorset Arms."</p> - -<p>"A man!" cried Awdrey.</p> - -<p>"Yes, quite an ordinary sort of man, but rather decent."</p> - -<p>"I wonder who he was. How romantic, Tony!"</p> - -<p>"Rats! It wasn't in the least romantic. When I got out of the station I -found the car wasn't there to meet me, and all the cabs were gone, and I -didn't know what to do. Then rather a nasty-looking man came along, and -asked me what was the matter, and when I told him, he said I'd better -spend the night in East Grinstead as it was so late,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> and he knew of a -very nice place I could go to. I didn't like to refuse, as he seemed so -polite and interested, but of course I wanted to come here, and I was -awfully glad when another man came and said he could get me a cab quite -easily. The first man didn't seem to like it, though—perhaps he had -some poor relation who let lodgings."</p> - -<p>"Tony!" cried her sister. "You really mustn't go about alone. You're -much too innocent."</p> - -<p>"My darling child," wailed her mother, "my dove unsoiled by knowledge!"</p> - -<p>Tony looked surprised, but her answer was checked by the sound of -footsteps in the hall.</p> - -<p>"Girls, there's your father!" cried Lady Strife. "Now, Tony, you will -have to explain. And remember I hate a scene—it clogs my soul with -matter."</p> - -<p>"Right-O, mother!" and Tony hurried out into the passage.</p> - -<p>Here she managed to get through the "scene," such as it was. Sir Gambier -Strife was a man to whom time and place were all-important, and as the -time of Term was inevitably linked with the place of School, he felt -justly indignant at the separation of the two. "Whooping-cough! People -were such milksops nowadays. When he was a boy the sooner one got -whooping-cough the more one's relations were pleased. How old was Tony? -Sixteen? Then the sooner she had whooping-cough the better."</p> - -<p>This, however, was all said in rather a low voice, Sir Gambier realising -as much as any one the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> importance of not clogging his wife's soul with -matter.</p> - -<p>By the time he entered the drawing-room, he was talking of other things.</p> - -<p>"I was down at Wilderwick this evening—you know that place at the -bottom of Wilderwick hill, where the Furlongers live?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Sparrow Hall."</p> - -<p>"That's it. Well, this evening there was a flag tied to the chimney. I -asked old Carter what it was all about, and he said they're expecting -the other brother home—the one that's been in gaol for the last three -years."</p> - -<p>"It's a long time since I've seen the Furlongers," said Awdrey, "they've -been lying low for the last few months, and I don't think I've ever seen -the one who's been in gaol."</p> - -<p>"I saw him three years ago, just after we came here. He was swaggering -about the Kent end of their land with his gun. He won't do much -swaggering there in future. By Jove! it must have hit 'em hard to sell -that property to old Lowe."</p> - -<p>"They've only got a poky little farm now. But, father, do tell us what -he's like, that youngest Furlonger—he sounds interesting."</p> - -<p>"Oh, he wasn't much to look at—a great strong fellow, for ever showing -his teeth. But I've been told he's got brains, plenty of 'em, wouldn't -have landed himself in prison if he hadn't."</p> - -<p>"When is he coming out?"</p> - -<p>"They were expecting him this evening, I believe. Hullo! what's the -matter?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p><p>"Oh, it's suddenly struck me," cried Awdrey. "Perhaps he was Tony's -man."</p> - -<p>"Tony's man!—what d'you mean?"</p> - -<p>Awdrey poured forth the story of her sister's adventure. "She said he -was an awful-looking man, and goodness knows where he'd have landed her -if the other man hadn't turned up and scared him away. I'm sure he must -have been Furlonger, it isn't likely there'd be two scoundrels like that -about."</p> - -<p>Sir Gambier turned red.</p> - -<p>"I won't have you girls mixed up in such things."</p> - -<p>"She didn't want to be mixed up in it," interrupted Awdrey, "it wasn't -her fault. But it's lucky the other man turned up. You don't know who he -was, I suppose, Tony?"</p> - -<p>"He said his name was Smith."</p> - -<p>"That doesn't help us much. But, by Jove! how Furlonger must hate him!"</p> - -<p>"We don't know he was Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"He must have been; it's just the thing a ticket-of-leave convict would -do—try to victimise an innocent-looking girl."</p> - -<p>"I'm not innocent-looking!" cried Tony indignantly.</p> - -<p>"Well, I shan't argue the point with you. You must have looked pretty -green for him to have said what he did. By the way, what was Furlonger -locked up for, father?"</p> - -<p>"Something to do with the Wickham Rubber Companies. Farming wasn't good -enough for him, so he took to finance—with the result that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> whole -family was ruined; had to sell all their land, except a few inches round -the house—and the young man got three years in gaol into the bargain."</p> - -<p>"Wickham got ten—so Furlonger can't be as bad as Wickham."</p> - -<p>"He's a rotten scoundrel, I tell you. Diddled thousands of respectable -people out of their money. Then put up the most brazen defence—said -that at the beginning he had no idea of the unsoundness of the scheme; -'at the beginning,' mark you—confesses quite coolly that he knew it was -a fraud before the end."</p> - -<p>"Well, I think it rather sporting of him," said Awdrey.</p> - -<p>"He may have a beautiful soul," murmured Lady Strife; "why do people -always look at actions rather than motives? Poor young Furlonger may -have sinned more divinely than many pray. It's motive that makes all the -difference. Motive may make the robbing of a till a far finer action -than the endowing of a church."</p> - -<p>"Tut, tut, my dear! What a thought to put into the girls' heads. -Besides, it isn't as if the only thing against the Furlongers was that -one of 'em's been in gaol. They're the most disreputable lot I ever met, -don't care twopence for any one's good opinion."</p> - -<p>"They're quite well connected really, aren't they?" said Awdrey.</p> - -<p>"Yes, that's the worst of it. Their mother was a daughter of Lord -Woodshire's, and I believe their father had rather a fine place near -Chichester. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> he went to the bad—ahem! shocking story—died in -Paris—tut, tut!—the children were left to shift for themselves, and -bought Sparrow Hall with their mother's money—all the Chichester estate -was chucked away by old Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"I think they sound rather interesting. It's a pity the youngest should -have embarked on the white slave traffic."</p> - -<p>"White slave traffic!—hush, my dear. Young girls don't talk about such -things."</p> - -<p>"No—they get mixed up in 'em instead. Tony, I hope you'll meet your Mr. -Smith again."</p> - -<p>"He's not my Mr. Smith," said Tony hotly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's impossible to talk to any one rationally to-night! Father's -started on 'young girls,' and Tony's trying to make out she was born -yesterday." She seized her sister by the arm. "Come upstairs and dress -for dinner."</p> - -<p>Tony was only too glad to escape, and they went up to widely different -rooms.</p> - -<p>Awdrey's was furnished with a telling combination of coquetry and sport. -Silver toilet articles and embroidered cushions contrasted with her -hunting-crop over the mantelpiece, her tennis racket on the wall. What -struck one most, however, was the number of men's photographs which -crowded the place. From frames of every conceivable fabric they stared -with bold, glassy eyes. Awdrey smiled at them lovingly, as they woke -either memory or emotion. She had once said that the male sex was -roughly divisible into two groups—G.P.'s and H.P.'s—Grand Passions and -Hideous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> Pasts. Tony gave them a scornful glance as she passed the door.</p> - -<p>Her own room was austere and white. An indefinable coolness haunted its -empty corners and clear spaces. There were no photographs, as she had -not yet unpacked the photographs of her girl friends which usually -adorned the mantelpiece. There were only three pictures—a Memling -Madonna, Holbein's Portrait of a Young Woman, and Watts' Sir Galahad, -beloved of schoolgirls.</p> - -<p>Tony sat down on the bed and began to unplait her hair.</p> - -<p>"What a fool Awdrey is," she murmured to herself, "always thinking of -love, and all that rot."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER III</span> <span class="smaller">IN THE RAIN</span></h2> - -<p>From Nigel's bed as well as Janey's one could see woods, and in summer -he had often lain listening to the night-jar in them—that mysterious -whirring, dull and restless, as if ghosts were spinning.</p> - -<p>That night all was windless silence, and there was no motion in the dark -patch of window-view, except the flashing of the stars. Towards morning -a delicious sense of cold stole over Nigel's sleep. Soft airs seemed to -be baffing him, rippling round him, and there seemed to be water—water -and wind. Then suddenly a bell rang in his brain. The dream collapsed, -pulverised. He sprang up in bed, then scrambled out—then opened his -eyes, to see himself still surrounded by his dream.</p> - -<p>It was five o'clock, and the Parkhurst bell had rung in his head just as -it had rung at that hour for hundreds of mornings. But he was not at -Parkhurst, he was still in his dream—water and wind. Against the -horizon stretched a long dim line of woods, and above them the sky was -lucent with the first hope of dawn. Into the fields splashed a gentle -rain, and in at his window blew the west wind, soft, damp and cold.</p> - -<p>For the first time Nigel realised that he was home, and that he was -free.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p><p>Yesterday had all been so strange, he had not had time to think of -things. After years of confinement and discipline it had been a -terrifying ordeal to walk through the crowded streets of a town and take -a long train journey, involving several changes. He had wished then that -he had allowed Len to come and meet him at Parkhurst—the dull fears -that had made him insist on his brother coming no nearer than East -Grinstead had seemed nothing to this terror of carts and horses and -motors and trams and trains, these constantly shifting faces and -strident voices, this hurry, this disorder, this horrible respect of -people who called him "Sir," and said "I beg your pardon," if they fell -over his big feet.</p> - -<p>When he came to Sparrow Hall, it had been worse still—not at first, but -afterwards, when Janet and Leonard had said all those terrible things to -him, and hurt him so. They had hurt him, and he had frightened them, and -it had all been miserable.</p> - -<p>But this morning everything had changed. He no longer felt terrified of -his independence or of what his brother and sister might say. His heart -was warm and happy—his lungs were full of the sweet moist morning air.</p> - -<p>He crossed the room. It was ecstasy to feel that no one was watching -him, that there was no ugly observation hole in the door. Why, privacy -was as sweet as independence, and not nearly so startling. He pulled off -his sleeping-suit, and stood naked by the bed. For the first time in -three years he felt the pride of his young manhood, the splendour of his -body. The lust of life frothed up in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> heart. The dawn, his strong -bare limbs, the rain, plunged him into a rapture of thanksgiving. He was -home, and he was free.</p> - -<p>He knelt down by the window, the rain spattering softly on him, and -stared out at the woods—Ashplats Wood and Hackenden Wood and Summer -Wood, with Swites Wood in the west. The woods, the dear brown -wind-rocked woods!—he would walk in them that morning, there was no one -to hinder him—he was home, and he was free among the woods.</p> - -<p>He rose lightly, and began to dress. He put on old rough clothes that he -had worn before he went to prison. They had been old then, and now they -were positively disreputable, for Janet had folded them away carelessly, -so that they had creased and frayed. But he loved them, they seemed even -now to smell of the cows he had milked and the soft loam of the fields.</p> - -<p>He ran downstairs whistling—some music-hall song that had been popular -three years ago, but was long forgotten now. To Leonard in the yard and -Janet in the dairy he sounded like a cheerful ghost. They both thought -of going to meet him, but both at last decided to leave him alone.</p> - -<p>The house was full of the delicious smell of rain, and the wind crooned -through it tenderly, rattling the doors and windows, and fluttering the -untidy rags of wall-paper that here and there hung loose on the walls. -Nigel went into the kitchen, where the fire was burning. He sat down by -it and warmed his hands, though he was not really cold. He had not seen -a fire for three years.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p><p>Then suddenly he noticed something in the corner—it was his -fiddle-case, wrapped in green baize. Nigel had always passed for -something of a musician, and during a few stormy years spent in London -with his father had been fairly well taught. Farming and scheming had -never made him forget his fiddle, though occasionally it had lain for -weeks as it lay now, wrapped up in dusty cloths in the corner.</p> - -<p>He stooped down and took it out of its many covers. It was a fairly good -instrument of modern make, best in its low tones. All the strings were -broken except the G, but he found a coil of the D in the case, and -screwed it on. By means of harmonics and the seventh position he could -manage fairly well with two strings.</p> - -<p>It seemed a terribly long time since he had felt a fiddle under his -chin, and sniffed its peculiar smell of sweet varnished wood and rosin. -He lifted his arm slowly, and the bow dropped on the strings. It was -scratchy, and he felt horribly stiff, but in course of time matters -improved a little, and Len and Janey, together in the Dutch barn, smiled -at each other as the strains of Handel's "Largo" drifted out to them.</p> - -<p>"He'll feel better now," said Leonard.</p> - -<p>Nigel forgot the "Largo" in the middle, and started "O Caro Nome," from -Rigoletto. His taste in music had always been the despair of his -teachers. He had never seemed able to appreciate the modern school, or, -indeed, the more advanced of the ancients. He had a desperate fondness -for Balfe and Donizetti, for the most sugary moods of Verdi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> and Gounod. -He revelled in high notes, trills and tremolo—"O Caro Nome" and "I -dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls" appealed to a side of him which was -definitely sentimental. He stood there by the window, swaying -sentimentally from side to side, shaking shrill colorature from his -violin, regardless of the squeaking of a nearly rosinless bow.</p> - -<p>What appealed to Nigel was never the technique of a composition, but its -emotional quality. Music was to him not so much sound as feeling—he did -not value a piece for its own intrinsic beauty, but for the emotions it -was able to call forth. As he played that morning whole cycles of -experience passed before him. All the old dreams that for three years -had lain dead in his violin now revived—but a new quality was added to -them, a soft twang of sorrow. Before his imprisonment his dreams had -been winged and shod with fire, wild things compounded of desire and -endeavour, tender only in their background of the seasons' moods, rain -and sunshine and wind and shadows and stars. But to-day longing took in -them the place of endeavour, and all their desire was for forgetfulness. -Stars and rain were in them still, but the stars and rain of the new -heavens and the new earth which suffering had created—the rain which is -tears, and the stars which spring from the dumb desire of sorrow -brooding over the formless deep of its own immensity—"Let there be -light." And there was light—one or two faint dream-like constellations, -burning over and reflected in the swirling waters of the abyss.... A -great wind passed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> over the face of the waters, and parted them, and out -of them rose a little island for a man to stand upon—so the dry land -came out of the water. And the suffering man can stand on the island, -where there is just room for his feet, and he can see the stars above -him—and when he is too weary to lift his head he sees them reflected in -the surging waters beneath....</p> - -<p>Nigel dropped his violin, and looked out with dream-filled eyes at the -fields, seen dimly through the rain-drops dripping from the eaves. In -the front garden stood a little girl—a little dirty girl with a -milk-can.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!" said Nigel.</p> - -<p>He felt an unaccountable desire to talk to this child; not because he -liked her particularly—indeed, she was rather an unattractive -object—but because he realised suddenly that he was very fond of -children. He had never known it before, never imagined that he cared -about kids; but, whether it was his long exile in prison he could not -tell, he felt quite overwhelmed this morning by his love for them, and -realised that he absolutely must make friends with the highly -unfavourable specimen before him.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!" he repeated.</p> - -<p>The maiden vouchsafed no reply.</p> - -<p>"Have you come for the milk?" he asked conversationally.</p> - -<p>She nodded. Then she pointed to his violin.</p> - -<p>"Did the noise come out of that box?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—would you like to hear it again?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p><p>He was not to be daunted.</p> - -<p>"Come in, and I'll show you a pussy."</p> - -<p>"Is there a pussy in that box?"</p> - -<p>"No—but there's a beauty in the chair by the fire."</p> - -<p>Nigel dived out of the window, and caught her up bodily. Her clothes -smelt strongly of milk and garden mould, not an altogether pleasing -combination. But for some reason or other he felt delighted, and carried -her in triumph round the kitchen before he introduced her to a large -placid-looking cat.</p> - -<p>"Don' like it."</p> - -<p>This was humiliating, but Nigel persevered.</p> - -<p>"Have some of this—" and he offered her a spoonful of jam out of the -pot on the table.</p> - -<p>The little girl sniffed it with the air of a connoisseur.</p> - -<p>"Don' like it."</p> - -<p>"Well, try this—" plunging the same spoon into the sugar basin.</p> - -<p>"Don' like it."</p> - -<p>Fortunately at that moment Janey came in.</p> - -<p>"Nigel, what on earth are you doing?—Hullo, Ivy!"</p> - -<p>She looked surprised at the scowling infant perched on her brother's -shoulder.</p> - -<p>"She's come for the milk, and I'm giving her some breakfast."</p> - -<p>"Wan'er go 'ome!" shrieked Ivy.</p> - -<p>Nigel looked so mortified that Janey could hardly help laughing—till -suddenly she realised that there was something rather pathetic about it -all. Nigel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> had never used to struggle for the good-will of dirty -children.</p> - -<p>"She'd better come with me," she said, "and I'll give her the milk. Her -mother won't like it if she's kept."</p> - -<p>Ivy alighted with huge satisfaction on the floor, and left the room with -Janey, after throwing a bit of box-lid at the cat.</p> - -<p>Janey came back in a few minutes.</p> - -<p>"Like to help me get the breakfast, old man?" she asked cheerily.</p> - -<p>Nigel was pacing up and down the kitchen.</p> - -<p>"What a dear little thing she is!" he said.</p> - -<p>"Who? Ivy? I think she's a regular little toad. How funny you are, -Nigel!"</p> - -<p class="space-above">Half-an-hour later the three Furlongers were at breakfast. Nigel had -always been subject to moods just like a girl, and sometimes his changes -from heights to depths had been irritating. But to-day his brother and -sister saw the advantages of such a nature. The two boys fooled together -all through the meal, and Janet watched them, smiling. Nigel had found -his tongue to some purpose. Strange to say, he was more than ready to -talk of his prison experiences, though, as he had already hinted to -Janey, he had two sets of these. One set, typified by his fumigated -clothes, he seemed positively to revel in; the other set he never -mentioned of his free will, though he obviously used to brood over them.</p> - -<p>"Hullo! there's the postman!" cried Janet suddenly.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p><p>She rose to go to the door, but Nigel was nearest it, and sprang out -before her.</p> - -<p>"Morning, Winkworth!" he shouted hilariously. "I'm back again."</p> - -<p>"Glad to see you, Mus' Furlonger," chuckled the postman. "You look in -pretty heart."</p> - -<p>"Never was better in my life," and waving a letter in his hand he swung -back into the kitchen.</p> - -<p>"A letter for Janey!—Janey's the lucky devil"—as he flung it across -the table.</p> - -<p>"I wonder who it's from," said Leonard; "open it, Janey, and see."</p> - -<p>Letters were always an excitement in the Furlonger family—they were few -enough to be that.</p> - -<p>"Know the writing, Janey?"</p> - -<p>Janey turned the letter over. "It's a bill."</p> - -<p>The boys' faces fell.</p> - -<p>"How dull," said Leonard, "and how immoral, Janet!—another of those -ten-guinea hats, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"And you promised us solemnly," said Nigel, "not to buy any more."</p> - -<p>"It's dreadful of me," said Janet.</p> - -<p>The boys glanced at her in surprise—for she looked as if she meant it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IV</span> <span class="smaller">FATE'S AFTERTHOUGHT</span></h2> - -<p>Janet did not open her bill till her brothers had gone out to the farm. -Then she tore the envelope. The bill ran—</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Janey Sweet</span>,</p> - -<p>"Curse it!—I have to go to Brighton on Saturday. It's for my -father, so I daren't object, in case he should ask too many -questions. But I must see you, dear one—it's nearly a month since -we met, and I'm dying for the sight of you and the touch of you. -Can't you come to-day? I'm sure you can get away for an hour or -two—your brothers must not take you from me. I'll be waiting in -Furnace Wood, in the old place down by the hedge, at five. Come to -me, Janey sweet. I dreamed of you last night—dreamed of you with -your hands full of flowers.</p> - -<p class="right">"Your lover,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -"<span class="smcap">Quentin</span>."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Janey stuffed the letter into her pocket.</p> - -<p>"It's dreadful of me," she repeated, in the same tone as she had said it -to the boys. Those poor boys! How innocently and trustfully they had -swallowed her lie—it was like deceiving children.</p> - -<p>But she could not tell them—though Nigel's strange new reserve made her -long all the more to be frank and without secret—they would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> furious -if they knew her story, now the story of three years. Once she had tried -hinting it to Len, but though he had not half understood her, he had -made his feelings about Quentin Lowe pretty plain, and Janet had been -only too glad to change the subject before the danger line was passed. -Nigel would, of course, side with Leonard. They would look upon her love -as treachery, for though there was no outward breach between the -Furlongers and the Lowes, the former had always suspected the latter of -sharp dealing over the Kent land—old Lowe would never have offered that -absurd price if he had not known that the Furlongers were absolutely -obliged to sell.</p> - -<p>Old Lowe was a retired clergyman who had come with his son to Redpale -Farm, just over the Kentish border. From the first he had cast a longing -eye on the Furlonger acres, which touched his on the Surrey side. A row -of cottages in obvious disrepair and insanitation had given his longing -the necessary smack of righteousness. At that time Nigel was in prison -on remand, and the news soon trickled through the neighbourhood that his -brother and sister were in desperate money difficulties, and would have -to sell most of their land. Lowe at once came forward with what he -considered a fair offer, which the Furlongers, as no one else seemed -inclined to bid, were bound to accept. The negotiations had been carried -on chiefly through a solicitor, but young Lowe had paid two or three -visits to Sparrow Hall.</p> - -<p>Janet would never forget one of these. Leonard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> was not in that day, but -though she had told Quentin she could decide nothing without her -brother, he had insisted on sitting with her in the kitchen, arguing -some obscure point. She remembered it all—the table between them, the -firelight on the walls, the square of darkness and stars seen through -the uncurtained window, the pipe and rattle of the wind. He had risen to -go, and suddenly she had seen that he was trembling—and before she had -time to be surprised she saw that she was trembling too. They faced each -other for a minute, shaking from head to foot, and dumb. Then they -stooped together swiftly in a burning kiss, their hearts full of -uncontrollable ecstasy and despair.</p> - -<p>It had all been so sudden. She could not remember having felt the -faintest thrill in his presence till that moment. He said the same. When -he had sat down opposite her at the table, she had been merely a woman -with whom he was doing business. It seemed as if fate had brought them -together as an afterthought, and at first Janey believed it could not -last. But it lasted. It had lasted all through those years, in spite of -much wretchedness and a killing need for secrecy on both sides. This -need was more vital for Quentin than for Janey. He was utterly dependent -on his father, who, of course, looked on the Furlongers with righteous -disgust. So for three years meetings had been stolen, letters smuggled, -and happiness snatched out of sudden hours.</p> - -<p>To-day Janet was not sure how she could arrange a meeting. Meetings with -Quentin generally<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> needed the most careful planning, and on this -occasion he had not given her much time. However, she thought, the boys -would very probably go shooting in the early evening, and she could then -run over to Furnace Wood.</p> - -<p>This was what happened. A little manœuvring sent Nigel and Leonard -out to pot rabbits, and a minute or so later Janey stole from Sparrow -Hall, climbing the gate opposite into the fields of Wilderwick. She did -not wear a hat—she never did—and over her dress was a disreputable old -jacket. She went gaily and innocently to meet her lover in garments many -women would not have swept the floor in.</p> - -<p>It was a long tramp to Furnace Wood. The rain had cleared, but the grass -was wet, and the trees shook down rain-drops and wet leaves. Autumn was -late that year, still in the fiery stage—whole hedges flamed, and -backgrounds were mostly yellow. But everywhere now were the dead leaves, -damp as well as dead. Her feet splashed through them, they caked her -boots, they filled every corner with their smell of sweet rottenness.</p> - -<p>Furnace Wood marked the beginning of the chain of hammer ponds below -Holtye Common. For a long time the fields had been sloping eastward, -till at last they dropped into a tangled valley stretching from Old -Surrey Hall to Sweetwoods Farm. Here was a great stillness and a great -solitude—woods, and thick old orchards, with now and then an oast-house -or a chimney struggling up among them. In this valley lay Redpale Farm,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> -Clay Farm, and Scarlet Farm, all old, alone, forsaken, beside the -gleaming hammer ponds.</p> - -<p>The waters of the first pond flashed like a shield through the -half-naked branches of Furnace Wood. Janet's quick eyes saw Quentin -standing by the hedge, and she began to run. She splashed over the -drenched field, climbed the hedge with an agility she owed to a total -disregard for her clothes—and crept warm and panting into his arms, as -he stood there among the drifted leaves.</p> - -<p>"Janey," he whispered, kissing her lips and her hair and her wrist wet -with rain, "how I love you ... little Janey sweet."</p> - -<p>It pleased Quentin to call her little, though as a matter of fact she -was considerably taller than he. Quentin was a few years younger than -Janey—delicate-looking, and yet thick-set. His face was pale, though -the features were roughly hewn, and his shoulders were so high as to -give him almost the appearance of a hunchback. In spite of this, he -often struck people as handsome in a strange way—which was due, -perhaps, to a certain nobility in the casting of his face, with its -idealistic mouth, strong nose, and great bright eyes, which seemed to be -burning under his heavy brows.</p> - -<p>"Janey," he continued, "you're beautiful to-day—you're part of the -evening. There's rain on your hair, and on your cheek, so that when I -kiss it I taste rain—you're brown and red, just like the fields, you're -windswept and rumpled like the woods."</p> - -<p>Janey laughed.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p><p>"And your teeth gleam like that white pond through the trees."</p> - -<p>"You should put that into a poem, Quentin," she said, still laughing, -"it sounds funny in prose."</p> - -<p>"Prose! Prose!—as if there could be any prose when you are near!"</p> - -<p>A copper gleam of sunlight came suddenly from under the rim of a leaden -cloud. For a moment it flared on the hedge, making the wet leaves shine. -It gave a metallic look to the evening—instead of sweetening the soaked -landscape it seemed only to make it sadder, with a harsh, reckless -sadness it had not worn in the gloom. Quentin put up his hand and picked -one of the shining sprays, to fasten it in Janey's jacket. Whenever he -saw beautiful things in the hedges, he wanted to give them to Janey. He -never wanted to give her the beautiful things he saw in shops; he did -not, like so many men, stare into shop windows, longing to see her in -those clothes, those jewels, and great hats like the moon. But if ever -he found a sudden splash of bryony in the hedge, or a flush of -bloody-twig, or honeysuckle, or nuts, he wanted to pick them for her. -When it was May he had often met her in Furnace Wood with his arms full -of hawthorn, in June he had brought her dog-roses, in August ripe ears -of barley, in September wild-apple boughs; and now in October he picked -her sprays of red, sodden leaves. There was a little nut on this -spray—he picked it off and cracked it with his teeth, and put the -kernel into her mouth. Then suddenly the sunlight faded, and a soft rush -of gloom swept up the valley of the hammer ponds.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p><p>"Nigel came home last night," said Janet, breaking the silence that had -lasted with the sun.</p> - -<p>"How is he looking?"</p> - -<p>"He's changed, Quentin."</p> - -<p>"It's aged him, of course."</p> - -<p>"That isn't so terrible—we could have endured that, we'd expected it. -The awful thing is that it's made him so childish. Sometimes you'd -really think he was a child, by the way he speaks—and goes on."</p> - -<p>"He'll soon be all right—you'll heal him, Janey."</p> - -<p>"I don't see how I'm going to. The worst thing is that he's so reserved -with me and Len. It isn't that he doesn't talk and tell us things, but I -know he doesn't tell us the things that really matter. Oh, -Quentin"—turning suddenly to him—"I feel such a wretch, having a -secret from the boys when Nigel's like this."</p> - -<p>"You've lost your logic, sweet—or, rather, thank God, you never had -any. Your brother's secrets ought to make you worry less about your -own."</p> - -<p>"You don't understand—it's just the other way round."</p> - -<p>She sighed deeply, and her pain irritated him.</p> - -<p>"You have the power to end it if you like—you're not so badly off as I -am. You can tell your brothers any day you choose—they can't -interfere."</p> - -<p>"Of course not—but it would make them miserable. They'd be miserable -enough at the idea of my marrying any one, and leaving them—and as for -marrying you——"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p><p>"Oh, I know they hate me," broke in Quentin. "And they despise me -because I haven't got their health and muscle. They hate me for what I -have got—their land; and they despise me for what I haven't got—their -muscle."</p> - -<p>Janet's eyes filled. She knew that he was wretchedly jealous of her -brothers, and it hurt her more than anything else. She laid her hand -timidly on his arm.</p> - -<p>"Quentin, I wish you wouldn't feel that way towards the boys. I can't -help loving them."</p> - -<p>"But you love them more than me."</p> - -<p>"I don't, indeed I don't. And you mustn't think they hate you. They've -got their hand against every one, you know, and of course they feel sick -about the Kent lands, there's no denying it. If they knew you loved me, -they might hate you then—they'd be jealous; and if I told them now—oh, -it would be all misery at home!—for them as well as for me. I'd far -rather have my secret—that hurts only me. When we've settled anything -definitely, of course I shall tell them. But we may have to go on like -this for years."</p> - -<p>Quentin groaned.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Janey, that's true—that's the damned truth. You should never have -loved a helpless fool like me, all tied up in paper and strings. Good -Lord! my father will have something to answer for—if there's any one to -answer to for our muddlings in this muddled hell."</p> - -<p>"But you'll win your independence."</p> - -<p>"Yes; if two things happen: if my father dies, which he isn't likely to, -and which, hang it all, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> don't want him to—or if I can make enough by -my writing to support two people, which is never done by pessimistic -poets in this world of optimistic prose. I ought to hear from Baker -soon—he's had that manuscript over a month—he's the twenty-eighth man -that's had it. Oh, damn it all, Janey!"</p> - -<p>They were sitting together on a tree-trunk under the hedge, the darkness -creeping up round them. Quentin drew very close to Janey, and clutched -her hand.</p> - -<p>"I'm a beast to go whining to you like this—but it helps me. It's such -a relief to get all my furies off my chest and feel your -sympathy—<i>feel</i> it, Janey, you needn't speak, words seem to nail things -down. Oh, why were you and I born into this muddle and never given a -chance? I've never had a chance—not the shadow of one. All my life I've -suffered that vile plague, dependence, and it's poisoned my blood and -sapped my strength and perverted my reason. My father's to blame for it. -The whole object of his life has been to keep me dependent on him. He's -stinted me of everything—friends, money, education—just to keep me -dependent. He's well off, as you know, but he allows me a miserable -screw many tradesmen would be ashamed to offer their sons. He's made my -bad health an excuse for cutting short my time at college, and for not -bringing me up to any profession. He's in terror lest I should strike -out a line for myself. He wants me to live my whole life on a -negation—'thou shalt not,' he says. He doesn't say it because he's my -father, but because he's a clergyman. It's that which has spoiled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> him, -because it hasn't let him go to life for his principles. Christianity -never does. I hate Christianity, Janey—Christianity's a piece of -Semitic bargaining—all Semitic religions are commercial, but -Christianity has been so far Europeanised that it offers its rewards not -for what you do but for what you don't do. I once wrote a poem on the -Christian heaven—God and all the angels and curly-locked saints yawning -their heads off because they're all so tired of doing nothing, and at -last all falling asleep together. Ugh! One reason I love you, Janey, is -that you're so beautifully pagan—just like the country here. The -country's all pagan at bottom, and that's why every one loves the -country, even the Christians."</p> - -<p>Janey smiled, and pressed his hand. She knew Quentin liked "talking," so -she let him "talk," though she troubled very little about the questions -that were so vital to him. She knew it relieved him to pour into her -ears the torrent of abuse which was always roaring against its sluices, -and had no other outlet—unless it found its way into publishers' -offices and damaged his poor chances there.</p> - -<p>"It's Christianity which makes my father so damned clever in keeping me -dependent," continued Lowe. "He's got so used to tying souls up in paper -and string that he can make a neat parcel even of a bulky, bulgy soul -like mine. You know how we admire shop people for the neat way they tie -up parcels—we couldn't do it. Well, my father's a kind of celestial -shop-keeper, and I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> the goods he's sending out—payment on delivery. -Oh, damn!"</p> - -<p>Janey's hand went up to his face and stroked it. Quentin's furies always -struck her as infinitely pathetic.</p> - -<p>"It'll be all right, dear," she whispered. "I'm sure it will. You're -bound to get free."</p> - -<p>He seized her hand and held it fiercely in his while he stared into her -eyes.</p> - -<p>"Janey—I sometimes wonder if I'll ever get free—or if I do, whether -I'll find freedom the ecstasy I imagine it. Perhaps freedom, like -everything else, is a mirage, a snare, a disillusion. Yesterday I was -reading the <i>Epic of Gilgamesh</i>—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>Gilgamesh, why dost thou wander around?</div> -<div>Life which thou seekest thou canst not find.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>That's the horrible truth—nothing that we seek shall we ever find, -unless it's been found over and over again already. And then there's -love, Janey, that's one of the things we never find, though we seek it -till our tears are blood. I've written a poem about that, comparing love -to the sea—to salt water, rather, for of course hundreds of poets have -compared love to the sea. Love is like the salt water that splashes -round the poor sailor dying of thirst—he drinks it in his desperation, -and the more he drinks the fiercer becomes his thirst, and still he -drinks on in despair and hope, till at last he ends in madness—that's -love. Janey, that's love."</p> - -<p>He stooped suddenly forward, till his head was buried in her knees.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p><p>"That's my love, sweet, sweet thing—my love for you. It never sates, -it always burns, it tortures, it maddens. There is no rest, no rest in -my love—it wakes me from my sleep to long for you—it is a hunger that -gnaws through all my meals—it is a darkness that may be felt, a light -too blinding to be borne...."</p> - -<p>His shoulders shook, and tears rushed scalding into Janet's eyes. With -one hand she stroked and tangled his coarse hair, the other he had -seized and laid under his cheek—and she felt one burning tear upon it. -Her whole heart seemed to open itself to her lover in tender pity, and -not only to him, but to all men—men, with their fierceness in desire -and gentleness in satiety, with their terrible sudden temptations, their -weakness and nobleness, their beasthood and their godhead. Men struck -her—had always struck her—as intensely pathetic; and now Quentin and -his love wrung her breast with tears. Before that storm of hungry love -she bowed her head in mute homage—she worshipped him as he lay there on -her knees.</p> - -<p>He lifted himself suddenly. Darkness was creeping fast into the woods, -with little shivering gasps.</p> - -<p>"Janey, before you go, there's something I want particularly to ask you. -Next Tuesday week my father's going to London for the day. He won't be -back till late—I want you to come to Redpale when he's gone."</p> - -<p>"Redpale ... but there are the servants, Quentin."</p> - -<p>"They're all right. I'll send the girls over to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> Grinstead in the -afternoon; there'll only be the men about the farm, and they needn't -trouble us."</p> - -<p>"But...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, there's your brothers, of course," he cried harshly; "can't you get -away from them for one afternoon?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I can.... I don't know why I said 'But.'"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't say 'But'—Janey, do you realise that you and I have never -had a meal together?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"We must have a meal together—I want to see you eat—I want to drink -with you."</p> - -<p>"Very well, I'll come. I'll get over early in the afternoon.... Now I -must say good-bye."</p> - -<p>"When I see you next I may have heard from Baker. Then we shall know our -fate."</p> - -<p>"Our fate...?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, for if Baker can't take my stuff, no one else will, and my last -chance is gone."</p> - -<p>"Don't think of such a thing, dear."</p> - -<p>"No, I won't. I'll think of you, dream of you—whenever you are so -gracious as to let me sleep."</p> - -<p>He stood up, and drew her head down to his shoulder, holding it there -with trembling hands, while his lips sought her face. Her mouth was -against his sleeve, and she kissed it while he kissed her cheek and -neck. For a full minute they stood together thus, and when they drew -apart, the first star hung a timid candle above the burnt-out fires of the west.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER V</span> <span class="smaller">THE HERO</span></h2> - -<p>October dropped from red to brown in a sudden night of rain, and the -Three Counties began to draw over themselves their fallow cloaks of -sleep. In every view the ploughed fields spread brown and wet and empty, -some with a ruddy touch of Kentish clay, others with a white gleam of -Surrey chalk.</p> - -<p>Nigel flung himself into the farmyard toil, and complained because it -was too scanty. Their ten acres of grass and orchard, with three or four -cows and some poultry, did not give nearly enough work, he thought, to -two able-bodied men. He remembered the days when the acres of Sparrow -Hall had rolled through marsh and coppice into Kent—when fifteen -sweet-mouthed cows had gathered at the gates at milking-time, and golden -rye from their high fields had gone in their waggon to Honey Mill. He -was miserably aware that he had no one but himself to blame for this, -though his brother and sister never reproached him. He had been -impatient of the slow bounties of the fields, he had plunged into quick, -adventurous dealings; for a few months he had brought wealth, hurry and -excitement into his life—then had come poverty, and the ageless -monotony of prison.</p> - -<p>When he looked round on their reduced estate it was not so much -humiliation that ate into his heart as a sense of treachery. He had -betrayed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> the country. Impatient of its slow, honest ways, he had sought -others, crooked, swift, defiled. He had turned renegade to the quiet -fields round his home, and entered a rival camp of reckless strivings -and meanness. This had been his sin, and he was being punished for it -still. The punishment of the State for his sin against the State was -over ... but the punishment for his sin against his home, the country, -and himself was still being meted out to him by all three.</p> - -<p>The high spirits that had seized him on that first rainy morning of his -freedom often came and snatched him up again, but they always dropped -him back into a depression that was almost horror. He had moments of -crazy gaiety and uproariousness, of sheer animal delight in his bodily -freedom; but behind them all lurked the consciousness that he was still -in prison. He had been sentenced for life. He was shut up in some dreary -place, away from the farm, away from Len and Janey. He might work on the -farm the whole day, and fool with his brother and sister the whole -evening, but he knew none the less that he was shut up away from them -all.</p> - -<p>During this time he had peculiar dreams. He often fell asleep full of -fury and despair, but his dreams were always of sunlit spaces, children -and flowers. Again and again in them appeared the little girl Ivy—not -dirty and cross, but lovely and fresh and winsome, smiling and -beckoning. It seemed as if behind all the horrors and fogs of his life -something divine and innocent was calling—at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> times it was comfort and -peace and healing to him, at others it was the chief of his torments.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The Furlongers had always lived aloofly at Sparrow Hall—scorned, even -before their downfall, by their own class, they had nevertheless not -sought comrades in the classes beneath them. They had always sufficed -one another, and had not cared for the distractions of over-the-fence -gossip or the public-house.</p> - -<p>However, since his return from Parkhurst, Nigel had realised a certain -tendency on the part of labourers and small farmers to seek him out and -claim equal terms. This was not merely due to the consciousness of his -degradation, the delight of patronising the proud Furlonger—its chief -motive was a strange sort of deference. Socially, his crime had reduced -him to their level, but morally it had given him an exaltation which had -never been his before. He now belonged to that world of which they -caught rare dazzling glimpses in their Sunday papers. He was only a rank -below Crippen in their hero-worship, and when they met him in the -village they stared at him in much the same way as they stared at the -murderer's photograph in <i>The People</i>.</p> - -<p>At first Nigel hung back from them, sick and confused with shame, but as -the days went by, the emptiness of his life beat him into conciliation. -Humiliated to the dust, he longed for some sort of regard, however -spurious, just as a starving man will eat dung. His brother and sister -gave him love and kindness in plenty, but they were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> much too practical -in their emotions any longer to give him deference. Before he went to -prison he had been, though the youngest, the leader of the family—his -stronger brain, his quicker wits had made him the captain of their -exploits. But now his brain and wits were discredited. Len and Janey did -not despise him, they were not ashamed of him before men—but he had -forfeited his position in the household. They no longer looked upon him -as their superior, he was just the younger brother. At first he had -scarcely noticed this—everything had been strange, and he had let slip -former realities. But as the days went by, and Parkhurst became more and -more of a horrible and suggestive parenthesis, he was able to recall the -old ways and see how things had changed. He made no complaint, but his -spirit was chafed, and sought crazily for balms.</p> - -<p>"Come, don't be stand-offish, Mus' Furlonger," said the shepherd of -Little Cow Farm, who, meeting him outside the Bells at Lingfield, had -suggested a drink.</p> - -<p>"No, you're a better man than me now—aren't you?" said Nigel, showing -his teeth.</p> - -<p>"I wurn't hinting such, Mus' Furlonger—only t'other chaps in there do -want to hear about the prison."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's always interesting to hear about prison—specially from chaps -wot has bin there. We git a lot about 'em in <i>Lloyd's</i> and <i>The People</i>, -but there's nothing like a fust-hand story—surelye!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p><p>Nigel laughed crudely.</p> - -<p>"And it's a treat to meet a real convict—none of your petty larceny and -misdemeanour fellers...."</p> - -<p>"Well, here's greatness thrust upon me," said Furlonger, and swaggered -into the bar.</p> - -<p>The fuggy atmosphere affected him in much the same way as the smell of -ether and dressings affects a man entering a hospital—the spirit of the -place, assisted by crude outward manifestations, cowed him and made him -its slave.</p> - -<p>"Name it," said the shepherd.</p> - -<p>"Porter."</p> - -<p>It was three years since he had had a really stiff drink. He had never -cared for liquor, indeed he had always been a man of singularly -temperate life, a spare eater, a water drinker. But to-day a sudden -desire consumed him—not only to drink, but to be drunken. He remembered -the one occasion which he had been drunk. It was the day he had known -definitely of the collapse of Wickham's scheme, and his own inevitable -disgrace. He had sat in the kitchen at Sparrow Hall, drinking brandy -till his head had fallen forward on the table and his legs trailed back -behind his chair. Afterwards, there had been a shameful waking, but he -could never forget how peace had crept in some mysterious physical way -up his spine, from the base of his neck to his brain, with a soft -tingling—it had been purely physical at first, then it had passed on to -mental dulling and dimming.</p> - -<p>To-day, as the frothy brown porter ran down his throat, he felt that -gracious tingling, that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> creeping upwards of relief. He looked round the -bar. It was full of labouring men and smallholders, who stared at him -with round eyes that were curious and would be ingratiating—they wanted -to know him, because in their opinion he was better worth knowing than -before he went to gaol.</p> - -<p>"This is Mus' Breame of Gulledge," said the Little Cow shepherd. "How -are you, Mus' Breame?—This is Mus' Furlonger of Sparrow Hall."</p> - -<p>Mus' Breame held out a dark and hairy hand. Nigel's lips were twitching. -Somehow he felt much more humiliated by the beery approval of these men -than by the cold looks of their betters. However, he gave his short, dry -laugh, and shook hands.</p> - -<p>"And here's Mus' Dunk of Golden Compasses, and Mus' Boorer of Kenthouse -Hatch—this here is old Adam Harmer, as has been cowman at Langerish -this sixty year."</p> - -<p>Nigel had seen all the men before, and had once sold a calf to Adam -Harmer, but he realised that now he was meeting them on new terms.</p> - -<p>"I wur wunst in the lock-up meself for a week," drawled old Harmer. -"'Twas summat to do wud poaching, but so long ago as I forget 'xactly -wot. Surelye!"</p> - -<p>"Reckon prisons have changed unaccountable since your day," said Dunk, -throwing a glance at Nigel, as if to show that an opening had been -tactfully made for him. But Harmer clung to speech.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p><p>"Reckon they have: surelye. In my days you'd hemmed liddle o' whitewash -and all that—it wur starve and straw and bugs in my day, and two or -three fellers together in a cell, either larkin' or murderin' each -other."</p> - -<p>The Little Cow shepherd looked uneasily at Furlonger.</p> - -<p>"Yus—and the constables too, so different. Not near so haughty as they -is now, but comfortable chaps, as 'ud let yer see yer gal fur a drink, -and walk out o' the plaace fur half a sovereign."</p> - -<p>The conversation was obviously getting into the wrong hands. The only -person who looked interested was Nigel.</p> - -<p>"Reckon all that's changed now," hastily put in Dunk—"they say now as -gaol's lik a hotel—but not so free and easy, I take it, not so free and -easy. Name it, Mus' Furlonger—see your glass is empty."</p> - -<p>This time Nigel named a brandy.</p> - -<p>"Reckon you can't order wot you lik fur dinner—and got to do your -little bit o' work. But the gaol-buildings themselves, they're just lik -hotels, they're palisses—handsomer than a workhouse."</p> - -<p>"They're damned stinking hells," said Nigel—the brandy had loosed his -tongue.</p> - -<p>A murmur of approval ran through the bar. The great Furlonger had at -last been drawn into the conversation. He sat at a small table, his -fingers round his empty glass—about half a dozen voices begged him to -"name it."</p> - -<p>At first he hesitated. He was now a hero—for the first time for -years—and yet it was a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>hero-worship he could not swallow sober. But he -wanted it. He wanted to be looked up to, for a change—to be deferred -to, and exalted; and if he could not stand it sober, he must get drunk, -that was all. He named another brandy.</p> - -<p>The patrons of the bar were drawing round him. The barmaid was patting -and pulling at her hair; even "Charley," the seedy nondescript that -haunts all bars, and, unsalaried and ignored, brings the dirty glasses -to the counter from the outlying tables—even "Charley" came forward -with a deprecating grin and heel-taps of stout.</p> - -<p>Nigel had gulped down the brandy, and, without exactly knowing why, had -sprung to his feet.</p> - -<p>"Give us a speech, Mus' Furlonger!" cried Boorer of the Kenthouse. "Tell -us about gaol, and why it's damned and stinking."</p> - -<p>"Have something to cool you fust," suggested Breame.</p> - -<p>Nigel shook his head. He was in that convenient state when a man is -sober enough to know he is drunk.</p> - -<p>"Gaol's damned and stinking," he began, glaring sharply round him, "in -the same way that this bar is damned and stinking—because it's full of -men. But in gaol they're divided into two classes, top scoundrels and -bottom scoundrels. The top scoundrels are the warders, with their eye at -your door, and their hand inside your coat—in case you've got baccy."</p> - -<p>A murmur of sympathy ran through his listeners, who had been a little -taken aback by his opening phrases.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p><p>"Baccy's one of the things you aren't allowed. There's lots of -others—drink, and girls, and your own body and soul—the body your -mother gave you, and the soul God gave you," he finished sententiously -with a hiccup.</p> - -<p>Some one thrust another glass into his hand, and he gulped it down. It -burnt his throat.</p> - -<p>"I once had a body, and I once had a soul, but they aren't mine any -longer now. They belong to the state—hic—they're number -seventy-six—that's me who's speaking to you—number seventy-six—no -other name for three yearsh ... go and see the p'lice every -month—convict seventy-six ... made me no better'n a child—hic—what'er -you to do with a man when he's got too clever for you?—turn him into a -child—a crying child—a damn crying child—like me——"</p> - -<p>And Furlonger burst into tears.</p> - -<p>The bar looked disconcerted. Nigel stood leaning up against the table, -sobbing and hiccuping. The barmaid offered him her handkerchief, which -was strongly scented, and edged with lace. Breame muttered—"We're -unaccountable sorry, Mus' Furlonger," and Dunk suggested another brandy.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Nigel flung round on them, his lips shrinking from his teeth, -his eyes blazing.</p> - -<p>"Damn you!" he cried thickly—"damn you all—you cheap cads—gaping and -cringing and pumping—feeding on my misery and my shame—hic ... look at -you all grinning ... you're pleased because I'm in hell. You'll go home -and gas about me, and say 'poor fellow'—blast you!—I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> better than -anything in <i>Lloyd's</i> or the <i>News of the World</i>—hic—let me go—you're -dirt, all of you—let me go——"</p> - -<p>He plunged forward, and elbowed his way through them to the door. He was -very unsteady, and crashed into the doorpost, bruising his forehead. But -at last he was out in the sun-spattered afternoon—with a cool breeze -bringing the scent of rain from the forest, and little clouds flying low.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VI</span> <span class="smaller">THICK WOODS</span></h2> - -<p>When Len and Janey came in from the yard that evening they found Nigel -in the kitchen, sitting at the table scowling. His hair was damp on the -temples, and his cheeks were flushed.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, old man!" cried Janey, "when did you come in?"</p> - -<p>He did not answer, but supplemented his scowl by a grin. It was -characteristic of him to scowl and grin at the same time.</p> - -<p>Len went up to his brother, and looked at him closely and rather -sternly.</p> - -<p>"What have you been up to?"</p> - -<p>Still Nigel did not speak. Then suddenly he dropped his head, rolling it -on his arms.</p> - -<p>"Is he drunk?" whispered Janey.</p> - -<p>"What d'you think?"</p> - -<p>Len tried to pull up his brother's head, but Nigel growled and shook him -off.</p> - -<p>"Nigel!" cried Janey.</p> - -<p>He made no answer.</p> - -<p>She tried to slip her hand under his forehead, and lift it.</p> - -<p>"Nigel, what have you been doing?"</p> - -<p>He snarled something at her, and she remembered the other awful occasion -when she had seen her brother drunk.</p> - -<p>"Leave him alone, and he'll come to himself," said Len. "It's natural -for him to get drunk—he's the sort."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p><p>"Oh, no, he isn't!—Nigel, come upstairs with me, and let me put -something cool on your head."</p> - -<p>"Damn you!" growled the boy, "leave me alone."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Nigel, don't hate me—I'm not blaming you—I think I know why you -got drunk, and I——"</p> - -<p>Her sentence was never finished. With a yell of fury he sprang to his -feet, knocking over his chair, and seized her in a grip of iron.</p> - -<p>"Hold your tongue, you ——!"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" cried Janet.</p> - -<p>Leonard vaulted across the table, grasped his brother's collar, and -struck him on the side of the head. Nigel loosed his grip of Janet, and -turned to close with Len, who was, however, much the better man of the -two. He forced Nigel down on the table, and proceeded to punish him with -all his might.</p> - -<p>"Apologise, you brute ... beg her pardon on your knees," he shouted.</p> - -<p>Nigel did not speak—his lips were tight shut, a thin red streak in the -whiteness of his face.</p> - -<p>"Len ... stop!—you'll kill him!" cried Janet. She stood petrified, -trembling from head to foot. Never in her whole life had she witnessed -such a scene in the Furlonger family. The boys were fighting. She had -seen them spar before, but never anything like this. And Nigel's -drunkenness ... and his words to her ... a sickly, stifling horror crept -up her throat and nearly choked her.</p> - -<p>"Len—stop!—he's had enough."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p><p>"Not till he apologises—apologise, you damn brute!"</p> - -<p>Nigel's teeth were set. He struggled mechanically, Len had hold of his -right wrist, and his left hand was bent under him. Suddenly, however, he -managed to wrench them both free—the next minute he seized his -brother's throat. For a moment or two they struggled desperately, -Leonard half strangled, and in the end Nigel rolled off the table to the -floor, where both young men lay together.</p> - -<p>Leonard was the first to rise.</p> - -<p>"Good Lord, Janey," he said weakly.</p> - -<p>"Nigel—he's dead."</p> - -<p>"Not he!"</p> - -<p>They both knelt down, and raised him a little. Blood began to run out of -the corner of his mouth.</p> - -<p>"You've killed him!" cried Janey.</p> - -<p>"No—he's only bitten his tongue. Look"—lifting the corner of his -brother's lip—"his teeth are locked like a vice."</p> - -<p>"Oh, all this has been too horrible!"</p> - -<p>"Run and fetch some water—we'll bring him to in a minute."</p> - -<p>She filled a jug at the tap, and together they bathed Nigel's forehead -and neck. Len's rage had entirely cooled, and he handled his unconscious -brother almost tenderly.</p> - -<p>At last the boy opened his eyes. To the surprise of both Len and Janet -his first glance was quite mild.</p> - -<p>"Oh ..." he said weakly.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly remembrance seemed to come.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> He shook off his brother's -hand, scowled at Janey, and struggled to his feet.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to bed," he muttered, leaning unsteadily against the table.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't stand," said Janet, trying to soothe him, "come and sit -here for a minute, and then Len shall help you up to bed."</p> - -<p>"I don't want Len, damn him!"</p> - -<p>He staggered towards the door.</p> - -<p>"Len—go after him."</p> - -<p>"Not if I know it."</p> - -<p>"He'll never get upstairs without you."</p> - -<p>"He's much better alone."</p> - -<p>They heard Nigel slipping and stumbling on the stairs. Once he fell with -a crash, but at last he reached the top. Luckily his door was open, and -he lurched in. The next minute they heard a thud and a creak as he flung -himself on the bed.</p> - -<p class="space-above">He woke at dawn from what seemed an eternity of sleep—not one of those -swift, deep sleeps which we are unconscious of till we find their -healing touch on our lids at waking, but a series of sleeps, heavy, yet -tossed, continually broken by grey glimmers of consciousness, by sudden -heats and pains, quick stabs of memory, blind spaces of -forgetfulness—that feverish, aching forgetfulness, which is memory in -its acutest form.</p> - -<p>He sat up in bed, his temples throbbing, his face flushed and damp. He -pushed his hair back from his forehead, and stared out at the morning -with eyes that burned. He fully remembered all that had happened, -without such reminders as his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> headache, his sickness, and the rumpled -clothes in which he had slept all night. His brain throbbed to the point -of torture. Sharp cuts of pain tore through it, hideous revisualisations -seemed to scorch whole surfaces of it with sudden flames. Facts hammered -at it with monotonous mercilessness.</p> - -<p>He fell back on the pillow, and for some minutes lay quite still, -staring out at the woods. There they lay in their straight brown line, -those woods. He could almost hear the rock of the wind in them, creeping -to him over the stillness of the fields. They seemed to whisper -peace—peace to his throbbing pulses and burning skin and aching body -and breaking heart. All his universe was shattered, except those quiet -external things—the woods and fields round his home. They stood -unchanged through all his turmoils, they responded only to their own -remote influences—the warming and cooling of winds, the waxing and -waning of the sun's heat, the frostiness of vapours. He might rage, -despair, scream, and curse in them without changing the colour of one -leaf.</p> - -<p>He longed stupidly for tears, but those easy tears of his humiliation -would not come. He felt that if he thought of Len and Janey he might -cry. But he would not think of them, though in his heart was an infinite -tenderness. Len and Janey were like the woods, they did not change—then -suddenly he realised that nothing had changed, it was only he. He had -changed, and could not fit in with his old environment. Curse it! Damn -it! Where could he find peace?</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p><p>Perhaps he had formally renounced peace on that day he plunged his -hands into the pitchy mess of money-making. He had known peace before -then—soft dreams that flew to him from the lattices of dawn. He -remembered days when he had lain in the corner of some field, among the -rustling hay-grass, his soul lost in the eternities of peace within it. -But now—he had renounced peace. He had turned from pure things to -defiled—and he had sharpened his brain, whetted it on artificialities. -For the man with brains there is seldom peace, but an eternal questing. -The man without brains suffers only the problem of "what?" It is the man -with brains who has to face the seven-times hotter problem of "why?"</p> - -<p>Why was a man, alone of all creatures, allowed to be at war with his -environment—a prey to changes that were independent of, and unable to -reproduce themselves in, the world around him? Why was a man the -meeting-place of god and brute, the battle-ground of the two with their -unending wars?—and so made that if one should triumph and drive out the -other, the vanquished, whether god or brute, took away part of his -manhood with him, and peace was won only at the price of -incompleteness?... Why was consummation only a prelude to -destruction?—the lustreless horns of the daylight moon seemed to be -telling him that it waxed full only to wane. Why was a man given desires -that were gratified only at their own expense? Why did his young blood -call—call into the fire and dark—with only the fire and dark to answer -it?</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p><p>It was in this turmoil of "whys" that Nigel's longing for the woods -became desperate. He raised himself on his elbow, and stared out at -them—Swites Wood, Summer Wood, and the woods of Ashplats and Hackenden. -He found himself dreaming of their narrow, soaking paths, of their brown -undergrowth, and carpet of dead leaves—he seemed to see the long rows -of ash, with here and there a yellow leaf fluttering on a bough. He -would go to the woods, he would find rest in their silent thickness.</p> - -<p>He sprang out of bed and across the room, with what seemed one movement -of his big, graceful body. He lifted his water-jug from the floor, and -drank deeply—then he washed himself and put on fresh clothes. He felt -clean and cool, and the mere physical sensation gave him new strength -and dignity. He went quietly downstairs. Len was up and in the yard, -Janet was in the kitchen—but neither saw him as he stole out of the -house and up the lane.</p> - -<p>He left it soon after passing Wilderwick, and plunged into a field. The -grass was covered with frost-crystals, beginning to melt in the lemon -glare of the sun. It was a strange, yellow dawn, dream-like, pathetic—a -little wind fluttered with it from the east, and smote the hedges into -ghostly rustlings. Nigel crept through the pasture as if he feared to -wake some one asleep, and entered the first of his woods.</p> - -<p>The rim was touched with flame—one or two fiery maples blazed out of -the hedge against a background of yellow. Creeping through those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> golds -and scarlets into the sober browns was symbolic. He went a few steps, -then flung himself down upon the leaves. On the top they were dry, -underneath he felt and smelt their gracious dampness.</p> - -<p>The fires in his heart seemed to die. He felt bruises where Len had -struck him, but they galled him no longer; the half-forgotten peace and -liberty of other days was beginning to drift like a shower into his -breast. Why could he not live always in the woods, instead of among -people whom he hurt and who hurt him, though he loved them and they -loved him? There was no love in the woods—love had passed out of them -in September, leaving them very quiet, very peaceful, in a great brown -hush of sleep. Love was what hurt in life—love and brains; take away -these and you take away suffering. Oh, if love and thought could go -together out of his life as they had gone out of the woods—and leave -him in a great brown hush of sleep.</p> - -<p>For nearly an hour he lay in the brake, hidden by golden tangles of -bracken and stiff clumps of tansy. He had begun to drowse, and capture -rags of happiness in dreams, when suddenly he heard a rustling in the -bushes. Hang it all! He could not have peace, even in the woods. The -rustling came nearer, and he heard the panting of a dog—with a mumbled -oath he sat up in the fern.</p> - -<p>"Oh!..."</p> - -<p>Nigel's head and shoulders were not a reassuring sight to confront one -suddenly on a lonely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> woodland walk, and though Tony did not scream her -voice was full of alarm. At first Nigel did not recognise her, she -stirred up in him merely impersonal feelings of annoyance, but the next -moment he seemed to see her face in a glow of lamplight on East -Grinstead platform. This was the lone girl-kid he had befriended—and -thought no more of since then.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," he said hastily, scrambling to his feet, "I'm -afraid I startled you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no"—she looked awkward and embarrassed. "You're Mr. Smith, aren't -you?"</p> - -<p>Nigel stared at her in some bewilderment, then suddenly remembered -another of the half-forgotten incidents of that night.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I'm Smith," he said slowly. "I—I hope you got home all right in -the taxi."</p> - -<p>"Quite all right, thank you—and mother said I ought to be very grateful -to you for taking such care of me."</p> - -<p>There was something about this school-girl, who evidently took him for a -man of her own class and position, which filled him with an infinite -pain—a pain that was half a wistful pleasure. She stood before him in -the path, a slim, unripe promise of womanhood, her long hair plaited -simply on her back, her face glowing with health, her eyes bright and -shy. He felt unfit, uncouth—and yet she did not seem to see anything -strange in his appearance, sudden as it had been. He realised that now -at last he was face to face with a human being between whom and him the -barrier of his disgrace did not stand. This child did not exalt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> him for -his evil story, neither did she despise him—his crime simply did not -exist. Its hideousness was not tricked out with tinsel and scarlet, as -by the cads in the bar—it was just invisible, put away. Strange words -thrilled faintly into his mind—"the remission of sins."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad you came to me at East Grinstead," said Tony, a little -embarrassed by the long pause. "You see, mother never got my postcard, -so no wonder there wasn't any one to meet me."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad I was any use." He spoke stiffly, in a mortal fear lest, for -some reason unspecified, her attitude of fragrant ignorance should -collapse.</p> - -<p>"Do you live near here?" she asked naïvely.</p> - -<p>He hesitated. "Not very."</p> - -<p>"I do—quite near. I think I must be going home now."</p> - -<p>She held out her hand to say good-bye, when suddenly a shrill wailing -scream rose from the field outside the wood.</p> - -<p>"Oh!" cried Tony.</p> - -<p>They both turned and listened, their hands still clasped. The next -minute it came again—shrill, frantic.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" asked the girl, shuddering, "it sounds just like a baby."</p> - -<p>"I think it's a rabbit—perhaps it's caught in a trap."</p> - -<p>He left hold of her hand and looked over the hedge. The next minute he -sprang into it, forcing his way through, while she stared after him with -troubled eyes.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p><p>"Yes, it's a rabbit," he cried thickly, "caught in one of those spring -traps, poor little devil!"</p> - -<p>She scrambled after him into the field.</p> - -<p>"Oh, let it out!—poor little thing!—oh, save it!"</p> - -<p>But he was already struggling with the trap, and she saw blood on his -hands where the teeth had caught them.</p> - -<p>"I'll do it, never fear," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "Can you hold -the poor little chap?—He'll hurt himself worse than ever if he -struggles so."</p> - -<p>She grasped the soft mass of fur, damp and draggled with its agony, -while Nigel tried to prise open the steel jaws.</p> - -<p>"There!"</p> - -<p>The rabbit bounded out of the trap, but the next minute fell down -struggling.</p> - -<p>"It's leg's broken," cried Nigel. "Poor little beast!—what a damned -infernal shame!"</p> - -<p>He picked it up tenderly.</p> - -<p>"Hadn't you better destroy it?" asked Tony, gulping her tears.</p> - -<p>"I think perhaps I had—look the other way."</p> - -<p>She moved off a few steps, and heard nothing till Nigel said, "Poor -little beggar!"</p> - -<p>He came up to her, holding the dead rabbit by its ears.</p> - -<p>"That's all you're good for when you've been in a trap—to die. Being in -a trap breaks parts of you that can never be mended. It's always kind to -kill broken things."</p> - -<p>He stood hesitating a moment, then suddenly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> he flushed awkwardly, -pulled off his cap and turned away.</p> - -<p>Tony stared after him. She saw him go with bowed head across the field. -Half way he dropped the rabbit, but he did not stop. He walked straight -to the fence, and climbed over it into the lane.</p> - -<p>An impulse seized her—she could not account for it, but she suddenly -turned to follow him. She wanted to thank him again, perhaps—to ask him -something, she scarcely knew what. But he was gone. There was only the -dead rabbit, lying still warm in the grass.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VII</span> <span class="smaller">OVER THE GATES OF PARADISE</span></h2> - -<p>The next day was the day Janet had promised to have tea with Quentin at -Redpale Farm. She had prepared for it carefully, telling her brothers -she was going shopping in East Grinstead, and would not be home till late.</p> - -<p>As soon as dinner was over, she slipped upstairs to dress. She was in a -state of fever, and for the first time thought of her clothes. She had -never troubled about them when she went to meet Quentin in the woods, -but now she was going to his house—a thrill ran through her; she had -never in her life been inside Redpale Farm, but now she would see the -room where Quentin sat and thought of her in the long, dark -evenings—which he had told her of so often—when the stars crawled -through veils of wrack, and the wind piped down the valley of the hammer ponds.</p> - -<p>Memories of his few pronouncements on clothes rose to guide her. He -liked her to come to him as a fragment of the day on which he waited. -To-day was a brown day, hiding under rags of mist from a pale, -sun-washed sky—so she put on a brown dress, of a long-past fashion, and -mended in places, but beautiful in clinging folds about her—and in her -breast she pinned the last yellow rose of the garden.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p><p>"Good-bye, Janey," called Len from the orchard.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," sang out Nigel.</p> - -<p>She waved her hand to them, not trusting herself to speak.</p> - -<p>As soon as she was out of sight, she climbed into the fields, and walked -across them to Old Surrey Hall. Here were the tangled borders of -Kent—she plunged through a hedge of elder and crack-willow, and was in -the next county. Quentin always used to say that there was a difference -between the three counties, even where they touched in this corner. -Surrey was park-like, and more sophisticated than the other two; one had -wide, green spaces and dotted trees. Sussex was moor-like, covered with -wild patches and pines, hilly and bare; Kent was untidy, tangled and -lush, full of small, twisting lanes, weighted orchards and huddled -farms. Janet passed the flat gable-end of Anstiel, buried in the -thickets of its garden, and came out on the Gated Road. This wound down -the valley of the hammer ponds to Redpale, Scarlets and Clay. It was -seldom used, as there were gates every few hundred yards to prevent the -cattle from straying, and in winter the hammer ponds sometimes -overflowed.</p> - -<p>Redpale was the first of the valley farms, and stood in a reed-grown -hollow beside a wood. It was an old house, with a carnival of reds in -its huge, sloping roof. Janet stole quickly through the yard and came up -the garden to the door. It was opened before she reached it, and Quentin -seized her hands.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p><p>"You've come at last—I've been watching for you."</p> - -<p>He dragged her into the passage, banged the door, and kissed her in the -dark.</p> - -<p>"Come into the study," he cried eagerly. "Come and hallow me a hundred -lonely evenings in one hour."</p> - -<p>He took her into a low, book-lined room, where a fire was burning. A -chair was pulled up to the fire, and over it was spread a gorgeous -Eastern rug.</p> - -<p>"You're to sit there, Janey. I prepared that rug for you—it has your -tintings, your browns and whites and reds. Sit down, and I'll sit at -your feet."</p> - -<p>She sat down, but before he did so, he fetched a jug of chrysanthemums, -and put them on the table beside her.</p> - -<p>"Now you're posed, Janey sweet—posed for me to gaze at and worship. You -don't know how often I've dreamed of you in that chair, with old oak at -your back, flowers at your elbow, and firelight in your eyes. One night -I really thought I saw you there, and I fell at your knees—as I do -now—and took your hand—as I do now. But it was only a dream, and I sat -on in my own chair and watched our two fetches sitting there before me, -you in the chair and I at your feet."</p> - -<p>He kissed her hands repeatedly, and his poor, hot kisses seemed to drain -love and pity in a torrent from her heart.</p> - -<p>"Quentin, I'm so glad I came. Is this where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> you sit in the evenings? -Now I shall know how to imagine you when I think of you after supper."</p> - -<p>"'When you think of me after supper'—you quaint woman! how funnily you -speak!"</p> - -<p>He laughed, and hid his face in her knees. But the next moment his head -shot up tragically.</p> - -<p>"I've bad news for you, dear."</p> - -<p>"Oh, what is it?..."</p> - -<p>"Baker has returned my poems."</p> - -<p>"Oh!..."</p> - -<p>"Yes—there they are."</p> - -<p>He pointed to the grate, where one or two fragments of charred paper -showed among the cinders.</p> - -<p>She bowed her face over his.</p> - -<p>"I thought you were happy when I came."</p> - -<p>"Happy! of course I was happy <i>when you came</i>. Janey, if you come to me -on my death-bed, I'll be happy—if you come to me in hell, I'll sing for -joy."</p> - -<p>"Did Baker write about the poems?"</p> - -<p>"No—only a damned printed slip; he doesn't think 'em worth a letter. -It's all over with me, Janey—with us both. I'll never be good for -anything—I'm a rotter, a waster, a Spring Poet. We're both done -for—our love isn't any more use."</p> - -<p>"Can't you hope, dear?"</p> - -<p>"Can you?"</p> - -<p>She began to cry.</p> - -<p>She had always fought hard against tears when she was with Quentin, but -this afternoon her disappointment was too bitter. She realised the sour -facts to which hope and trust had long blinded<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> her—that Quentin would -never win his independence, and therefore that marriage with him was -impossible till his father's death. She saw how much she had -unconsciously relied on Baker's acceptance of the poems, their last -hope. Quentin's words had scattered a crowd of little delicate dreams, -scarcely realised while she entertained them, known only as they fled -like angels from the door. After those three weary years of waiting she -had dreamed of being his at last—his wife, his housemate—no longer -meeting him in the dark corners of woods, but his before the world, -honoured and acknowledged. Now that dream was shattered—the three weary -years would become four weary years, and the four, five—and on and on -to six and seven. The woods would still rustle with their stealthy -footsteps, their tongues still burn with lies ... she covered her face, -and wept bitterly—with all the impassioned weakness of the strong.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm so ashamed...."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because I'm crying. But, Quentin, I feel broken, somehow. Our love's so -great, and we're parted by such little things."</p> - -<p>"Janey, Janey...."</p> - -<p>She sobbed more dryly now—anguish was stiffening her throat.</p> - -<p>"Must we wait all those years?" he whispered.</p> - -<p>"What else can we do?"</p> - -<p>He whispered again. "Must we wait all those years?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p><p>She lifted her face, understanding him suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Quentin, you and I must do nothing to—degrade our love."</p> - -<p>"But it's degraded already—it's thwarted, and all thwarted things are -degraded. If we fling aside our fears and triumph over circumstances, -then it will be exalted, not degraded."</p> - -<p>She did not speak.</p> - -<p>"Janey," he continued, his voice muffled in her hands, which he held -against his mouth. "You and I have been locked out of Paradise—but we -can climb over the gates."</p> - -<p>She was still silent. Quentin had never spoken to her so openly -before—after earlier disappointments he had sometimes hinted what he -now expressed; but his love had never made her tremble; violent as it -was, it was reverent.</p> - -<p>"Janey ... will you climb over the gates of Paradise with me?"</p> - -<p>"No, dear."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because our love's not that sort."</p> - -<p>"It's the sort that waits and is trampled on."</p> - -<p>"It's strong enough to wait."</p> - -<p>"How white your face is, Janey!—you speak brave words, but you're -trembling."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'm trembling."</p> - -<p>"Because you're not speaking the truth; you're lying—in the face of -Love. You see plainly that if you and I wait till we can marry, we shall -wait for ever. Our only chance is to take matters into our own hands, -and let circumstances and opportunities be damned. You make out that -you're<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> denying Love for its own good—that's another lie. 'Wait,' you -say, because you're afraid. Why, what have we been doing all these years -but 'wait'?—wait, wait; wait till our hearts are sick and our hopes are -dust. If we wait any longer our love will die—and then will you find -much comfort in the thought that we have 'waited'?"</p> - -<p>"But there's the boys, Quentin."</p> - -<p>An oath burst from young Lowe.</p> - -<p>"The boys! the boys!—that's your war-cry, Janey. I'm nearly sick of it -now. And how appropriate!—your brothers are such models of good -behaviour, ain't they?"</p> - -<p>"Don't, Quentin—it's for that very reason...."</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said bitterly, "I remember how your reasons go—the boys have -their secrets, so you must be without one; the boys have made a pretty -general hash of law and order, so you must be a kind of Sunday-school -ma'am. Really, Janet!"</p> - -<p>"You don't understand what it is to live with people who think you ever -so much better than you really are—you have to keep it up somehow."</p> - -<p>"But surely you don't think you'll be committing a crime by giving our -love a chance. You can't be such a prude as to stickle for a ceremony—a -few lines scribbled, a few words muttered."</p> - -<p>"It wouldn't be so bad if that were all. But it's no good trying to -prove that you're simply offering me marriage with the ceremony left -out. In some cases that might be true, but not in ours. You can't give -the name of marriage to a few hurried meetings, all secrecy and lies. -Things are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> bad enough as they are, without adding—that mockery."</p> - -<p>Quentin sighed.</p> - -<p>"You're an extraordinary woman, Janey; you breathe the pure spirit of -recklessness and paganism—and then suddenly you give vent to feelings -that would become Hesba Stretton. You're a moralist at bottom—every -woman is. There's no use looking for the Greek in a woman—they're all -Semitic at heart, every one of 'em. You'll begin to quote the Ten -Commandments in a minute."</p> - -<p>Janey said nothing, and for some time they did not move. The wind rushed -up to the farmhouse, blustered round it, and sighed away. The sunshine -began to slant on the woods, tarnishing their western rims.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly the kettle began to sing. They both lifted their heads as -they heard it—it reminded them of the meal they were to have together.</p> - -<p>"Janey, will you make tea?"</p> - -<p>She stood up quickly as his arms fell from her waist. This sudden, most -domestic, diversion was a relief. She began to prepare the meal, and he -crouched by the fire and watched her.</p> - -<p>"You shall pour out tea, love—then we'll do things in the grand style, -and smash the tea-pot."</p> - -<p>While she waited for the tea to draw she came over to the mirror above -the fireplace and began to arrange her hair. The firelight played on her -as she stood there, her arms lifted, her head thrown back, half her face -in shadow, half flushed in the glow.</p> - -<p>"Janey, you are the symbol of Love—all light<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> and darkness and -disarray. It's cruel of you to stand like that—it's profane. For you're -not Love, you're morality."</p> - -<p>"It's funny, Quentin, but you never can understand my reasons for what I -do—it's because they're not poetic enough, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"You don't seem to have any reasons at all—only a moral sense."</p> - -<p>He rose and went to sit at the table, resting his chin on his hands. She -came behind him and bent over him.</p> - -<p>"Dear one, I've seen such a lot of unhappy love that I've made up my -mind ours shall be different.... I refuse you because I love you too -much."</p> - -<p>Quentin sighed impatiently.</p> - -<p>"If I did what you ask," continued Janey tremulously, "our love would -die."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense!—how dare you say such things! Why should it die?"</p> - -<p>"I—I don't know—but I'm sure it would. Oh, Quentin, I know you don't -understand my reasons, because I really haven't given them to you -properly. They're things I feel more than things I know."</p> - -<p>She went and sat down opposite him, and began to pour out tea.</p> - -<p>"Let's talk of something that isn't love."</p> - -<p>He laughed.</p> - -<p>"Let's breathe something that isn't air. Everything's love—if we talked -about flowers, or books, or animals, or stars, we should be talking -about love. Without love even our daily newspapers wouldn't appear."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p><p>"Then don't let's talk of anything—let's hold our tongues."</p> - -<p>"Very well, Janey."</p> - -<p>He smiled at the simplicity of the woman who thought she could silence -love by holding her tongue.</p> - -<p>For some minutes they sat opposite each other, swallowing scalding tea, -crumbling cake upon their plates. Their first meal together, on which -they had both set such store, had become an ordeal of mistrust and -silence. The sunset was now ruddy on the woods, and the sky became full -of little burning wisps of cloud, like brands flung out of the west. -They hurried over the sky, and dropped behind a grass-grown hill in the -east, crowding after one another, kindling from flame to scarlet, from -scarlet to crimson. The wind came and fluttered again round the -house—darkness began to drop into the room. Outside, a rainbow of -colours gleamed and flashed in the sunset, as it struck the hammer ponds -and the wet flowers of the garden—but the window looked east, and there -was nothing but the firelight to wrestle with the shadows that crept -from the corners towards the table. Soon the table with the food on it -became mysterious, gloomed with shadows and half-lights—then the -dimness crept up the bodies of Quentin and Janey, leaving only their -white faces staring at each other. They had given up even the pretence -to eat—their eyes were burning, and yet washed in tears.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Janey sprang to her feet.</p> - -<p>"I must go."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p><p>"Go—why, it's barely five."</p> - -<p>"But I must."</p> - -<p>He rose hurriedly. For a moment they faced each other over the -unfinished meal, then Quentin came towards her.</p> - -<p>"You're frightened, Janey?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Of me?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"But of yourself...."</p> - -<p>She began to tremble violently, and suddenly his arms were round her, -her sobs shaking them both.</p> - -<p>"My little Janey...."</p> - -<p>"Quentin, Quentin ... be merciful ... I'm in your power."</p> - -<p>He looked down into her drowning eyes, at the pure outlines of her face, -seen palely through the dusk.</p> - -<p>"I'm in your power," she repeated vaguely.</p> - -<p>"Janey ... Janey," he whispered, "you're in my power ... but I'm in -Love's. Love is stronger than either of us—and Love says 'Over the -gates!—over the gates!'"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VIII</span> <span class="smaller">BRAMBLETYE</span></h2> - -<p>The next few days were to Nigel like a piece of steep hill to a -cart-horse. There was only one comfort—he felt no temptation to seek -oblivion again as he had sought it at the Bells. He turned surlily from -the men he had looked to for alleviation—he knew they could not give -it. All they could do was to cover his wounds with septic rags—they had -no oil and wine for him.</p> - -<p>So he put down his head, seeing nothing but the little patch of ground -over which he moved, planted his feet firmly, and pulled from the -shoulder. Perhaps it was because he saw such a little of his way that he -did not notice Janey was doing pretty much the same thing—with the -difference that she fretted more, like a horse with a bearing-rein, -which cannot pull from the collar. Side by side they were plunging up -the hill of difficulty—and yet neither saw how the other strained.</p> - -<p>Len vaguely realised that something was wrong with Janet, but he put it -down to her anxiety about Nigel. An atmosphere of reticence and -misunderstanding had settled on Sparrow Hall, frankness had gone and -effects were put down to the wrong causes. Len tried to help Janey by -helping Nigel. It struck him that his brother would be happier if he had -less pottering work to do. So he took upon himself all the monotonous -details of the yard, and asked Nigel to see to the larger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> matters, -which involved much tramping in the country round.</p> - -<p>One day towards the end of October, Len asked him to attend an auction -at Forest Row. He went by train, but as the auction ended rather earlier -than he expected, he decided to walk home.</p> - -<p>It was a pale afternoon, smelling of rain. The sky was covered with soft -mackerel clouds, dappled with light, and the distances were mysterious -and tender. Nigel had a special love for distances—for three years he -had not been able to look further than a wall some thirty yards off, -except when he lifted his eyes to that one far view prison could not rob -him of, the sky. Now the stretch of distant fields, the blur of distant -woods, the gleam of distant windows in distant farms, even the distant -gape of Oxted chalk-pit among the Surrey hills, filled him with an -ineffable sense of quiet and liberty.</p> - -<p>For this reason he walked home along the high road, ignoring the dusty -cars—so that he might look on either side of him into distances, the -shaded sleep of meadows in the east, the pine-bound brows of the Forest -in the west.</p> - -<p>He did not feel that resentment at Nature's indifference to human moods, -which is a man's right and a token of his lordship. On the contrary, the -beauty and happiness of the background to his travail gave him a vague -sense of ultimate justice. The peace of the country against the restless -misery of human life reminded him of those early Italian pictures of the -Crucifixion—in which, behind all the hideous mediæval realism of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> -subject, lies a tranquil background of vineyard and cypress, lazily -shining waters, dream cities on the hills. That was Life—a crucifixion -against a background of green fields.</p> - -<p>He was roused from his meditations by being nearly knocked down by a big -car. He sprang into the hedge, and cursed with his mouth full of dust. -The dust drifted, and he saw some one else crouching in the hedge not a -hundred feet away. It was a girl with her bicycle—somehow he felt no -surprise when he saw that it was Tony Strife, the "girl-kid," again.</p> - -<p>She was obviously in difficulties. One of her tyres was off, and her -repairing outfit lay scattered by the roadside. She did not see him, but -stooped over her work with a hot face. Nigel did not think of greeting -her—though their last encounter had impressed him far more than the -first; she had even come once or twice into his dreams, standing with -little Ivy among fields of daisies, in that golden radiance which shines -only in sleep.</p> - -<p>He was passing, when suddenly she lifted her head, and recognition at -once filled her eyes—</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Smith!..."</p> - -<p>Her voice had in it both relief and entreaty. He stopped at once.</p> - -<p>"What's happened?"</p> - -<p>"I've punctured my tyre—and I can't mend it."</p> - -<p>He knelt down beside her, and searched among the litter on the road.</p> - -<p>"Why, you haven't got any rubber!"</p> - -<p>"That's just it. I haven't used my bicycle for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> so long that I never -thought of looking to see if everything was there. What shall I do?"</p> - -<p>"Let me wheel it for you to a shop."</p> - -<p>"There's nowhere nearer than Forest Row, and that's three miles away."</p> - -<p>"Are you in a great hurry?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—terrible. The others have gone up to Fairwarp in the car for a -picnic. There wasn't enough room for us all, so Awdrey and I were to -bicycle; then she said her skirt was too tight, so they squeezed her in, -and I bicycled alone. It's quite close really, but I had this puncture, -and they all passed me in the car, and never saw me, they were going so -fast. I don't know how I can possibly be at Fairwarp in time."</p> - -<p>"No—nor do I. We can't mend your tyre without the stuff, and the -nearest shop is two miles from here."</p> - -<p>"I'll have to go home, that's all. They'll be awfully sick about it—for -I've got the nicest cakes on my carrier."</p> - -<p>Nigel laughed.</p> - -<p>"Then perhaps you have the advantage, after all. Just think—you can eat -them all yourself!"</p> - -<p>"They're too many for one person. I say, won't you have some?"</p> - -<p>"That would be a shame."</p> - -<p>"Oh no—do have some. I hate eating alone—and I'm awfully hungry."</p> - -<p>She began to unstrap the parcel from her carrier.</p> - -<p>"This is a dusty place for a picnic," said Nigel, "let's go down the -lane to Brambletye, and eat them there."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p><p>The idea and the words came almost together. He did not pause to think -how funny it was that he should suddenly want to go for a picnic with a -school-girl of sixteen. It seemed quite natural, somehow. However, he -could not help being a little dismayed at his own boldness. This girl -would freeze up at once if by any chance he betrayed who he really was. -As for her people—but the thought of their scandalised faces was an -incitement rather than otherwise.</p> - -<p>"Where's Brambletye?" asked Tony.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know it?—it's the ruin at the bottom of that lane. You must -have passed it often."</p> - -<p>"I've never been down the lane—only along the road in the car."</p> - -<p>"And you live so near! Why, I've often been to Brambletye, and I live -much further away than you."</p> - -<p>"Where do you live?"</p> - -<p>This was a settler, to which Nigel had laid himself open by his -enthusiasm. He decided to face the situation boldly.</p> - -<p>"I live over in Surrey—at a place called Fan's Court."</p> - -<p>"Fan's Court," she repeated vaguely. "I don't think I've heard of it."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's a long way from you—beyond Blindly Heath—and only a little -place. I'm not very well off, you know."</p> - -<p>She glanced at his shabby clothes, and felt embarrassed, for she saw -that he had noticed the glance.</p> - -<p>He picked up the litter from the roadside, and began to wheel her -bicycle down the hill.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p><p>"I say," she breathed softly, "this is an adventure."</p> - -<p>So it was—for both, in very different ways. For her it was an incursion -into lawlessness. Her father was tremendously particular, even her girl -friends had to pass the censor before intimacy was allowed, and as for -men—why, she had never really known a man in her life, and here she -was, picnicing with one her parents had never seen! Nigel was in exactly -the opposite position—he was adventuring into law and respectability. -He was with a girl, a school-girl, of the upper middle classes, to whom -he was simply a rather poverty-stricken country gentleman—to whom his -disgrace was unknown, who admitted him to her society on equal terms, -ignorant of the barriers that divided them. He looked down at her as she -walked by his side, her soft hair freckled with light, her eyes bright -with her thrills—and a faint glow came into his cheeks, a faint flutter -to his pulses, nothing fierce or mighty, but a great quiet surge that -seemed to pass over him like the sea, and leave him stranded in -simplicity.</p> - -<p>They walked down the steep lane which led from the road, and wound for -some yards at the back of Brasses Wood. Here in a hollow stood the shell -of a ruined manor, flanked by a moat. Two ivy-smothered towers rose side -by side, crowned by strange, pointed caps of stone; the walls were -lumped with ivy, grown to an enormous density and stoutness. The place -looked deserted. There was a small water-mill behind it, and a farm, but -no one was about.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p><p>Nigel wheeled Tony's bicycle in at the dismantled door. The roof was -gone, and all the upper floors—the sky looked down freely at the grass -hillocks which filled the inside of the ruins. There were one or two -small rooms still partly ceiled, and these were full of farm implements -and mangolds.</p> - -<p>A tremulous peace brooded over Brambletye. Birds twittered in the ivy, -the tall, capped turrets were outlined against a sky that flushed -faintly in the heart of its grey, as the sunset crept up it from the -hills. Both Nigel and Tony were silent for a moment, standing there in -the peace.</p> - -<p>"Fancy my never having been here before," said the girl at last. "How -ripping it is!"</p> - -<p>"I'm glad I brought you."</p> - -<p>"It's strange," continued Tony, as she unfastened the cakes from her -bicycle, "that I haven't seen you before—before I met you at East -Grinstead, I mean."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I've been away, I've not lived at home for some time. You haven't -been here long, have you?" He was anxious to shift the conversation from -dangerous ground.</p> - -<p>"We came to Shovelstrode about three years ago. Before that we lived -near Seaford. I go to school at Seaford, you know."</p> - -<p>School seemed a fairly safe topic.</p> - -<p>"Tell me about your school," he said, as they began to eat the cakes.</p> - -<p>School was Tony's paramount absorption, and no one else ever asked her -to speak of it. Indeed, on the rare occasions when she expanded of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> -own accord, her family would silence her with, "Tony, we're sick of that -eternal school of yours—one would think it was the whole world, and -your home just a corner of it." That was in fact the relative positions -of home and school in Tony's mind. School was a world of kindred -spirits, of things that mattered, home was a place of exile, to which -three times a year one was bundled—and ignored. To her delight she -realised that her new friend sympathised with her, and understood her -feelings.</p> - -<p>"You know, Mr. Smith, how beastly it is to be in a place where every one -gets hold of the wrong end of what you say—where you don't seem to fit -in, somehow."</p> - -<p>"I do know—it's—it's exactly the same with me."</p> - -<p>"Don't they like you being at home?"</p> - -<p>"Rather!—they like it better than I deserve. But I don't fit in."</p> - -<p>"And you've nowhere else to go?"</p> - -<p>"I don't want to go anywhere else."</p> - -<p>Tony looked mystified.</p> - -<p>His eyes were shining straight into hers, and they seemed to be asking -her something, pleading, beseeching. She found a strange feeling -invading her, a feeling that had sometimes surged up in her heart when -she saw a dying animal, or a bird fluttering against cage-bars. But this -time there was a new intensity in it, and a stifling sense of pain. She -suddenly put out her hand and laid it on his—then drew it shyly away.</p> - -<p>The sky had flushed to a fiery purple behind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> the turrets of Brambletye. -A mysterious glow trembled on the ivy. The birds were twittering -restlessly, and every now and then a robin uttered his harsh signal -note. Nigel rose to his feet.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't be late home, or your parents will get anxious."</p> - -<p>"We've had such a ripping picnic—better than if I'd gone to Fairwarp."</p> - -<p>"I've been dull company for you, I'm afraid."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no—indeed not! I've so enjoyed talking to you about school."</p> - -<p>Nigel smiled at her.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps we can meet and talk about school another day."</p> - -<p>"Yes—I expect we can. I'm generally alone, you see."</p> - -<p>"Haven't you any friends?"</p> - -<p>"I've heaps at school—but they all seem so far away."</p> - -<p>He was wheeling her bicycle up the lane, and the sun, struggling through -the clouds at last, flung long shadows before them. In summer the lanes -are often ugly, white and bare, but in autumn they share the beauty of -the fields. This lane, delicately slimed with Sussex mud, wound a soft -gleaming brown between the hedges, except where the rain-filled ruts -were crimson with the sky.</p> - -<p>"It's only four miles to Shovelstrode," said Nigel. "I'll wheel your -bicycle to Wilderwick corner—you won't mind going the rest of the way -alone, will you?—it's not more than a hundred yards, and I shall have -to go down Wilderwick<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> hill and make a bolt across country if I'm to be -home in time."</p> - -<p>"I hope I haven't kept you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no—I've enjoyed every moment of it."</p> - -<p>"So have I. That man Furlonger did me a good turn after all."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.</p> - -<p>"Well, if it hadn't been for him, I'd never have met you."</p> - -<p>"Furlonger...."</p> - -<p>"Yes—he was the man who was bothering me at East Grinstead Station, at -least my people say it must have been. He came out of prison that day, -you know."</p> - -<p>"Oh...."</p> - -<p>"Have you heard of him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I—I know him slightly."</p> - -<p>"He's a dreadful man, isn't he?"</p> - -<p>Nigel licked his lips.</p> - -<p>"Yes—he's a rotter. But he—he has his good points—all men have."</p> - -<p>"I don't see how a man like Furlonger can. He seems bad all around. I -wonder you care to know him."</p> - -<p>"I don't care—I can't help it."</p> - -<p>"I suppose you knew him before he went to gaol."</p> - -<p>"Yes—and unluckily I can't drop him now."</p> - -<p>"I should."</p> - -<p>Nigel stared at her, and suddenly felt angry.</p> - -<p>"Why, you hard-hearted little girl?"</p> - -<p>"He's bad all through—father says so."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p><p>"Your father doesn't know him. I do, and I say he has his good points."</p> - -<p>"Are you very fond of him?"</p> - -<p>"No—I'm not."</p> - -<p>"Then why do you stick up for him so? You're quite angry."</p> - -<p>"No—no, I'm not angry. But I hate to hear you speaking so harshly -and—ignorantly."</p> - -<p>"I have my ideals," said Tony, with a primitive attempt at loftiness. "A -woman should have clearly defined ideals on morals and things."</p> - -<p>Nigel could not suppress a smile.</p> - -<p>"Certainly—but it's no good having ideals unless you're able to forgive -the people who don't come up to 'em. Perhaps it isn't their -fault—perhaps it's yours."</p> - -<p>"Mine! What are you talking about? Are you trying to make out that I'm -to blame for a man like Furlonger going to gaol?"</p> - -<p>"No—of course not. But suppose that man Furlonger stood before you now, -and asked you to help him, and be his friend, and give him a hand out of -the mud—what would you do?"</p> - -<p>She was a little taken aback by his eagerness. She hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>"I'd tell him to go to a clergyman——"</p> - -<p>"Oh!" said Nigel blankly.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IX</span> <span class="smaller">SOME PEOPLE ARE HAPPY—IN DIFFERENT WAYS</span></h2> - -<p>Tony Strife reached Shovelstrode in a state of reckless and sublime -uncertainty. She was quite uncertain as to whether she meant to confess -or not. Precedent urged her to do so. Whenever she did something of -which she was not sure her parents would approve, it was part of her -code to confess it. Quite possibly her people would not blame her, they -might even be grateful to Mr. Smith, as they had been on a former -occasion. On the other hand, they might shake their heads at the picnic -part of the business. Who was Mr. Smith, that he should go picnicing -with their daughter?—and she would not be so confident in answering as -she had been before.</p> - -<p>During their short interview on East Grinstead platform it had not been -possible to take more than a superficial view of him, either with eyes -or mind; but the close contemplation at Brambletye had impressed her -with the conviction that he was "rather queer." He evidently did not -belong to their set; not because he was poor—they knew several people -who were poor—but because of a certain alien quality she could not -define. It was not, either, because he was not a "gentleman," though she -had her occasional doubts of that, alternating with savage contempt for -them. It was because his manner, his look, his behaviour, had all been -utterly different from what she was used<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> to, or had met at -Shovelstrode. She felt that if her parents were to question her -searchingly, her answers would be unsatisfactory, and she would not be -allowed to meet him again, as he had suggested. And she wanted to meet -him again; he had interested her, he had attracted her by that very -"queerness" with which he had occasionally repelled her. She wanted to -tell him more about her school, to have more of his strange confidences, -hear more from him about Furlonger, see again that hunted look in his -eyes. Only one of her memories of him was tender—that was when his -infinite suffering had called to her out of his eyes, and she had -answered it in a sudden new and divine surge of pain. She caught her -breath sharply as she went into the house.</p> - -<p>Yes—she had decided at last—she would keep her secret—her first of -any importance. She would not risk interference with what looked like a -glowing adventure kindled to brighten her exile. Besides, there was -another consideration. If Awdrey were to hear of it, she would at once -begin to weave one of her silly romances—make out Mr. Smith was in -love. Ugh! Tony's shoulders shrugged high in disdain.</p> - -<p>It would be quite easy to give an account of her afternoon which did not -include her adventure. She would tell how her tyre had punctured, how -she had tried in vain to mend it, and had at last come home on foot. Her -concealment did not afflict her, as she had at first imagined. On the -contrary, it gave her a strange, new feeling of importance and -independence. For the first time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> a certain warmth and colour crept into -her thoughts, a certain pride invaded the shy dignity of her step.</p> - -<p>That night she dreamed that she had gone to meet Mr. Smith at -Brambletye. She saw the two capped turrets against a background of -shimmering light. Mr. Smith took her hand and looked into her eyes in -that strange, troubled way which called up as before an answering pain. -He said something she could not remember when she woke. Then suddenly a -dark shape seemed to rush between them and whirl them apart. She cried -out, and Mr. Smith seemed to be answering her from a great distance: -"Don't be frightened—it's only Furlonger—it's only Furlonger." But the -fear grew upon her, the darkness wrapt her round, and, struggling in the -darkness, she awoke.</p> - -<p>All that day she wondered if she would meet him. She prowled round -Shovelstrode with her dog, ignoring an invitation from Awdrey to "come -for a stroll, and hear the latest about Captain le Bourbourg." She was -used to being alone during her holidays. It was her habit to walk with -Prince in the little twisting lanes round her home. She never went far, -but she used to spend long hours in the fields, gathering wild flowers -and leaves for her collection, or making Prince go racing in the grass. -A rather forlorn little figure, she had gone through the days -unconscious of her forlornness. But to-day she felt it—because she was -expecting some one who did not come. She did not meet him in any of -those thick-rutted lanes, nor in Swites<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> Wood, nor on the borders of -Holtye Common where she went for blackberries.</p> - -<p>She began to wonder if he would ever come, or if her glimpse of a world -beyond the strait boundaries of her life had been but a flash—a sudden -haze of gold in the ruins of Brambletye. She felt her loneliness, the -blank of having no one to speak to about school, the strange tickling -interest of confidences outside her experience. That night as she knelt -by the bed and watched the moon behind the pines, she added to her -prayers a stiff petition that she might "meet Mr. Smith again."</p> - -<p>Tony's belief in prayer was quite mechanical, and when the next day she -saw her shabby friend on a stile at the top of Wilderwick hill, she in -no wise connected the sight with those few uncomfortable moments on her -knees.</p> - -<p>"Good morning," she said simply; "I'm so glad to see you."</p> - -<p>Nigel smiled at her. At first she had wondered a little whether she -liked his smile—to-day she definitely decided that she did.</p> - -<p>"I hoped we'd meet again," he said.</p> - -<p>"So did I," answered the virginal candour of sixteen.</p> - -<p>"You don't think me queer, then?"</p> - -<p>"Ye-es. But I like it."</p> - -<p>"Could we be friends?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—rather!"</p> - -<p>He held out his hand. He was smiling—but suddenly as her hand took his, -she saw the old wretched look creep into his eyes, together with -something else that puzzled her. Were those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> tears? Did men ever cry? -She found herself feeling frightened and vexed.</p> - -<p>Nigel crimsoned with shame, and the fire of his anger licked up the -tears of his weakness. The next moment he was looking at her with dry -eyes—and, strange to say, from that day his childish fits of weeping -troubled him less.</p> - -<p>He and Tony turned almost mechanically down the narrow grass lane -leading past Old Surrey Hall to the woods of Cowsanish. They did not -speak much at first—indeed, a kind of restraint seemed established -between them. Nigel wondered more than ever what had made him seek her -out—this naïve, shy, rather limited little girl. All yesterday he had -been struggling with a desperate need of her. He could not understand -why he wanted her so; she was not nearly as sympathetic as Len and -Janey, she was not so interesting, even, and yet he wanted her.</p> - -<p>At first he had thought it was her ignorance of his past life which made -her presence such refreshment—the blessed fact that with her he had a -clean slate to write over. After all, though Len and Janey had forgiven, -they could not forget—for them his muddled sum was only crossed out, -not wiped clean. With Tony he could start afresh from the beginning, not -merely where his miserable blunder ended. And yet this was not all that -drew him to her. He felt deep down in his heart a subtler, more -compelling attraction. What brought him to Tony was a development of the -same feeling that had made him catch up the unlovely Ivy in his arms and -find her sweet. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> a fragment of that strange, new part of him, -which had been born in prison, and frightened Len and Janey—the child.</p> - -<p>He could not remember that before his dark years he had felt -particularly young for his age, or cared for young society; but now his -heart seemed full of irrepressible torrents of youth. He wanted to be -with boys and girls, to hear their shouts, to share their laughter, to -join in their games—not as a "grown-up," but as one of themselves. Why -did every one expect him to have grown old in prison? Sorrow does not -always make old, it often makes young. It sends a man back pleading to -the forgotten days of his youth, struggling to recapture them once more, -and bring their carelessness into his awful care.</p> - -<p>To-day he lost his troubles in finding grasses and leaves for Tony's -collection. After a time her constraint wore off. She chattered to him -about school friends, lessons and games, daring adventures and desperate -scrapes. That day he found such a mood more sweet to him than any -glimpse of pity or understanding she could have shown. He might want her -compassion—the woman in her—sometimes, but only transiently; what he -wanted most was the child in her, for it answered the sorrow-born child -crying in the darkness of his heart.</p> - -<p>They scrambled in the hedges for bloody-twig and bryony, they gathered -the yellowing hazel, and bunches of strange pods. Nigel was able to tell -her the names of many plants and bushes she had not known before—he was -wonderfully <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>enthusiastic, and loved to hear about the botany walks at -school, and the other collections she had made, which had sometimes won -prizes.</p> - -<p>It was past noon when they turned home. The distances were dim, hazed -with mist and sunshine. A faint wind was stirring in the trees, and now -and then a shower of golden leaves swept into the lane, whirled round, -then fluttered slowly to the grass. Some rain had fallen early in the -morning, and the hedges were still wet, sending up sweet steams of -perfume to the cloud-latticed sky.</p> - -<p>Nigel spoke suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Do your parents know about me?"</p> - -<p>"They know about East Grinstead, but not about Brambletye."</p> - -<p>"Shall you tell them?"</p> - -<p>"No—I don't think I shall. I—I'm not at all sure what they'd say if -they knew all the facts."</p> - -<p>"Nor am I," said Nigel grimly.</p> - -<p>"Besides, I hate telling people about things I really enjoy—it spoils -it all, somehow. You don't think it's wrong, do you?"</p> - -<p>"No—why should it be?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know—only whenever a thing's absolutely heavenly, one can't -help thinking there's something wrong about it."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't see why there should be anything wrong about this. I'm -lonely, and so are you—why shouldn't we be friends?"</p> - -<p>"I've never done anything like it before. It's funny that father and -mother are so awfully particular, for they don't bother about me much -in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> other ways. I'm nearly always alone when I'm at Shovelstrode. -Father's busy, and mother's not strong, and Awdrey has so many people to -go about with."</p> - -<p>"And when you come back from a long walk, no one asks you where you've -been, or whom you've met?"</p> - -<p>"I'm not supposed to go for long walks by myself—only to potter round -the estate—and no one ever asks me any questions."</p> - -<p>Her voice was rather pathetic—in contrast to her proud assurance when -she talked about school.</p> - -<p>"We'll meet again," he said impulsively.</p> - -<p>"I hope so—I hope so awfully. To-morrow I've got to go over to -Haxsmiths in the car with Awdrey, but I've nothing else all the rest of -this week. I wanted father to take me to Lingfield races on Saturday, -but he can't."</p> - -<p>"Do you like race-meetings?"</p> - -<p>"I've never been to one in my life. I wanted so much to go this -time—I'm generally at school, you know, and it seemed such a good -chance; but father has to be in Lewes, and Awdrey's spending the -week-end in Brighton—besides, I couldn't go with her alone, one wants a -man."</p> - -<p>"I'll take you if you like."</p> - -<p>"You! Oh!"</p> - -<p>"Shouldn't you like it?"</p> - -<p>"I should love it—but if any one saw us ... father would be furious."</p> - -<p>"No one shall see us—we won't go into any of the enclosures and risk -meeting your friends. Do let me take you."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p><p>Tony flushed with pleasure and fright. This was adventure indeed.</p> - -<p>"I'd love to go. Oh, how ripping!"</p> - -<p class="space-above">When Nigel reached home that morning he went straight to find Janey. -There was something vital between him and his sister—each brought the -other the first-fruits of emotion. Janet might find Leonard a tenderer -comforter, more thoughtful, more demonstrative, but there was not -between them that affinity of sorrow there was between her and Nigel. -Not that she ever told him, even hinted, why she suffered, but the mere -glance of his eyes, so childish yet so troubled, the mere touch of those -hands coarsened and spoiled by the toil of his humiliation, was more -comfort to her than Len's caresses or tender words. Nigel could repeat -the magic formula of sympathy—"I too have known...."</p> - -<p>He felt, unconsciously, the same towards her. But it was more happiness -than grief that he brought her. He had acquired the habit of eating his -heart out alone, but happiness was so new and strange that he hardly -knew what to do with it. So he ran with it to Janey, like a child to his -mother with something he does not quite understand.</p> - -<p>To-day he found her in the kitchen, sitting by the fire, and watching -some of her doubtful cookery. Her back was bent, and her arms rested -from the elbow on her lap, the long hands dropping over the knees. Her -face, thrust forward from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> gloom of her hair, wore a strange white -look of defiance, while her lips quivered with surrender.</p> - -<p>He sat down at her feet, and leaned his head against her lap. He vaguely -felt she was unhappy, but he did not try to comfort her, merely took one -of the long, hot hands in his. She did not speak, either—but her heart -kindled at his presence. She knew that he had been happier for the last -two days, though yesterday he had also seemed to have some anxiety, -fretting and questioning. His happiness meant much to her. All her -happiness now was vicarious—Quentin's, Leonard's or Nigel's. In her own -heart were only flashes and sparks of it, that scorched as well as -gladdened.</p> - -<p>Life was a perplexity—life was pulling her two ways. She seemed to be -hanging, a tortured, wind-swung thing, between earth and heaven, and she -could hardly tell which hurt her most—her sudden falls down or her -sudden snatchings up. Earth and heaven, brute and god, were always -meeting now, clashing like two ill-tuned cymbals.</p> - -<p>Her shame was that her love and Quentin's had not been strong enough to -wait. She had looked upon it as an exalted spiritual passion, and it had -suddenly shown itself impatient and bodily. It had fallen to the level -of a thousand other loves. Sometimes she almost wished that it had been -a more despised lover who had won her surrender—better fall from the -trees than from the stars.</p> - -<p>Moreover, her sacrifice had not won her what she was seeking, but -something inferior and makeshift. What she had dreamed of as the crown -of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> love had been a life of kingly, fearless association, the -sanctification of every day, an undying Together. That was still far -away. Borne on an undercurrent she had till then hardly suspected, she -and Quentin had been washed into the backwaters of their dream. She had -only one comfort, and that was paradoxically at times the chief of her -regrets—Quentin was happy. Unlike her, he seemed to have found all he -had been seeking. She was still unsatisfied, her heart still yearned -after higher, sweeter things, but again and again he told her he had all -his desire.</p> - -<p>"I am in Paradise—Janey, my own Janey. We climbed over the gates, and -we are there—together in the garden"—and his lips would burn against -hers, and even the tears brim from his fiery, sunken eyes.</p> - -<p>She never let him think she was not happy. She meekly and bravely -accepted the vocation of her womanhood—if he was happy, all her wishes, -except certain secret personal ones, were gratified. For his sake she -put aside her dreams, and fixed her thoughts on what was, forgetting -what might have been. She broke her heart like a box of spikenard, that -she might anoint him king.</p> - -<p>A shudder passed through Janey, and Nigel's head stirred on her knee. He -lifted it, and looked into her eyes—then he drew down her face to his -and kissed it.</p> - -<p>"You're tired, my Janey."</p> - -<p>His voice thrilled with a tenderness that carried her back to the days -before he went to prison.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p><p>"No, dear, not tired—but I've a bit of a headache."</p> - -<p>"I'm so sorry. Oughtn't you to lie down?"</p> - -<p>"No—it will go."</p> - -<p>"Poor old sister!"</p> - -<p>He put up his hand and laid it gently on her forehead. Then suddenly he -hid his face.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Janey, I'm so happy!"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER X</span> <span class="smaller">TONY BACKS AN OUTSIDER</span></h2> - -<p>November came in cloth of gold—a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere, -into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the -brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the -month—from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and -disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little -village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly -contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and -most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more -expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band -too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music.</p> - -<p>Nigel Furlonger met Tony Strife at the top of Wilderwick hill. He had -dressed himself with more care than usual—in the girl's interest he -must look respectable. Leonard and Janet had been immensely surprised -when he told them he meant to go to the races. The Furlonger -disreputableness owed some of its celebrity to the fact that it ran -along channels of its own, neglecting those approved by wealth and -fashion.</p> - -<p>"Feel you've got too much cash?" jeered Leonard.</p> - -<p>"I shan't do any betting to speak of."</p> - -<p>"Don't you!" said Janey; "we're stony enough as things are."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p><p>"But I'm not bound to lose—I may win, and retrieve the family -fortunes."</p> - -<p>"Look here, my boy," said Len, "you leave the family fortunes alone. -You've done too much in that line already."</p> - -<p>Nigel coloured furiously—but the next moment his anger cooled; he had -been wonderfully gentler during the last few days. He turned, and -emptied his pockets on the table.</p> - -<p>"There—take it all—except five bob for luck—and a half-crown for——" -He was going to have said "the little girl's tea," but stopped just in -time.</p> - -<p>He occasionally wondered why he did not tell Len and Janet about Tony. -But he felt doubtful as to what they might say. They would never -understand how he could find such a comradeship congenial. Tony was only -sixteen, and lived a very different life from his. They might laugh—no, -they would not do that; more likely they would be anxious and -compassionate, they would think it one of the unhealthy results of -prison, they would be sorry for him, and he could not bear that they -should be sorry for what brought him so much happiness. Besides, he had -a natural habit of reserve—even before he went to prison he had kept -secrets from Len and Janey.</p> - -<p>Tony was waiting for him when he reached their meeting-place. She wore a -plain dark coat and skirt, but she had put on a wide hat, with a wreath -of crimson leaves round it, and instead of plaiting her hair, she let it -stream over her shoulders, thick and sleek, without a curl. In her hand -she clutched a little purse.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p><p>"I'm going to bet on a horse," she said in an awe-struck voice.</p> - -<p>"Which horse?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I'll see when I get there."</p> - -<p>"I'll try and find something pretty safe for you, and I'll have my money -on it too."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it exciting!" whispered Tony. "What should I do if I met Mrs. -Arkwright or any of the mistresses!"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Arkwright and the mistresses were not the people Furlonger dreaded -to meet.</p> - -<p>He and Tony swung gaily along the cinder-track leading to the course. It -was deserted, except for a little knot at the starting gate. The girl -shrank rather close to him as they came into the crowd. The shouting -made her nervous and flustered—that people should make such a noise -over a shady thing like betting seemed to her extraordinary. She touched -Nigel's elbow, and showed him her purse, now open, and containing -half-a-crown.</p> - -<p>"Which is the best horse?"</p> - -<p>"I wish I knew."</p> - -<p>"May I look at the card?"</p> - -<p>He gave it to her. She seemed puzzled.</p> - -<p>"How can I tell which horse to bet on?"</p> - -<p>A man beside them laughed, and Nigel flushed indignantly.</p> - -<p>"You can't tell much by the card; I'll go over to the ring in a moment, -and find out what the odds are. But as you don't want to put on more -than half-a-crown, I'd keep it till the big race, if I were you."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p><p>"Which is the big race?"</p> - -<p>"The Lingfield Cup. It's the last—but we'll enjoy the others, even -though we've got nothing on 'em."</p> - -<p>They enjoyed them thoroughly. Hanging over the rail, their shouts were -just as noisy and as desperate as if they had all their possessions at -stake. Tony was thrilled to the depths—the clamour and excitement in -the betting ring, the odd, disreputable people all round her, -surreptitiously exchanging shillings and horses' names—the clanging -bell, the shout of "They're off!" the flash of opera-glasses, the mad -rush by, the cheers for the winner ... all plunged her into an orgy of -excitement. She felt subtly wicked and daring, and also, when Nigel -began to explain the technicalities of racing, infinitely worldly-wise. -What would the girls at school say when they found out she knew the -meaning of "Ten to one, bar one," or "Money on both ways"? She wrote -such phrases down in her "nature note-book," which she carried about -with her to record botanical discoveries, birds seen, sunsets, and -equally blameless doings.</p> - -<p>At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony's hands began to -quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of -that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the -game—and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a -fortnight's pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p><p>"We'll see 'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a -calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse -canters up."</p> - -<p>They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight -of colours coming from the paddock.</p> - -<p>"Here they are—oh, what a beautiful horse!"</p> - -<p>"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won't put our money on him."</p> - -<p>"What about that bay—the one coming now?"</p> - -<p>"He's a good 'un, I should say. That's Milk-O, the favourite."</p> - -<p>"Let's back him."</p> - -<p>"Wait, here's another. That's Midsummer Moon, the betting's 100 to 1 -against him."</p> - -<p>"What does that mean?"</p> - -<p>"It means that he's a rank outsider."</p> - -<p>"Then we mustn't put our money on him."</p> - -<p>"I've known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their -backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins -we're only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for -us, why, we get over twelve pounds."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"—that would -mean all sorts of splendours—a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty -instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for -a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of -the <i>Idylls of the King</i>, which she had seen in Gladys Gates' home and -admired so much;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> and directly she went back to school she could give a -gorgeous midnight feast—a feast of the superior order, with lemonade -and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate -only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops -dissolved in the water-jug.</p> - -<p>Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face.</p> - -<p>"Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course -you're more likely to lose, but if you win, you'll make a good thing out -of it."</p> - -<p>"Do you think he'll win?"</p> - -<p>"I can't say—but it's a sporting chance."</p> - -<p>"I think it's worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice.</p> - -<p>He looked at her intently.</p> - -<p>"I always like to see any one ready to back an outsider."</p> - -<p>"Don't people generally?"</p> - -<p>"No—and nor will you, perhaps, when you're older."</p> - -<p>She gave him her half-crown, and he disappeared with it into the crowd, -having first carefully put her next a group of respectable farmers' -wives. In some ways, thought Tony, he was just as particular as father. -She wished he would let her go with him into the ring.</p> - -<p>He came back in a few moments. Then suddenly the bell clanged.</p> - -<p>"They're off!"</p> - -<p>Silence dropped on the babel almost <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>disconcertingly. Opera-glasses -flashed towards the start, rows of heads and bodies hung over the rail, -Tony's breath came in short gasps, so did Nigel's—he was desperately -anxious for that outsider to win. As they had no glasses they could not -see which colours led at the bend, but as the horses swung into the -straight, there were shouts of "Milk-O!—Milk-O!"</p> - -<p>"Damn the brute!" said Nigel, which gave Tony another thrill of new -experience. She had actually spent the afternoon with a man who swore!</p> - -<p>"Milk-O!—Milk-O!"</p> - -<p>"Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of -"Spreadeagle!"</p> - -<p>"Milk-O!"—"Spreadeagle!"—the yells were deafening—then suddenly -changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by -the post.</p> - -<p>"And—where's Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as the field clattered -in.</p> - -<p>"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in -from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on -ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East -Grinstead.</p> - -<p>"Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money."</p> - -<p>"Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable.</p> - -<p>Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> fault—if it hadn't been -for me you'd have backed the favourite."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit."</p> - -<p>"But I'm so sorry—I feel a beast."</p> - -<p>"Please don't. I've enjoyed myself awfully, and it's made the race ever -so much more exciting, having some money on it."</p> - -<p>"All right!" had been sung out from the weighing-ground, and the crowd -was either pressing round the bookies, or dispersing along the course.</p> - -<p>"We'd better go, I think," said Nigel, "you mustn't be late home."</p> - -<p>"It's been perfectly ripping," and Tony suddenly slipped her warm gloved -hand into his. "It was so kind of you to take me."</p> - -<p>"But I made you back an outsider."</p> - -<p>"Oh, never mind about it—please don't."</p> - -<p>She gave his hand a little squeeze as she spoke, and suddenly, over him -once again passed that thrill of great simplicity which he had -experienced first at Brambletye. He became dumb—quite dumb and simple, -with infinite rest in his heart.</p> - -<p>They turned to leave, jostling their way through the crowd towards the -cinder-track. Soon the clamour and scramble were far behind, and they -found the little footpath that ran through the fields near Goatsluck -Farm.</p> - -<p>"Which way are we going home?" asked Tony.</p> - -<p>"We'll have tea before we go home. Will you come with me and have tea in -a cottage?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, how ripping!..."</p> - -<p>Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close -at hand—one of those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> dwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam -like eyes under the steep roof.</p> - -<p>"Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden."</p> - -<p>The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and -pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now -bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp -sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very -plain meal—only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and -butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony -spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that -broke them.</p> - -<p>The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one -or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and -fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her -eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that -they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something -especially important to say to each other....</p> - -<p>The wind dropped suddenly, and the fogs swept up and veiled the stars. -The crimson deepened to purple in the west.</p> - -<p>"Are you cold?" asked Furlonger awkwardly, and drew back.</p> - -<p>"No, thank you," said Tony, and leaned back too.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later they rose to go. It was half-past five, and strange -shadows were in the lanes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> where the ruts and puddles gleamed. An owl -called from Ashplats Wood. The November dusk had suddenly become chill. -Nigel slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it round Tony.</p> - -<p>"I don't want it," he insisted. "Oh, what a funny little thing you -look!"</p> - -<p>"It comes down right over my heels—it's ripping and warm."</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence for about a quarter of a mile. Then the -distant throbbing of a car troubled the evening. It drew nearer, and -they stood aside to let it pass them in the narrow lane.</p> - -<p>But instead of passing, it pulled up suddenly, and out jumped Sir -Gambier Strife.</p> - -<p>Their surprise and dismay were so great that for a time they could not -use their tongues. Sir Gambier stood before them, his face flushed, his -mouth a little open, while the dusk and the arc-lights of the huge motor -had games with his figure, making it seem monstrous and misshapen.</p> - -<p>"Father——" began Tony, and then stopped. She was really the least -disconcerted of the three, for she had only Mr. Smith to deal -with—surely the presence of such a knight could easily be explained and -forgiven. But the other two had to face the complication of Furlonger.</p> - -<p>"What the——" broke from Strife, after the time-honoured formula of the -man who wants to swear, but objects on principle to swearing before -women.</p> - -<p>The colour mounted on Nigel's face, from his neck to his cheeks, from -his cheeks to his forehead—and gradually his head drooped.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p><p>Tony turned to him with sublime assurance.</p> - -<p>"Father, let me introduce Mr. Smith."</p> - -<p>"Smith!"</p> - -<p>Nigel opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck to his tongue.</p> - -<p>"You know about Mr. Smith," continued Tony, "how helpful he was at East -Grinstead——"</p> - -<p>"He told you his name was Smith, did he?"</p> - -<p>"Of course. I know him quite well now—he lives at Fan's Court, near -Blindley Heath, and...." Tony's voice trailed off. She wondered why Mr. -Smith did not speak for himself.</p> - -<p>"You damn liar!" roared Strife, swinging round on Nigel.</p> - -<p>"Father!"</p> - -<p>"Sir Gambier, let me explain...."</p> - -<p>"I won't hear a word. Explanation, indeed! What explanation can there -be?—you victimiser of innocent little girls!—Antoinette, get into the -car at once, and come home. Then we'll hear all the lies this -Furlonger's been cramming you with."</p> - -<p>"Furlonger...."</p> - -<p>The word came in a long gasp.</p> - -<p>"Yes—Furlonger. That's his name. 'Smith,' indeed!"</p> - -<p>"Father, he isn't Furlonger. Furlonger was quite different, short and -dark and dirty-looking."</p> - -<p>"I tell you this is Furlonger—and he's quite dirty-looking enough for -me. Come along, Antoinette, I won't have you standing here."</p> - -<p>"But you aren't Furlonger—are you, Mr. Smith?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p><p>Her voice rang with entreaty and the first horror of doubt. Nigel -turned his eyes to hers and tried to plead with them; but they were not -understanding—he saw he had only the clumsy weapon of his tongue to -fight with.</p> - -<p>"I am Furlonger," he said in a low voice.</p> - -<p>There was a brief, electric pause. Tony had grown very white.</p> - -<p>"Then who was that other man?—Why did you tell me your name was Smith?"</p> - -<p>"I've no idea who the other fellow was, and I gave my name as Smith -because I felt sure you'd have heard of Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"But why—why——"</p> - -<p>"Come along, miss," interrupted Sir Gambier. "I won't have you talking -to this scoundrel."</p> - -<p>"But I want to know why he told me all those lies."</p> - -<p>Her face had grown hard as well as white.</p> - -<p>"He had very good reasons, I'm sure," sneered Strife.</p> - -<p>Nigel suddenly found his tongue.</p> - -<p>"Tony!" he cried, "Tony!"</p> - -<p>"What damned impudence is this?—'Tony' indeed! You'll not dare address -my daughter by that name, sir."</p> - -<p>"Tony," repeated Nigel, too desperate to realise what he was calling -her. "I swear I never meant you any harm. I know it looks like it—but -you mustn't think so. I wanted to be your friend because—because you -didn't know of my disgrace, you treated me like a human being. You -talked to me about simple things—you made me feel good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> and clean when -I was with you. That's why I 'told you all these lies.'"</p> - -<p>The girl began to tremble. Sir Gambier laughed.</p> - -<p>"Tony—don't forsake me."</p> - -<p>"Hold your tongue, sir," thundered Strife. "I won't have any more of -this. Get into the car, Antoinette."</p> - -<p>He touched her arm, and for the first time she responded. She turned and -climbed into the car, still trembling, her head bowed, tears on her -cheek.</p> - -<p>Nigel sprang on to the step.</p> - -<p>"Tony—can't you forgive me? I didn't deceive you from any wrong motive. -Why do you look like that? Is it because I've been in prison?—I—I -suffered there...."</p> - -<p>"Oh don't!" gasped the girl, "don't speak to me—I can't bear it. I—I'm -so dreadfully—disappointed."</p> - -<p>His eyes searched her face for some pity or understanding. Instead he -saw only horror, pain, and something akin to fright.</p> - -<p>"Don't!" she repeated.</p> - -<p>Then he suddenly realised that she was too young to understand.</p> - -<p>He fell back from the step, and covered his eyes.</p> - -<p>Sir Gambier sprang into the driver's seat. Tony did not speak again. Her -father took the steering-wheel, and the car throbbed away into the dusk. -She made no protest, and only once looked back—at the man who still -stood in the middle of the lane, with his hands over his eyes.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XI</span> <span class="smaller">DISILLUSION AT SIXTEEN</span></h2> - -<p>Rather to Tony's surprise, she and her father drove in silence. As a -matter of fact, Sir Gambier was baffled by his younger daughter. Awdrey -he could have dealt with easily enough—he was used to Awdrey's scrapes. -But Tony had always been more or less impersonal—a vague some one for -whom one paid school-bills, who came home for the holidays, made herself -pretty scarce, and then went back to school again, to write prim letters -home every Sunday. It was a new idea that this half-realised being -should suddenly show herself possessed of a personality in the form of a -scrape—and such a scrape too! Furlonger! He grunted with fury, but—as -would never have been the case if he had had Awdrey to deal with—he -said nothing.</p> - -<p>Once, however, he looked sideways, and noticed how Tony was sitting. Her -back was bent, and her arms rested on her knees, the hands clenched -between them; her chin was a little thrust forward into the darkness -through which they rushed.</p> - -<p>At last they reached Shovelstrode. The moon was high above the pines, -and they seemed to be waving in waters of silver. The house-front -shimmered in the white light, as the motor pulsed up to it. Tony climbed -down, and stood stiffly on the step.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p><p>"You'd better go to your room," said Sir Gambier in muddled rage. "I—I -expect your mother will want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"Very well," said Tony.</p> - -<p>She walked quickly upstairs, went into her room, and sat down on the -bed. A square of moonlight lay on the floor, and the moving shadows -curtsied across it. They and the pines outside seemed to be nodding to -her grotesquely under the moon—they seemed to be mocking her for her -great illusion lost.</p> - -<p>"Furlonger...." she repeated to herself. "Furlonger...."</p> - -<p>A sick quake of rage was in her heart. Her feelings were still confused, -but definite grievances stood out of the jumble. This man whom she had -thought so much of—in school-girl language "had a rave on"—had -deceived her, told her lies, acted them, and won by them ... well, the -horrible thing was that she did not really know how much or how little -he had won.</p> - -<p>But worse still was the realisation that he had made her do -unconsciously something she thought wrong. Like most girls of her age -she had a cast-iron code of morals. When a school-girl sets out to be -moral, there is no professor of ethics or minister of religion that can -touch her—her morality has behind it all the enormous force of -inexperience, it can neither stretch nor bend, and it breaks only at the -risk of her whole spiritual life.</p> - -<p>She was horrified to think she had given her friendship to a scoundrel, -even though she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> done it ignorantly. It was like befriending a girl -who cheated or told tales. For her his crime had no attraction or -interest—it was just a hideous blot and defilement. She had often heard -the Wickham Rubber scandal discussed, and now store-housed memories came -to appal her. Hundreds of people, most of them already poor, had been -ruined and plunged into misery—widows with growing families, elderly -spinsters with hard-gathered savings, poor old men with the terror of -the workhouse closing on them with age, had trusted this Furlonger once -and execrated him now. He was like that dreadful man in the Psalms, who -laid wait to murder the innocent—"he doth ravish the poor when he -getteth him into his den." And she had allowed this man to be her -friend, she had confided her secrets to him, she had dreamed of him and -prayed to meet him.... Tony's teeth and hands clenched, and her eyes -grew miserable and hard.</p> - -<p>Then she began to wonder what had made Furlonger want her friendship. -What had he and she in common? Somehow she could not for a moment -believe that he had sought her out from unworthy motives. The fact would -always remain that he had wanted her friendship, that he had not given -her a word which was not kind or courteous, that he had come to her -rescue in her hour of need ... the tears rushed to her eyes; that was -the bitterest part of all—her memories of his kindliness and -knight-errantry—pictures of East Grinstead, Swites Wood, Brambletye, -Lingfield Park, and that little old cottage by Goatsluck Farm. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>Suddenly -she found herself making up her mind not to join her father and mother -in condemning him. She would take his part in the scene which she knew -was at hand.</p> - -<p>She soon heard her father calling her, and went down. He pointed into -her mother's boudoir, a small room with French windows opening on the -lawn. It was full of vague furniture and vague mixed colours, and it -seemed to Tony as if she were swimming through it up to the couch where -her mother lay. It never struck her as strange that her father should -seem unable to deal with her himself, but should hand her over to this -weak invalid, who lay with closed eyes in the lamplight.</p> - -<p>"Now, I don't want a scene," she said, without opening them.</p> - -<p>"Tony won't make a scene," said Sir Gambier; "she's a deep one."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Antoinette," sighed Lady Strife—"I never was so surprised in my -life as when I heard of your deceit."</p> - -<p>"My deceit!" said Tony quickly.</p> - -<p>"Yes—going about with a man like Furlonger, and hiding it from your -father and mother—don't you call that deceit?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't know he was Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"But you knew it was wrong to have a secret friendship with any man -whatsoever. I never heard of such a thing in a young girl of your age -and position—it's what housemaids do, and not nice housemaids at that."</p> - -<p>"Mother," cried Tony, her voice shaking unexpectedly, "it was an -adventure."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p><p>"A what!" shouted Sir Gambier.</p> - -<p>His wife winced.</p> - -<p>"Don't startle me, dear. And let the child say what she likes—I'm glad -she has a theory to explain her actions."</p> - -<p>Strife muttered something unintelligible, but made no more -interruptions.</p> - -<p>"Now tell me, Antoinette," said her mother, "exactly how long you have -known this man—and what have you and he been doing together?"</p> - -<p>"Mother, I can't explain. I know it sounds deceitful and caddish and all -that, but it—it wasn't. It was an adventure, just as I've said. I've -<i>done</i> something."</p> - -<p>The invalid smiled distantly.</p> - -<p>"When you are older you will realise the superiority of thought to -action. The soul is built of thoughts—actions harden and coarsen it. -But we won't discuss that now. Tell me how you and he got to know each -other."</p> - -<p>"He was the man who was so splendid at East Grinstead station. He told -me his name was Smith, because, of course, he didn't want me to know who -he really was. Then I met him one morning when I was giving Prince a run -in Swites Wood, and then another time when I'd punctured my bicycle, -and...."</p> - -<p>"Go on, Antoinette."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you'll never understand. But he was so different from any one else -I'd met. He spoke so differently—about such different things——"</p> - -<p>"I can imagine that."</p> - -<p>"But he wasn't horrid, mother—I swear he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> wasn't. He was very quiet, -and interesting, and rather unhappy—and I liked him—I liked him -awfully."</p> - -<p>Lady Strife did not speak, but her eyes were wide open. As for Sir -Gambier, an unheard-of thing happened—he became sarcastic.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you liked him, did you? Found him a nice-mannered young -fellow?—well-informed? I didn't know you were interested in the inner -life of his Majesty's prisons."</p> - -<p>"Father!" cried Tony sharply.</p> - -<p>"Now, listen to me, dear," said her mother; "you are very young, and -consequently very inexperienced. A grown-up person would at once have -realised that this man's friendship for you could not be disinterested."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that he's not the type of man who would naturally want to be the -friend of a young and innocent girl like you. He must have had some -ulterior motive in seeking your friendship. You have possibly seen no -signs of that so far, but it would have been plain enough later."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it."</p> - -<p>"Hush, dear. Your impertinence disconcerts me. I am trying to view the -matter from the standpoint of pure thought, and how am I to do that if -you keep on rudely interrupting me and dragging me down into the surge -of human annoyance? You must take it from those older and more -experienced than yourself that this man's motives in seeking your -friendship could not have been disinterested. Besides, even suppose for -the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> sake of argument that they were, don't you think you've been acting -most disloyally to your father and me in associating with a man you know -we disapprove of?"</p> - -<p>"Mother, I've told you I'd no idea who he really was. Why, I thought the -other man was Furlonger. Besides, I didn't know you disapproved of him. -When all the others were letting fly at him, you said something about -his having a beautiful soul and sinning more divinely than many people -pray."</p> - -<p>There is nothing more irritating to the Magus than to have his early -philosophies cast in his teeth by some one with a better memory than his -own. Lady Strife descended deep into the surge of human annoyance.</p> - -<p>"Really, Antoinette, you are a perfectly exasperating child. All this -comes from trying to treat you like a reasonable being. Your father said -that what you really need is a good thrashing, and I'm inclined to agree -with him now, though I insisted on having you in, and discussing things -with you from the standpoint of pure thought. I shan't waste any more -time on you—you can go back to your room, and stay there till your -father gets an answer to his telegram to your Aunt Margaret."</p> - -<p>"Aunt Maggie!"</p> - -<p>"Yes," cried Sir Gambier, "you're going to Southsea, to stay with your -Aunt Maggie till your confounded school re-opens or the crack of doom -falls—whichever happens first. You're too much trouble at home—going -about with a face like a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> plaster saint, while in reality you're -traipsing over the country with men."</p> - -<p>"Father, I wasn't traipsing. Oh, please don't send me to Aunt -Maggie's—I shall die." This was that terrible coercion from outside -which so effectually routs the forces of sixteen.</p> - -<p>"My dear little girl," said her mother, who had climbed back to her -standpoint of pure thought, "I know you will be reasonable now, and—I -think I may be quite sure of that too—grateful afterwards. Your father -and I are really doing you a great kindness in sending you to your -aunt's—here you would never be free from the persecutions of that -Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"Mother, it wasn't persecutions. I liked it."</p> - -<p>"Antoinette, I shall really begin to think you are utterly silly. To put -the matter on its lowest, most materialistic footing, don't you realise -that in associating with a man like that you are seriously damaging your -prospects?"</p> - -<p>"My prospects?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—your prospects of making a good marriage and doing credit to your -family. Come, don't stare at me so blankly. You must realise that you -are now approaching—if not actually arrived at—a marriageable age, and -that you must do nothing to damage——"</p> - -<p>"But, mother, I don't want ever to marry. Really, I don't want to talk -about such things. It makes me feel—oh, mother, don't you see it's bad -form?"</p> - -<p>"What!" shrieked her mother, with extraordinary lung-power for an -invalid.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p><p>"We think it bad form at school to talk about marriage."</p> - -<p>Her parents both stared at her blankly.</p> - -<p>"Well, you can just think it good form to talk about it now," said Sir -Gambier, feeling for some vague reason that he had said something rather -witty.</p> - -<p>"Your school must be an extraordinary place," said Lady Strife. "I shall -have to write to the principal—now, don't interrupt—I shall certainly -write; I won't have such ideas put into your head. You're quite old -enough to think seriously of marriage. Why, I'd already had two offers -at your age."</p> - -<p>Tony looked surprised. She was very fond of her mother, but always -wondered how she had ever managed to get married at all, and that she -should have had more than one chance seemed positively miraculous.</p> - -<p>Lady Strife saw the surprised look, and spoke more sharply.</p> - -<p>"Really, Antoinette, you're no more than a great baby. You need -education in the most ordinary matters. I'll write to your Aunt -Margaret, and ask her to get some eligible men to meet you. Now don't -<i>cry</i>."</p> - -<p>Tony was actually crying. She was generally as chary and ashamed of -tears as a boy.</p> - -<p>"I—I can't help it. Oh, mother, don't send me to Aunt Maggie's. Oh, -don't make her ask el-el-eligible m-men."</p> - -<p>"Don't be a blithering idiot!" shouted Sir <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>Gambier. "If you can't -control yourself, go upstairs and begin packing at once."</p> - -<p>Tony went out, crying into a handkerchief stained with blackberry juice. -Her demoralisation was complete.</p> - -<p>Awdrey, who had been lurking uneasily in the dining-room, came out as -the boudoir door opened and slammed, and for a moment stood horrified at -the sight of her sister.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, Tony! Whenever did I last see you cry? What's the matter, old -girl?"</p> - -<p>"M-Mother thinks I'm old enough to-to b-be married."</p> - -<p>"To whom?" shrieked Awdrey, all agog at once.</p> - -<p>"Nobody—only some el-eligible men at—at Aunt Maggie's."</p> - -<p>"What rot you're talking. Hasn't any one asked you?"</p> - -<p>"Of course not."</p> - -<p>"Then what on earth's all the row about? It's only natural mother should -want you to be married some day."</p> - -<p>"But—but I've sworn never to marry."</p> - -<p>"Ah," said Awdrey knowingly, as she tramped upstairs beside her sister; -then in a gentler voice, "Why can't you marry <i>him</i>?"</p> - -<p>"Who's 'him'?"</p> - -<p>"Why, the man who made you swear not to marry."</p> - -<p>"It wasn't a man—it was a g-girl," and Tony's tears burst out afresh, -as she remembered how she and Gladys Gates had sworn to each other never -to marry, but always to live together, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> had solemnly divided and -eaten a lump of sugar in ratification of the covenant.</p> - -<p>Awdrey was speechless with disgust, but she went with Tony into her -room, because she had not yet found out what she primarily wanted to -know.</p> - -<p>"You're an extraordinary kid, Tony—I really should call you only half -there. You kick up all this ridiculous fuss at the mere mention of -marriage, and yet you go about with a man like Furlonger. Oh yes, I know -all about it. Father was bawling loud enough for every one this side of -the Channel to hear."</p> - -<p>"But I tell you I didn't know he was Furlonger. Besides, he didn't want -me to marry him. He wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, I'm quite sure of that. But you don't tell me your relations -with him were entirely platonic."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do."</p> - -<p>"You mean to say he never even kissed you?"</p> - -<p>"Kissed me!—of course not!—how dare you, Awdrey!"</p> - -<p>"My dear child, you play the injured innocence game very well, but when -you make out you don't know what sort of man Furlonger is, you're -carrying it a bit too far."</p> - -<p>"Of course, I know he's been in prison," and Tony sobbed drily, "but as -for kissing me, I'm sure he's not as bad as that."</p> - -<p>"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Awdrey sharply.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p><p>Tony only sniffed in reply, and her sister's gaze wandered round the -windy, austere room, resting on the few photographs of school-girl -friends on the mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you're in earnest," she said, after a pause, "but really, -you're the weirdest thing, even in flappers, I've ever met. Perhaps in -time you'll realise that even such a heinous crime as a kiss is a degree -better than robbing a few score poor widows of their savings."</p> - -<p>Tony stopped crying suddenly, and a quiver passed through her. The -expression of her eyes changed.</p> - -<p>"Awdrey—I—I think I'd like to be—alone—to do my packing."</p> - -<p class="space-above">Half-an-hour later Tony's boxes were still empty, except for a -foundation layer of the school-girl photographs. The bed and chairs were -littered with underclothing, shoes, hats, books and frocks. Tony sat on -the floor, staring miserably in front of her with tear-blind eyes that -did not notice the surrounding confusion, so intent were they on the -litter of a broken dream. Her dream, once so joyful, fresh and -iridescent, was now a mere jumble of shards. She had defended Furlonger -against her parents and her sister, but it had been the last effort of -which her bleeding heart was capable. Her hero and his epic had now -broken up into a terrible shatter of disillusion, to which her mother -and Awdrey had added the most humiliating dust. She could not think -which was worse—the motives of self-interest attributed by the one, or -the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>love-motives attributed by the other. And though she denied both, -at the bottom of her heart was a far worse accusation. Her stainless -champion was a criminal, a false swearer, a defrauder of the helpless, a -devourer of widows' houses. He had not sinned against her in the way her -family imagined, but in a far more horrible, subtle way ... she -shuddered, sickened and shrank.</p> - -<p>All the same she was glad that when others accused him she had taken his part.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XII</span> <span class="smaller">CHILDREN DANCING IN THE DUSK</span></h2> - -<p>Nigel was late for supper that evening. He came in very quietly, and -slipped into his place without a word. He had very little to say about -the races.</p> - -<p>"Lost your money on Midsummer Moon?" said Leonard. "Well, you needn't -look so glum—it was only five bob."</p> - -<p>But Janey knew that was not the matter, though she knew nothing more. -After supper she put her arm through his, and drew him out into the -garden. They walked up and down in front of Sparrow Hall. At first she -had meant to ask him questions, but soon she realised that the questions -would not come—only a great stillness between her and Nigel, and a -fierce clutch of their hands. They walked up and down, up and down, -breathing the thick scents of the garden—touched with autumn -rottenness, sodden with rain and night. Gradually they pulled each other -closer, till she felt the throb of his heart under her hand....</p> - -<p>The next day Nigel worked hard with Len at weed-burning. It was strange -what a lot of weed-burning there was to do, thought he—not only at -Sparrow Hall, but at Wilderwick, and Swites Farm, and Golden Compasses, -and the Two-Mile Cottages, and all those places from which little curls -of blue, dream-scented smoke were drifting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> up against the sky. Men were -burning the tangles of their summer gardens, they were piling into the -flame those trailing sweets, now dead. For autumn was here, and winter -was at hand, and a few dead things that must be burnt were all that -remained of June.</p> - -<p>Nigel wondered if his June had not gone too, and if he had not better -burn at once those few sweet, dead, tangled thoughts it had left him. He -thought of the dim lane by Goatsluck Farm, with the glare of two motor -lights on the hedges. He saw the puddles gleam, and Tony erect in the -trickery of light and darkness, shapeless in his coat. Then across the -aching silence of his heart came her words—"I can't bear it!—I—I'm -so—disappointed."</p> - -<p>That was the end of June—and he ought to have expected it. His -friendship with Tony Strife could never have lasted in a neighbourhood -where both were known and talked about. It had ended a little suddenly, -that was all. He did not reproach himself for deceiving her; he did not -even regret it, though he guessed what she must think. The doorway of -the house of light had stood open, and he had crept in like a beggar, -knowing that he must soon be turned out, but resolute meanwhile to bask -and be glad.</p> - -<p>But he wished she had not been "disappointed," that was so pathetic. -Poor little girl! the memory of him would eat into her heart for a -while. Girls of her age were righteous, and he had cheated her into -friendship with unrighteousness. She would hate him for a bit. "I am so -disappointed"—it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> seemed as if all his seething desires for goodness -and peace had died into that little wail of outraged girlhood, and come -back to haunt the empty house of his heart.</p> - -<p>During the first few days of separation he childishly hoped that he -might hear from her—surely she would write if only to upbraid. But no -letter came. His coat was returned the next morning, but he searched the -parcel in vain for a message. How cruel of Tony!—and yet all children, -even girl-children, are cruel. Their experience of sorrow is limited to -its tempestuous side—they do not know its aching calms; they quench -their thirst with great gulps, and do not know the relief of small drops -of water. This was the price he had to pay for seeking his comfort in -the gaiety of boys and girls instead of in the more stable sympathy of -his contemporaries.</p> - -<p>The next two weeks were heartsick and lonely. All day long a piteous -consciousness of Tony was present in the background of his thoughts, -waiting till night to creep into the foreground of his dreams, and -torment him with hungry wakings. Everything that reminded him even of -her type was painful. Little ridiculous things twanged chords of -plaintive memory—a picture of the Roedean hockey-team, with their short -skirts and pig-tails, the demure flappers he sometimes met in his walks, -a correspondence on "moral training in girls' schools" which was being -waged in a daily paper—everything that reminded him of healthy, -growing, undeveloped girlhood, reminded him of Tony,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> and made his heart -ache and yearn and grieve after her.</p> - -<p>He wandered about by himself a good deal in the lanes, snatching his few -free moments after dusk. He no longer tramped furiously—he roamed, with -slow steps and dreaming eyes, drinking a faint peace from the darkness -of the fields. He found comfort, too, in his fiddle, and every evening -he would play through his banal repertory, "O Caro Nome," from -<i>Rigoletto</i>, "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls," the overtures to -<i>Zampa</i> and <i>La Gazza Ladra</i>, the Finale from <i>Lucia di Lammermoor</i>. He -became wonderfully absorbed in his fiddling, and had recovered a certain -amount of his old skill and flexibility.</p> - -<p>One day he took his violin to East Grinstead, as the sounding post had -fallen down. He came back by a long road—through Hophurst and New -Chapel and Blindley Heath. He stopped at the last to have a drink—it -was a dreary collection of cottages, scattered round a flat, windswept -heath. There were ponds in the corners of the heath, and their waters -were always ruffled by a strange wind. Right in the middle of the waste -was a little house squatting in its own patch of tillage, an island, a -tumble-down oasis, in the great dreariness.</p> - -<p>The scene, with the grey, scudding sky behind it, became stamped on -Nigel's brain, as he stood with his beer in the pothouse door. It was -one of those days when it seems as if our own hopelessness has at last -impressed the unfeeling mask<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> of Nature, and caused it to put on the -grimace of our despair.</p> - -<p>One or two children were playing in the road in front of the tavern, the -wind fluttering their pinafores, and blowing their clothes against their -limbs. A little boy with a mouth-organ was playing a vague and plaintive -tune, to which two little girls were dancing. Nigel stood listening for -some minutes, till both the moaning wind and the creaking tune had woven -themselves together into a symphony of wretchedness.</p> - -<p>Then he put down his beer, and took up his violin. He unfastened the -case, unrolled the chrysalis of wrappings, and laid the instrument -against his shoulder. The next minute a shrill wail rose up and -challenged the wind.</p> - -<p>The bar was nearly empty, but Nigel would not have cared had it been -full. He stood in the doorway, his hair blowing and ruffling madly, his -body swaying, as he forced his fiddle into a duet with the wind. He had -never before tried to extemporise, his violin had been for him a memory -of sugary tunes, each wrapped up in the tinsel of a little past—he had -never tried to wring the present out of it in a sudden, fierce -expression of the emotions that tortured him as he played. This evening -he wanted to join the wind in its wailing race, to rush with it over the -common, to tear with it through the hedges, and sweep with it over the -water. He forced out of his fiddle the cries of his own heart—they rose -up and challenged the wind. The wind hushed a little—fluttered, -throbbed—was still ... the fiddle tore through the silence and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> -shattered it ... then the wind rose, and drummed savagely. Nigel dashed -his bow down on the deep strings, and forced deep sounds out of them. -The wind galloped up to a shriek—and Nigel's hand tore into harmonics, -and wailed there till the wind was only puffing and sobbing. Then the -fiddle sobbed. The fiddle and the wind sobbed together ... till the wind -swung up a scale—up came the fiddle after it ... the wind rushed higher -and higher, it whistled in the dark eaves of the inn, and the fiddle -squeaked higher and higher, and Nigel's fingers strained on the -fingerboard—he would not be beaten, blind Nature should not defeat him, -two should play her game. The wind was like a maniac as it whistled its -arpeggios—the casements of the house were rattling like tin, the trees -were swishing and bending, the water in the ruts of the lane was -rippling, doors were creaking and banging, the fiddle was straining and -shrieking ... then suddenly the string broke. Nigel dropped his bow, -angry and defeated. The duet with the wind was over.</p> - -<p>Then he noticed a strange thing. He had been staring blindly and -stupidly ahead of him, all his senses merged into sound, but now he saw -that the road was crowded with children, and they were all -dancing—little girls with their petticoats held high, little boys -jumping aimlessly in their clumsy boots. They stopped as his hand fell, -and stared at him in surprise, as if they had expected the music to go -on for ever.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!" said Nigel—then suddenly he laughed;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> they all looked so -forlorn, holding out their pinafores and pointing their feet.</p> - -<p>"Wait a bit," he said, "my string's broken, but I'll have another on in -no time."</p> - -<p>So he did—but not to play a duet with the wind. He played the -Intermezzo from <i>Cavalleria</i>, and the dance went on as raggedly as -before. After the Intermezzo he played the Overture to <i>Zampa</i>, which -was immensely popular, then threaded a patchwork of <i>La Somnambula</i>, the -<i>Bohemian Girl</i>, <i>La Tosca</i>, and <i>Aida</i>, till mothers began to appear on -the doorsteps with cries of "Supper's waiting."</p> - -<p>Supper was waiting for Nigel when he appeared at Sparrow Hall. Len and -Janey asked no questions—it was pathetic how few questions they asked -him nowadays—but they both noticed he was happier. He did not speak -much—he sat in a kind of dream, with a wistful tremulousness in the -corners of his mouth. His mouth had always been the oldest part of -him—hard in repose and fierce in movement—but to-night it had taken -some of the extreme childishness of his eyes. Nigel felt very much the -same as a child that cries for the moon and is given a ball to play -with—the ball almost makes him forget that he wants the moon so badly. -Those dancing children had, for some strange reason, partly filled the -place of stalwart Tony in his heart. That night they came and danced in -his dreams—in a pale light, to a tinkling tune. He found himself -forming plans for making them dance again. He would never be on the old -footing with Tony, but those children should dance for him and help him -to forget.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p><p>So the next evening he went out again with his fiddle, and played at -Blindley Heath. Again the children danced—with clumping boots and high -petticoats they danced outside the Sweepers Inn. But this time he did -not stay long—he went on to Dormans Land, to see if they would dance -there. It was nearly dark now, and one or two misty stars shone above -the village roofs—the wind was heavy with approaching rain as it -soughed up the street towards him. He did not stand at the inn, but -where the road to Lingfield joins the road to Cowden, close to the -schools. One or two children came and looked at him curiously.</p> - -<p>"He wants a halfpenny," said one, "I'll ask my mumma for it."</p> - -<p>"No," said Nigel, "I want you to dance."</p> - -<p>The children giggled, but at last the little girl who had suggested the -halfpenny picked up her skirts, and then it was not long before they -were all dancing to the waltz from <i>Traviata</i>.</p> - -<p>Every day afterwards, when evening fell, Nigel took his violin, and went -out into the lanes and the dark-swept villages, and played for the -children to dance. They grew to expect him, and to clamour for old -tunes. "Give us the jiggy one," they would cry, and he would play "O -Caro Nome." "Give us the twirly one," and he would play "I Dreamt I -Dwelt in Marble Halls." But sometimes he would not give them what they -wanted—he would play what he chose, strange things that came into his -head and would not leave it till he had sent them wailing into the dusk. -One day he played a duet with some long grass<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> that rustled and sighed -behind him; another day it was with a wood, brown and naked, but full of -palpitating mysteries; another time he played an accompaniment to the -stars as they crept timidly one by one into the deserts of the sky. He -knew the constellations, and gave gentle, bird-like notes to the dim -Pleiades, and low, sonorous tones to Orion, and heavy quavers to the -Wain; there was a sudden scale for Casseopeia, and harmonics for the -Ram. By the time he had finished all the children had gone, and he was -alone in the breeze and darkness, in a great, grief-stricken silence, -which, he realised painfully, greeted the stars far more fitly than any -strivings of his.</p> - -<p>It was impossible for this new life to be hidden from the brother and -sister at Sparrow Hall. One evening Leonard burst into the kitchen where -Janey was sitting.</p> - -<p>"What do you think Nigel's up to now?"</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"Playing the fiddle outside pubs for kids to dance to."</p> - -<p>Janey gasped.</p> - -<p>"Are you sure, Len?"</p> - -<p>"Absolutely pos. Old Pilcher was telling me—the lad was fiddling away -for an hour outside the Sweepers at Blindley Heath, and all the brats -were on their hind legs, kicking up no end. Janet, do you think he's all -there?"</p> - -<p>"I—I don't know—I've been wondering."</p> - -<p>"There's no doubt that he's been strange ever since he came out of quod. -Poor old Nigel—life's hit him hard, and bruised him a lot."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p><p>"He was funny about kids from the first. He took a tremendous fancy to -that odious little Ivy Batt who comes for the milk."</p> - -<p>"I expect this is part of the same game."</p> - -<p>"I expect it is—but it hurts me to think of it."</p> - -<p>She turned to the fire, and a sigh shook her breast—life had a habit of -hitting hard all round.</p> - -<p>A few minutes later Nigel came in. He set down his violin, and went over -to the hearth, kneeling beside Janey. She put her arms round him, and -drew his head to her shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Old man ... is it really true that you go about the villages fiddling -to kids?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—I like to see 'em dance."</p> - -<p>"Are you fond of them?"</p> - -<p>"Only when they dance."</p> - -<p>"What a funny old man you are."</p> - -<p>"Ain't I, Janey!"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XIII</span> <span class="smaller">KEEPING CHRISTMAS</span></h2> - -<p>Every evening the three Furlongers used to sit by the fire and stare -into it. Len would sprawl back in his chair with his pipe, and the other -two lean forward with needlework and newspapers and cigarettes. They -seldom spoke—the wind would howl, and the shadows would creep, and the -night drift on through star-strewn silences. At last some one would yawn -loudly, and the others laugh—and all go to bed.</p> - -<p>Len was worried about Nigel and Janey, and usually devoted these -evenings and their pipely inspiration to thinking them out in a -blundering way. He was not a man given to problems, and hitherto life -had held but few. It was an added bitterness that now his problem should -be that brother and sister who had always stood to him for all that was -simple and beloved.</p> - -<p>Nigel, in his strange fears, his subcurrents of emotion, and quickly -changing moods, reminded Len of a horse; he did not object to drawing -upon his knowledge of horses and their ways for the management of his -brother. He humoured him, bore with him, but kept at the same time a -tight hand—especially when the boy's seething restiveness and pain -found vent in harsh words to Janey. Janey could not bear harsh words -now—she had used to be able to pick them off and throw them back in the -true sisterly style, but now she winced<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> and let them stick. Janey -perplexed Len as much as Nigel, and worried him far more. Her eyes -seemed to be growing very large, and her cheeks very hollow. When she -smiled her lips twitched in a funny way, and when she laughed it grated. -Janey cost Len many pipes.</p> - -<p>The explanation of Janey was, of course, at Redpale Farm, sitting glumly -by his winter fireside, just as she sat by hers. The love of Janet -Furlonger and Quentin Lowe had entered on a new phase. Quentin was -beginning to be dissatisfied. At first Janey had imagined that she would -welcome this, but it did not come as she had expected. It brought their -love into spasmodic silences. Up till then Quentin and she had always -been writing and meeting, but now he wrote to her and met her in -strange, sudden jerks of feeling. Sometimes he left her for days without -even a line, but she could never doubt him, because when at last they -met, his love seemed to burn with even greater torment and fierceness -than in the months of its more regular expression. He began to give her -presents, too—a locket, a ring, a book, which she shrank from, but -forced herself to accept because of the evident delight he found in -giving.</p> - -<p>Once more he was rambling restlessly and ineffectively on a quest for -independence. His efforts always came to nothing, partly through his own -incapacity, but always, too, through a sheer perverseness of fate, -thwarting developments, wrecking coincidences—so there really seemed -truth in his cry that the stars fought against him.</p> - -<p>She began to realise that, much as she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> deplored what looked like -his permanent satisfaction with a makeshift, she had found in it a kind -of vicarious rest. When anxiety and disillusion lay like stones at the -bottom of her heart, she had comforted herself with the thought of the -lightness of his. Now she could do so no longer—she had the burden of -his sorrow as well as her own to bear, and for a woman like Janey, this -was bound much more than to double her load.</p> - -<p>Her anxiety about Nigel was also a pain that bruised through the weeks. -He was decidedly "queer," and she could not understand his new craze for -fiddling to children. Sometimes, too, he would be terribly sentimental, -and have fits of more or less maudlin affection for her and Leonard. At -other times he would be surly, and during his attacks of surliness he -would work with desperation, almost with greed, as if he longed to wear -himself out. Then he would come in, and throw himself down in a chair, -and sleep the sleep of utter exhaustion with wide-flung limbs—or he -would have a bath by the fire, regardless of any cooking operations she -might have on hand, or the difficulty of heating gallons of ice-cold -water in a not over-large kettle. Len would be furious with him on these -occasions, and tell him that if he wanted a Turkish bath built on to -Sparrow Hall he had better say so at once.</p> - -<p>"I hope we'll have a happy Christmas," remarked Janey rather plaintively -to Len one evening late in December.</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't we?" he asked; he was kneeling on the hearthstone, -cleaning her boots.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p><p>"Well, we've been counting on it so. You remember last Christmas, when -I said that next time we'd have Nigel with us...."</p> - -<p>"And we've got him, haven't we?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>She was silent then, and the next minute he lifted his eyes from the -blacking and laughed up at her.</p> - -<p>"There's the rub, Janey. We don't know how Nigel will take Christmas."</p> - -<p>"No—he'll probably be frightfully sentimental at breakfast, and kiss us -both—and then he'll have a boiling bath—and then he'll take his fiddle -and go out for hours to play to those wretched kids."</p> - -<p>"A pretty fair prophecy, I should think."</p> - -<p>"He's just like a kid himself," sighed Janey.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I think he's getting soft in that way. At any rate, he's taken an -uncommon fancy to kids. By the bye, that girl he rescued at Grinstead -station, Strife's girl, has come home for Christmas. I saw her out with -her father this morning, and she'd got her hair up, and looked years -older. I expect she'll be getting married soon. Her people will see that -she settles down early—they don't want two like her sister."</p> - -<p>"What was that?" cried Janey.</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"I thought I heard some one in the room."</p> - -<p>"There's nobody—look, quite empty, except for you and me. You're -getting nervy, old girl."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I am."</p> - -<p>He stood up, and looked at her closely and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> rather anxiously. Then he -put his arms round her.</p> - -<p>"You're not well, sis—I've noticed it for a long time. I say—there's -nothing the matter, is there? You'd tell us if there was, wouldn't you?"</p> - -<p>"Of course ... there's nothing," she whispered, as his rough hand -stroked her hair. He held her to him very tenderly, he was always -gentler and less exacting with her than Nigel. Yet, somehow, when she -was unhappy it was Nigel she wanted to cling to, whose strong arms she -liked to feel round her, whose suffering face she wanted close to hers. -She wanted Nigel now.</p> - -<p>But Nigel had gone out.</p> - -<p>He walked heavily, his arms folded over his chest, his head hanging.</p> - -<p>So she was back—and she was grown up—and she would soon be married.</p> - -<p>These three contingencies had never struck him before. She had gone so -inevitably out of his life, that he had never troubled to consider her -return to Shovelstrode. She had stood so inevitably for adolescence, -unformed and free, that he had never thought of her growing up. And as -for marriage, it had seemed a thing alien and incongruous, her girlhood -had been virgin to his timidest desire.</p> - -<p>But she was grown up. She was ready for marriage, and most likely would -soon be married. He realised that to some other man would be given, -probably readily enough, what he had not dared even think about. A -shudder passed through him, but the next minute he flung up his head -almost triumphantly. He had had from Tony what she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> would never give to -another—he had had her free thoughtless comradeship, and she would -never give it again. She was grown up now, and unconsciously she would -realise her womanhood, put up little barriers, put on little airs. -He—he alone—would have the memory of her heedless girlhood innocently -displayed—he had what no other man had had, or could have ever.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Christmas came, a moist day, warm and rather hazy. Janey had decorated -Sparrow Hall with holly and evergreens, and had even compounded an -ominous-looking plum-pudding. She was desperately anxious that their -first Christmas together for four years should be a success—she even -ventured to hint the same to Nigel.</p> - -<p>"Why," he drawled, "do we keep Christmas? Is it because Christ was born -in a manger?"</p> - -<p>"Of course not—how queerly you talk!"</p> - -<p>"Because that was why we kept it in prison."</p> - -<p>"But we aren't in prison here."</p> - -<p>"Aren't we?—aren't we, Janey?—would there be any good keeping -Christmas if we weren't?"</p> - -<p>She laughed uneasily.</p> - -<p>"Nigel, you're balmy. Come along and help me make mince-pies. It's all -you're good for."</p> - -<p>In spite of her fears, Christmas morning passed happily enough, and -though the dinner was culinarily a failure, socially it was a huge -success. The pudding, having triumphantly defeated the onslaughts of -knives, forks and teeth, was accorded a hero's death in the kitchen -fire, to the accompaniment of the Dead March on Nigel's fiddle, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> -various ritual acts extemporised by Len from memories both military and -ecclesiastical. He was preparing a ceremonial funeral for the -mince-pies, when he and Janey suddenly realised that Nigel had left the -room.</p> - -<p>"Now where the devil has he gone?"</p> - -<p>Janey sighed.</p> - -<p>"Some silly game of his. I hope he'll be back soon."</p> - -<p>"Not he!—he's probably off for the day, to fiddle to those blasted -kids, if they're not too full of plum-pudding to dance. By Christopher, -Janey—he's mad."</p> - -<p class="space-above">The dark was gathering stealthily—crawling up from the Kent country in -the east, burying the wet winter meadows of Surrey and Sussex in damp -and dusk and fogs. In the west a crimson furnace smouldered, showing up -a black outline of hills. Moisture was everywhere—the roads gleamed -with mud, the banks were sticky with damp tangled grass, and drops -quivered and glistened on the bare twigs of the hedges.</p> - -<p>A great sense of disheartenment was everywhere. It was Christmas day, -and hundreds of hearths were bright—but outside, away from humanity and -its cheerful dreams, all Nature mourned, in the curse of the winter -solstice, drowned in the water-flood. Furlonger had left his hearth with -its cheery flames and loved faces and warm, sweet dreams of goodwill, -and was out alone with Nature, who had no warmth nor love<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> nor -make-believe, only wet winds and winter desolation.</p> - -<p>He came to Dormans Land. The blinds were down, and through the chinks he -saw the leap and spurt of firelight. He stood where three roads met, and -the wind swept up from Lingfield, where the first stars had hung their -lanterns. He began to play—a dreary, springless tune, that struck cold -into the hearts of the few it reached through their closed windows. He -played the song of Christmas as Nature keeps it—the festival of life's -drowning and despair.</p> - -<p>No children came to dance. They were happy beside their parents, with -sweets and crackers and fun. They were keeping Christmas as man keeps -it, and drew down the blinds on Nature keeping it outside, and the lone -fiddler who felt it more congenial to keep it with Nature than to keep -it with men.</p> - -<p>Nigel stopped playing and looked around him into the gloom. He felt -disappointed because the children had not come to dance. He had broken -away from his brother and sister because he wanted those dancing -children so badly—and they had not come. Perhaps he had better go -further up into the village, since the children were not playing in the -street as usual, but in their homes.</p> - -<p>So he went up, and stood between the church and the Royal Oak. The place -seemed deserted—only a great, empty car stood outside the inn. Nigel -began to play, but again there was no response. The darkness came -fluttering towards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> him from the back streets of the village, and seemed -to creep right into his heart.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly it struck him that he played too doleful a tune for the -children. They liked lively airs—they found it hard to dance to those -bizarre mournful extempores of his. So he started "O Caro Nome," and -when that had jigged and rippled to an end, he played airs from Flotow's -<i>Martha</i>, and then his old favourite, "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble -Halls."</p> - -<p>The street was still empty. From a cottage close by came the wheeze of a -harmonium. He stood drearily snapping the strings with his fingers. Then -suddenly he realised how ridiculous he was—playing in the village -street, in the damp and the cold and the dark, when he ought to be at -home, eating and drinking and singing and joking because Christ was born -in a manger.</p> - -<p>He turned away—he was a fool. Why did he like seeing children -dance?—why did it hurt him so that they were better employed to-day? He -did not know. His life, his emotions, his heart, were like the twilight, -a dark and cheerless mystery. He could not understand half what he felt -in his own breast. He was himself only a child dancing in the dusk, to -an unknown fiddler playing a half-comprehended tune.</p> - -<p>The next moment he heard the inn door open behind him, and turning round -saw a short, broad figure on the doorstep, wrapped in an enormous -motor-coat.</p> - -<p>"Will you not play something else?"</p> - -<p>The words came heavily, with a teutonic lumber.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> Nigel saw a round, -florid face, and dark, very close-cropped hair.</p> - -<p>He hesitated—perhaps the stranger was making game of him.</p> - -<p>"I have been listening to you for some time, and now I have come to see -you. I am surprised. I do not think you are a beggar."</p> - -<p>"Not quite," said Nigel.</p> - -<p>"Well, play some more."</p> - -<p>Again Furlonger hesitated. Then he hoisted his fiddle to his shoulder -with a short, rather grating, laugh.</p> - -<p>He played the Requiem from <i>Il Trovatore</i>.</p> - -<p>There was silence. The darkness seemed to pass in waves over the sky, -each wave engulfing it deeper. The wind sobbed a strange little tune in -the eaves of the inn.</p> - -<p>"You have tortured my ears," said the stranger. Nigel flushed -angrily—so after all the idea had been to make game of him—"with your -damned Verdi."</p> - -<p>"How do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"You are too good to play Verdi."</p> - -<p>"Oh!"</p> - -<p>"What are your favourite composers?"</p> - -<p>"Gounod—Verdi—Balfe——"</p> - -<p>"Ai! Ai! Ach!" and the stranger put his hands over his ears.</p> - -<p>Nigel was beginning to be faintly amused.</p> - -<p>"Well, what's the matter with 'em?"</p> - -<p>"The matter?—they are dead."</p> - -<p>"That'll be the matter with us all, sooner or later."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p><p>"Let us hope it will be sooner for some of us."</p> - -<p>Nigel looked into the stranger's face, and again experienced a slight -shock of surprise. The eyes in the midst of its florid circumference -were haunted with despair, grief-stricken and appealing. He suddenly -realised that it was not normal for a man to spend Christmas day in -lonely petrol prowlings.</p> - -<p>"Play some more."</p> - -<p>"I can only play Verdi and Balfe and those others."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll try to endure it."</p> - -<p>"Look here," said Furlonger, "what's your game? Why should you want me -to play when you hate my music?"</p> - -<p>"I hate your music, but I like your playing. You are a wonderful -player."</p> - -<p>"Oh, rats!" and Nigel felt angry, he did not know why.</p> - -<p>"I repeat—you are a wonderful player. Who taught you?"</p> - -<p>"Carl Hauptmann."</p> - -<p>"Hauptmann!—he was a pupil of mine."</p> - -<p>"Then you're Eitel von Gleichroeder!"</p> - -<p>"I am."</p> - -<p>Nigel looked interested. Memories of his life in London revived—music -lessons, concerts, musical jargon, a lost world in which he had once -lived, but had now almost forgotten. He seemed to hear Hauptmann's -strange, coughing laugh as he chid his pupil for what von Gleichroeder -had just chidden him now—his abominable taste. "You are hobeless, -hobeless—you and your Balfe and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> your Bellini and your odder vons." Von -Gleichroeder he knew would take an even more serious view of the case, -as he had a reputation for ultra-modernism in music. Hauptmann's -contempt for Balfe and Bellini he carried on to Verdi and Gounod, even -Tschaikowsky, while though he was obliged to grant Beethoven supremacy -with a grudge, he passed over his works in favour of those of Scriabin, -d'Indy, Debussy and Strauss.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," said the musician, "play <i>Zampa</i>, play <i>Lucia di -Lammermoor</i>, play <i>La Somnambula</i>—any abomination you please—but -play."</p> - -<p>Nigel, with rather an evil grin, played <i>Zampa</i>.</p> - -<p>"Why do you like those things?"</p> - -<p>"Because they are pretty tunes."</p> - -<p>"Ach!—and why do you like pretty tunes?"</p> - -<p>Nigel stared at him full of hostility, then his manner changed.</p> - -<p>"Because they remind me of—of things I used to feel."</p> - -<p>He realised dimly that there was a subtle free-masonry between him and -this man. In a way it drew them together, in a way it held them apart.</p> - -<p>"What you used to feel. So! that is better. It's your heart they tickle, -not your ears."</p> - -<p>Furlonger nodded.</p> - -<p>"Do you play for your living?"</p> - -<p>"No—I am a farmer."</p> - -<p>"Then what are you doing here?"</p> - -<p>"I play for children to dance."</p> - -<p>Von Gleichroeder looked round, and shrugged his shoulders. He did not -seem particularly surprised.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p><p>"Would you not like to play for grown-up children to dance? For -fashionable society to crowd to hear you, and gather round you like -children round a barrel-organ?"</p> - -<p>"Fashionable society won't waste much of its time on me. I've been in -prison three years for bogus company promoting."</p> - -<p>"So! But that is good. Without that attraction you could fill the -Bechstein, but with it you can fill the Albert Hall."</p> - -<p>"Gammon."</p> - -<p>"Not at all. My dear young man, I see a glorious future ahead of you, if -you will only trouble to secure it. Come to London and study music——"</p> - -<p>"Please don't talk nonsense."</p> - -<p>"It is not nonsense. You are wonderfully gifted. I don't say you are a -genius, for you are not—but you are wonderfully gifted, and your -history will make you interesting to the ladies. With your talent and -your history and—and your face, you ought to do really well, if only -some enterprising person would take you in hand."</p> - -<p>"Which isn't likely."</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon—it is most likely. I will do it."</p> - -<p>Nigel was more surprised than grateful.</p> - -<p>"No, thank you."</p> - -<p>"Do not be proud. It is purely a business offer. I expect to make money -out of you, and—what do you call it?—credit. Listen here—if you -cannot pay my fees, I will give you a year's tuition free of charge, on -condition that I have a percentage on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> your salaries during the next -five years. That is a generous offer—many a young man would give much -to have me for professor."</p> - -<p>Nigel shook his head.</p> - -<p>"Thanks awfully—but I'm not keen on it."</p> - -<p>"And why?"</p> - -<p>"Well, for one thing, I don't want to make my stinking past into an -advertisement, and for another I don't want to go back to prison."</p> - -<p>"Prison!—that is a strange name for fame and big salaries."</p> - -<p>"I'm not thinking of those so much as of what must come before them—all -the grind and slavery. My music's the only part of me that has never -been in prison, and if I make a trade and treadmill out of it, I shall -be degrading it just as I have degraded everything else about me."</p> - -<p>"It will not be degradation—on the contrary."</p> - -<p>"And I don't believe I shall ever make myself a name."</p> - -<p>"That remains to be seen. I don't expect you to become world-famous, but -there is no reason why you should not be exceedingly successful in -England, where no one bothers very much about taste or technique. Taste -you have none, technique—— Lord help us!—but temperament—ach, -temperament! You have suffered—hein?"</p> - -<p>Nigel coloured. He could not answer—because he felt this man had -suffered too.</p> - -<p>"Of course, you have suffered—you could not play like that if you had -not. Without your suffering you would be a clever amateur—just that. -But now, because you have suffered, you are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> something more. 'Wer nie -sein Brod mit Thränen ass'—you doubtless know our Goethe's wonderful -lines. So"—and his dark, restless eyes looked up almost imploringly to -the sky—"sorrow has one use in this world."</p> - -<p>There was another pause. The village was quite dark now—lights -twinkled. High above the frosty exhalations of the dusk, piling walls of -smoke-scented mist round the cottages, the stars shone like the lights -of celestial villages, dotting the dark country of the sky. The Wain -hung tilted in the north, lonely and ominous, Betelgeuse was bright -above Sussex, Aldebaran burned luminous and lonely in his quarter. Nigel -watched the Sign of Virgo, which had just risen, and glowed over the -woods of Langerish. It flickered like candles in the wind. Then he -dropped his eyes to the darkness round him, and through it came the -creak of a harmonium.</p> - -<p>"Well?" said von Gleichroeder.</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"Will you accept my offer?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"I've given you my reasons." The subtle sense of hostility put insolence -into his voice.</p> - -<p>"They are no reasons."</p> - -<p>"They are mine."</p> - -<p>The foreigner shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>"So be it. I have made my offer—you have refused it. It is your own -concern."</p> - -<p>He took out his card-case, and presented his card to Furlonger.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p><p>"In case you change your mind."</p> - -<p>This was anti-climax, and Nigel felt irritated.</p> - -<p>"I'm not in the habit of changing my mind."</p> - -<p>"Just as you please," and von Gleichroeder put back the card-case in his -pocket.</p> - -<p>"Good evening," he added politely.</p> - -<p>"Good evening," mumbled Furlonger.</p> - -<p>He turned away, and walked down the village to where the foot-path to -Wilderwick striped the fields. At the stile he paused, and realised that -he had been exceptionally insolent.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XIV</span> <span class="smaller">WOODS AT DAWN</span></h2> - -<p>Nigel reached home only half-an-hour before supper-time. Len and Janey -did not receive him cordially, but he was too much preoccupied with his -adventure to notice their coldness or take their hints. He poured it all -out at the evening meal—the subtle sense of outrage which for some -unknown reason von Gleichroeder's offer had stirred up, contending in -his voice with a ridiculous, childish pride.</p> - -<p>Len and Janey were unfeignedly surprised. It had never occurred to them -that Nigel's playing was even tolerable—they had sometimes liked it in -the distance, that was all.</p> - -<p>"Fancy his wanting you to go and study in London," said Janey. "I'm glad -you refused."</p> - -<p>"So'm I"!</p> - -<p>"It would have been beastly losing you again, old man—we haven't had -you back three months."</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't you like to see me fill the Albert Hall?"</p> - -<p>"Well—er—if you could really do it, it might be interesting to -watch—just for once in a way. But I don't see that it would be worth -breaking up the 'appy 'ome, only for that."</p> - -<p>Nigel would have liked them to be more impressed, but they voiced his -own feelings exactly.</p> - -<p>"No—nor do I. Well, I've settled the old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> geyser, anyway—and now let's -forget all about him."</p> - -<p>Which they did at once.</p> - -<p class="space-above">That night Nigel had restless dreams. He dreamed he was playing to -crowded audiences in great nightmare-like halls that stretched away to -infinity. The circumstances were always unfavourable—sometimes he would -have only one string on his violin, and sometimes he would find himself -struggling with some horrible dream-begotten instrument with as many -strings as a harp. Once he dreamed that all the audience got up and -danced a hideous rigadoon, another time they all had the same face—a -dark, florid face that leered.</p> - -<p>Towards morning he dreamed a quieter dream. He was playing in a very -large place, but he had a rational instrument, and he was playing "I -Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." The melody floated all through his -dreams—the same as in waking hours, and yet not quite the -same—celestial, rarefied, wistful in heart and ears. He was also -conscious of a presence—he knew he was near Tony Strife; he felt her -close to him, and it was magic in his blood. The melody drifted -on—sometimes pouring out of his violin, sometimes seeming to come from -very far away.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"And I also dreamed, which pleased me most,</div> -<div class="i2">That you loved me still the same ..."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The music ceased abruptly, and he dropped his bow, looking round to see -Tony. She was not there; the great hall was empty—nothing but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> empty -seats stretching away into dimness—except that in the front row of all -sat two figures huddled together. He looked down at them, and at first -he did not know them, then he saw that they were Len and Janey, staring -up at him with hungry, loving eyes....</p> - -<p>He woke and sat up, shivering a little. It must be late, for the winter -sky was white beyond the woods. Yet he did not feel inclined to rise. He -lay back, and folded his hands behind his head, staring out at the dull -line of brown that lay against the quivering, dawn-filled clouds.</p> - -<p>Those woods always put strange thoughts into his head. They made him -think of his own life, lonely, windy and sere. But some day the spring -would throb in them, their branches would shine with green, their -thickets would thrill with song; in their waste, desolate places -primroses would push through the dead leaves of last year.... He sat up -again with a jerk—for the first time he realised that the woods would -not be always brown.</p> - -<p>The thought gave him a faint shock of surprise. Ever since the day he -left prison he had looked out on brown woods, rocked by autumn and -winter winds, so that he had almost forgotten that autumn and winter -would not last for ever. He had never thought of spring, of March and -tender green, of April and first flowers, of sweet, quickening rains, -and winds full of warmth and the scent of young leaves. It was strange -that he should have forgotten spring.</p> - -<p>Now in the darkest day of the year, spring held out its promise to the -woods—and to him. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> yellow of a hidden sunrise was filling the -clouds like hope unbounded—and Nigel's dream came back to him, his -dream of marble halls and of love that was "still the same." He saw -himself playing to thronged audiences, with Tony close to him, unseen, -intangible, but there—with all the sweet memories of Lingfield and -Brambletye revived and re-established, her friendship, candour, and -tenderness "still the same."</p> - -<p>Then he understood. Gulfs unbridgeable might lie between the convict -with his stained and broken life and the simple little schoolgirl of -Shovelstrode. But the well-known violinist who played for "big -salaries," who "filled the Albert Hall."... A terrible thing had -happened to Nigel—he had begun to hope. When hope has been a long time -away, the return of it is like the return of sensation to a frost-bitten -limb. It pricks, it burns, it tortures. It tortured Nigel till a cry of -anguish burst from him, bitterer than in any of his fits of despair. He -bent forward, clapping his hand to his side.</p> - -<p>Hope showed him the doors of his prison flung wide at last. For long -years he had never dreamed of escape, he was a captive, so fast in -prison that he could not get forth—free only among the dead. But now -the doors were open and he could go out. His music would raise him up -out of the pit, bring him back to an earth washed in rain and spring, to -touch the trembling innocence of the lilies, and drink the sweetness of -the eternal May.</p> - -<p>"Oh, God! Oh, God!—I want to be free! I want to be free!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p><p>The cry was not a prayer so much as the cry of his great hunger, -finding voice at last—"I want to be free! I want to be free!"</p> - -<p>His mind dropped hastily to practical details. He had seen von -Gleichroeder's address on his card, and that tough memory of his, which -was sometimes a curse to him, held it fast. He would write and tell him -he had changed his mind. It would be humiliating, but it must be done. -Then he would go to London, and work—and work. It was not only the -topmost pinnacle that could lift him out of his old life, the name he -would make for himself need not be a great name—as long as it was a -fair name. That was what he wanted, and would struggle for—a fair name. -Hard work, an honest livelihood, self-denial, constant communion with -the beautiful and inspired, would purge his soul of its defilement. The -hideous stain of his crime would be wiped off. When he had lived for -years in poverty and honesty, when he had brought by his music a little -sunshine into poor lives like those he had smitten, when the fields of -three counties had ceased to reproach him for his treachery, and the -name of Furlonger had some faint lustre from his bearing it—then he -would be free. And when he was free he would allow himself—not to claim -Tony's friendship or anything else beyond him, but just to think of -her—think of her with hope.</p> - -<p>Oh, Tony, little Tony! his little love!</p> - -<p>For weeks now he had known that he loved her. Though he had never dared -think of her as a woman, he wanted her. He had wanted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> women before, he -had had his adventures with them—though not perhaps as many as the -average man—but they had all been stale and ordinary, the stock line, -the job lot, which eager, extravagant youth pays high for as a novelty. -Now he had something new. He loved a little girl, scarcely more than a -child, parted from him by a dozen barriers of his own erecting. He loved -her because she was good and innocent, and had given him perfect -comradeship; most of all he loved her because of the barriers between -them, because she lived utterly apart from him, in a foreign land of -liberty and hope and uprightness, towards which he must strive hourly if -he were to gain even the frontiers.</p> - -<p>He scowled a little. He was not blind, and he knew that he would have to -go into slavery, perhaps for a long time, before this new freedom was -won. Even in an hour he had been able to see that von Gleichroeder was a -technique-fiend, and would make matters hot for his clumsy pupil. He -also realized that though the German had borne good humouredly with his -insolence, he would not be so patient when he became his master. Yes—he -would have a master—he would have to practise scales and exercises—he -would be reprimanded, lectured, ordered about. Herr von Gleichroeder -would be his master, and the tacit sympathy between them would but make -their relations more galling.</p> - -<p>There would be other sacrifices too. He would have to say good-bye to -Sparrow Hall, and to Len and Janey. He caught his breath—God! how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> he -loved Len and Janey! He had been brutal and heartless to them again and -again, but he loved them with a love that was half pain in its -intensity. He would have to be away from them perhaps for years. Yet -when he came back he would bring them a gift—the same gift that he -would bring Tony—a fair name. That was what he owed every one—the -world, his brother and sister, his little love.</p> - -<p>The very fact that he was taking his "stinking past" with him into the -future would to some extent remove its offensiveness. It was all very -well to talk of "starting afresh under another name." What he wanted was -to raise his old name—the name of Furlonger—out of the dust. The -convict should not just quietly disappear, he should be transfigured -into the artist, publicly, before the whole world. As his degradation -had been public, the comment of cheap newspapers, so should his -exaltation.</p> - -<p>A thundering knock at the door broke into his dreams.</p> - -<p>"Nigel, in the devil's name, get up!—breakfast's waiting."</p> - -<p>The next moment Len was in the room, tearing the bed-clothes off him.</p> - -<p>"You <i>are</i> a fat lot of use on the farm!—I've got through half the -morning's work without you."</p> - -<p>"Then you won't miss me so much when I'm gone."</p> - -<p>"Gone where?"</p> - -<p>"To London."</p> - -<p>Nigel began to dress himself—Len stared at him gaping.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p><p>"To London! why, you aren't going there, are you?"</p> - -<p>"I am."</p> - -<p>"To that man von what's-his-name?"</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>Len stared harder than ever. Then he suddenly lost his temper.</p> - -<p>"'Of course'!—there's no 'of course' about it—except 'of course not.' -Why, you told him you wouldn't hear of such a thing."</p> - -<p>"But I may change my mind, mayn't I?"</p> - -<p>"No—you mayn't. Look here, Nigel, you've led sister and self an -infernal dance for the last three months. Can't you chuck it?"</p> - -<p>"I'm going to chuck it—by leaving this place."</p> - -<p>Leonard saw his brother was in earnest. He came quickly towards him, and -laid his hand on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>"What have we done to upset you, old man?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing—you've always been sports."</p> - -<p>"Then why are you going?"</p> - -<p>Nigel hesitated. He could not bring himself to tell even this brother of -his sacred, half-formed plans.</p> - -<p>"You won't miss me," he faltered.</p> - -<p>"Won't miss you! Won't miss you!—what the devil d'you mean?"</p> - -<p>"I'm no use on the farm—I laze and I slack. You'll get on much better -without me."</p> - -<p>"Gammon! You're tumbling into it nicely, and if you go, I'll have to -hire a man—and there'll be the expense of your keep in London. No, no, -old chap—that won't wash."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p><p>"Wait till you've tried it."</p> - -<p>"Haven't I been trying it for three years? Besides, my boy, this is only -beating round the bush. The main fact is that Janey and I would miss you -simply damnably."</p> - -<p>"Not really," said Nigel, his mouth drooping with a great tenderness, -"you'd soon feel the relief of being rid of me and my tantrums."</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door.</p> - -<p>"That's Janey," cried Len. "Come in, old girl—I want you."</p> - -<p>Janey came in. Nigel was nearly dressed, and had begun to shave.</p> - -<p>"Breakfast's——" began Janey.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I know all about breakfast. That isn't what's the matter. Len -wants you to join him in trying to persuade me not to go to London."</p> - -<p>"But you're not going to London!..."</p> - -<p>"I'm writing this morning to von Gleichroeder to say I've changed my -mind."</p> - -<p>"No!... Nigel!" cried Janey.</p> - -<p>For a moment she stood as if paralyzed, then suddenly she darted towards -him, and flung her arms round him, looking up beseechingly into his -face.</p> - -<p>"Nigel! no!—you mustn't leave us—I can't bear it. Oh, say you won't!"</p> - -<p>"Damn you, Janey!—can't you see I've got a razor in my hand?"</p> - -<p>She was taking it even worse than he had expected. She seemed actually -terrified.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p><p>"I can't live here without you," she cried brokenly, "indeed I can't."</p> - -<p>He gently disengaged himself.</p> - -<p>"Most people's difficulty," he said, deliberately lathering his chin, -"has not been how to live without me, but how to live with me."</p> - -<p>"But I can't live without you."</p> - -<p>"You've got Len."</p> - -<p>"But he's only—only half."</p> - -<p>"The better half. I'm a rotten lot, Janey. You'll be far happier when -I'm gone. I'm a sulky brute—don't contradict me; I know it. I'm a -sulky, bad-tempered brute. Again and again I've spoiled your happiness -and the lad's—I've done nothing but snap and snarl at you, and I've -gone whining about the place when you wanted to be cheerful. You've both -been utter sports to put up with me so long—you'll notice the -difference when I'm away, if you can't realise it now."</p> - -<p>Janey was sitting on the bed, drowned in tears.</p> - -<p>"Aren't you happy with us?" asked Leonard.</p> - -<p>"Hardly—or I shouldn't be going."</p> - -<p>He spoke with all the exaggerated brutality of the man who sees himself -obliged to hurt those he loves.</p> - -<p>"It's not your fault," he continued in a gentler voice, "it's mine. I'm -such a waster. I'm a miserable, restless rotter, bound to make myself -and every one else unhappy. Now if I go to London, I shall work—I shall -have something to live for."</p> - -<p>"Fame, you mean," sobbed Janey.</p> - -<p>"Well, something of that kind."</p> - -<p>He had finished shaving, and came and sat down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> by her on the bed, -forcing her drowned eyes to look into his.</p> - -<p>"Janey, don't you want me to be famous? Wouldn't you like to be the -sister of a well-known violinist instead of Convict Seventy-six? -Wouldn't you like to see me fill the Albert Hall?"</p> - -<p>"Fill hell!" shouted Leonard. "D'you really believe all the rot that old -bounder spoke?"</p> - -<p>"Well, it isn't likely he'd teach me for nothing if he didn't expect to -make something out of me."</p> - -<p>"Yes—that'll be just what he'll do—and he'll make a fat lot more than -you will."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't go!" sobbed Janey.</p> - -<p>Nigel looked wretchedly from one to the other.</p> - -<p>"Janey," he cried, drawing her close to him, and quivering in the agony -of his appeal, "Janey, can't you understand?—I want to start a new -life, I want to throw off all my beastly past. I want to make my -name—your name—clean and honourable. I dragged it into the mud, and I -must pull it out again. Oh, I've suffered so, Janey. I can't get out of -prison, I feel more helplessly shut up than ever I did at Parkhurst. But -now I—can be—free."</p> - -<p>The last words burst from him in a choking cry. He flung himself back -from her, and looked into her eyes. Then he was surprised, for he saw in -them, swimming in tears, a glimmer of understanding.</p> - -<p>"Janey," he continued, putting his lips close to her face, and mumbling -his appeal almost incoherently, "I can't expect you to grasp all that -this means to me. You're good, you're pure—you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> don't know what it is -to have a horrible stain on your heart, which all your tears don't seem -able to wash away. But can't you put yourself for a moment in my place -and realise what it is to hunger for a decent life, to dream of -whiteness and purity and innocence, and burn to make them yours?—to be -willing to give the whole world—just to be—clean?"</p> - -<p>"I think I can," said Janey.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XV</span> <span class="smaller">THE SERMON ON FORGIVENESS</span></h2> - -<p>Half-an-hour later the three Furlongers sat down to a cold breakfast. -They were almost silent, for there was nothing more to be said. The -matter was settled. Nigel had found an unexpected ally in Janet, and had -carried his point. Directly after breakfast he wrote to von -Gleichroeder. It was a difficult letter, for it meant nothing less than -eating humble pie, but for that very reason he did not take long over -it. An envelope addressed in his large, scrawling hand was soon ready to -be posted.</p> - -<p>It was a clear, cold day, this feast of Stephen. A frosty sunshine -crisped the grass, scattering the damps of yesterday's fog. The lane -smelled of frost as Nigel walked up it to the post-office. But he did -not see it as it was—in the duress and beggarliness of winter; he saw -it as it would be, bursting with spring, full of scent and softness and -song. He pictured those naked bushes when spring had clothed them, those -grey banks when spring had fired them—the hedges were full of future -song, the hollows of primroses to be.</p> - -<p>He posted his letter, then stood for a moment, looking southward. The -sunshine was so clear that the rims of distant windows gleamed with -white across the fields. He could see the windows of Shovelstrode....</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p><p>Dared he?</p> - -<p>After all, he would have to. He could not leave Sparrow Hall without -seeing Tony. He would not tell her of her place in his plans, but he -owed it to her and to himself that she should think of him as a man -living uprightly, striving after honour. Now she was thinking of him as -a scoundrel and an outcast—he came into her thoughts with a shudder. It -must not be.</p> - -<p>At the same time he was afraid. It gave him a strange, cold qualm to -think he was afraid of Tony, once his comrade, now his love—but he was. -If he meant to see her, he must go at once, before his resolve lost -strength with spontaneity. He turned towards the south, where the -sunshine lay.</p> - -<p>As he came near Shovelstrode his quakings grew. After all, by the time -he had made himself worthy to think of her, she would have given herself -to another. He could not even hint that he wanted her to wait. He must -trust to her aloofness to keep her free, and the memory of their -friendship to keep alive in her heart a little spark that he could some -day fan into flame. But it was all rather hopeless, a leap in the dark.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, even, she would refuse to see him. He remembered the look in -her eyes when she had turned from him by Goatsluck Farm. All the -steel-cold virtue, all the ignorant horror, all the cruelty of youth had -been in that look. Perhaps she had turned from him for ever. Perhaps -nothing that he could ever achieve or be would wipe out from her memory -his foul betrayal of others and herself.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p><p>But he went too far in his fears for utter despair. Reaction set -in—hope began once more to lacerate him, and whipped him forward to -make his last desperate appeal to the fates that had always hitherto -been deaf and blind.</p> - -<p>He hesitated a moment when he came to the house. The servants might know -who he was and not allow him in, or he might be seen by some of the -family. It struck him that he had better go and look for her in the park -before risking himself on the doorstep. She had once told him that she -often wandered among the pines.</p> - -<p>He slipped round behind the lodge, and was skirting the lawn at the back -of the house, when he saw one of the French windows open and a girl come -out with her dog. His heart gave a suffocating leap, and something -seemed to rise in his throat and stay there, making him gulp -idiotically. He had never before felt any emotion at the sight of -her—just pleasure, a calm, slow-moving comfort. But to-day his head -swam, and he could hardly see her as she came running and skipping -across the lawn in a manner wholly at variance with her long skirts and -coiled-up hair.</p> - -<p>She turned aside before she reached the bushes that hid him, and he just -managed to call after her—</p> - -<p>"Tony!—Tony!"</p> - -<p>The dog barked, and the next minute had scented him, and came cantering -over the grass. Tony stood still and listened. She looked uncertain, and -he called again—</p> - -<p>"Tony!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p><p>She turned quickly, and slipped behind the bushes, running to him along -the path. When she was a few yards off she stopped dead.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Furlonger...."</p> - -<p>She stood outlined against a patch of wintry sky. It was the first time -that he had seen her since her return. He thought that she was paler -than in the valiant days of their friendship, and certainly the way she -did her hair gave her a grown-up look. The stifling sensation in his -throat became worse, and he could not speak.</p> - -<p>"What is it ... Mr. Furlonger?"</p> - -<p>"I—I want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no! I can't!" Her voice was quite childish.</p> - -<p>"I must—please do."</p> - -<p>She hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>"Then come into the shrubbery. We can be seen here from the house."</p> - -<p>"I know. I'm not here to get you into trouble. I—I only came to say -good-bye."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," she repeated vaguely, not quite understanding him, for her -heart had said good-bye to him long ago.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I'm going to London."</p> - -<p>They were walking away from the house to where the pine-needles were -thick under their feet—on a little, moist path smelling of winter. The -sunshine came slanting down on Tony as she stopped, showing up her slim, -strong figure in a cold purity of light. It rested on her hair, and he -saw golden threads in it—in her eyes, and he saw golden sparks in them. -For the first time he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> realised how beautiful she was in all the -assurance and unconsciousness of her youth. He longed to tell her so. -Instead he muttered—</p> - -<p>"How grown-up you look."</p> - -<p>"Do I?—it's my hair, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"Did they make you put it up?"</p> - -<p>"Aunt Maggie said I was old enough—and I think so too."</p> - -<p>"I hope you don't mind my coming here to see you." He was desperately -embarrassed, and her manner did not reassure him. "I'm going away, you -see, to study music, and I—I thought I should like to say good-bye."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," she said rather awkwardly, her excessive youth showing nowhere -more clearly than in her inability to put him at his ease. "Oh, no, I'm -glad you came—to say good-bye."</p> - -<p>"I'm going to work very hard. There's a fellow—Eitel von Gleichroeder, -I don't know if you've heard of him—who's taken a fancy to me, and says -he'll coach me if I'll take up the violin professionally."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know you played."</p> - -<p>"Yes—but I'd no idea I was any good till I met this chap. He says I -ought to make quite a decent thing out of it. I—I think it's worth -trying."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes."</p> - -<p>"You see," he continued, his voice shaking with emotion, "I want to -start a new life—to be respectable, I suppose you'd call it. If I win -fame as a violinist—and von Gleichroeder thinks I may—I—I shall have -lived down everything."</p> - -<p>"Yes ... of course."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p><p>It was embarrassment, not lack of interest, that made her replies so -trite. Memories of their friendship—now dim and far-off, separated from -her by many wonderful happenings—were creeping up to her and filling -her with a vague uneasiness.</p> - -<p>As for Nigel, he realised now what had taken place. He understood why -his tongue had suddenly become tied in her presence, and his eagerness -collapsed into shuffling uncouthness. He had come to Shovelstrode to -speak to a little girl—and he had found a woman. Tony the schoolgirl, -the hoyden, the gay comrade, was now nothing but a little ghost haunting -the slopes of Ashdown and the secret lanes of Kent. In her place stood a -woman—come suddenly, as the woman always comes—and the woman, he knew, -was trying to call back the girl, and see things from her eyes once -more—and could not.</p> - -<p>"Tony—Miss Strife—I wanted to tell you this, just to show you I'm not -always going to be a convict on ticket-of-leave."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure you won't. I hope you'll become very famous."</p> - -<p>The words passed her lips in jerks. Her memories of him carried -something very like repulsion. The more she struggled to revisualise the -comradeship of two months ago, the greater was her distaste and -humiliation. The kindest attitude possible for her now was one of -embarrassed shyness. At first she had tried to heal herself with her -memories, but as soon as she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> worked back to them she found their -sweet secrets all sicklied with bitterness and shame.</p> - -<p>He looked steadfastly at her, and he saw what had happened.</p> - -<p>"Tony—you don't want to know me any longer—you want to forget we ever -were friends. There's no good denying it, for I can see it."</p> - -<p>She stood motionless, her lips white, her hands clenched in front of -her.</p> - -<p>"It's true—I can see it," he repeated.</p> - -<p>She did not speak. Her memories were calling very loud, and there were -tears in the voices, softening the shame.</p> - -<p>"You can't bear the thought of having once been my friend."</p> - -<p>Tears were rising in her throat, and with her tears the little -school-girl who had run away came back, and showed her face again before -she went for ever.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's hurt me!" she cried. "You don't know how it's hurt me!"</p> - -<p>"To know I was a bad 'un?" He grasped the shaking hand she thrust out -before her.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I can't bear to think...."</p> - -<p>"But I've changed—I swear I have. I'm going to live a decent life; and -you're going to help me—by just saying you believe I can."</p> - -<p>She shuddered, and pulled her hand away.</p> - -<p>"I tell you I've changed," he exclaimed bitterly; "won't you believe -me?"</p> - -<p>She was crying now.</p> - -<p>"You don't understand ... you don't <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>understand ... what one feels about -men like you."</p> - -<p>He winced.</p> - -<p>"You don't know what I felt ... when I heard...."</p> - -<p>"Tony!" he cried, "you <i>must</i> forgive me."</p> - -<p>"I do forgive you—it's not me you've hurt—but——"</p> - -<p>"'But' you don't forgive me, and it is you I've hurt—that's what your -'but' means."</p> - -<p>There was another silence, broken only by her muffled crying and the -throbbing of the wind in the pine-tops. Nigel felt that his old life was -struggling in its cerements to spring up and strangle the new life at -its birth.</p> - -<p>"I can't understand," sobbed the girl, "how you or any man could have -done such a horrible thing. You've been merciless and cruel and grasping -and unworthy—and you won my friendship by false pretences, by lies and -shams—when all the time you knew that if I'd had any idea who you -really were I wouldn't have let you come near me. Oh, it probably seems -only a little thing to you, but it's dreadful for me to think I've given -my friendship to a man who's been a—a cad."</p> - -<p>His anger kindled, for her inexperience and ignorance no longer -attracted him—they were now only fragments that remained of something -he had worshipped.</p> - -<p>"Then are you going to inquire into the history of every man you meet, -in case any one else should 'win your friendship under false -pretences'?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> Most men have had a little shake up in their pasts."</p> - -<p>"You don't call yours a little shake up, do you?"</p> - -<p>The retort was obvious, and he flushed—but at the same time it gave him -an unwonted courage.</p> - -<p>"No, of course not. But you mustn't think it's been just as easy for me -to keep straight as for you. Do you realise what being a man means?—it -means to be tempted."</p> - -<p>"Women are tempted."</p> - -<p>He laughed.</p> - -<p>"But not like men."</p> - -<p>He saw the incredulousness of her eyes, and once more his rage flared -up.</p> - -<p>"You don't understand!" he cried, "you don't understand!"</p> - -<p>Then it struck him that she would never understand, that she would go -through life with her narrow ideas, acquired in a girls' school and -nurtured in her home. All her divine womanly powers of sympathy and -forgiveness would be strangled by her ignorance and her hard-and-fast -rules based on inexperience. She was the only woman he knew of her -class, but he knew the limitations of that class, and Tony would soon be -bound by them like the others. Janey was so different—Janey realised -what one felt like when one simply had to go on the bust, when one came -beastly muckers. She scolded, but she understood. Tony did not scold, -and she did not understand.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p><p>"I want you to understand," he said painfully.</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"About me—about other men."</p> - -<p>"Why do you think I don't understand?"</p> - -<p>"You don't!—you don't! You simply can't—and if you go on as you are, -you never will. Oh, I wish you could! You're too good to be like—other -women."</p> - -<p>Something in his nervous, excited manner frightened her, and strange to -say that faint thrill of fear removed the shame which had tarnished her -attitude towards him that day. Once more she felt the subtle magic of -his unusualness—the attraction of Mr. Smith.</p> - -<p>"Tell me," she said in a low voice, "tell me about yourself."</p> - -<p>He laughed a little.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my story is just every man's. I've mucked it a bit worse, that's -all. But the fight's pretty well as hard with all of us. Directly we're -grown up, almost before, there are people going about whose paid -business it is to tempt us. Tempting us, just when Nature has made it -most difficult for us to resist, is the profession of thousands of human -beings. We fall—we often fall—for if we didn't a powerful set would -have empty pockets—so they see that we fall. And then we can't pick -ourselves up, we sink deeper and deeper into the mud ... and some of us -touch bottom."</p> - -<p>He paused, but she did not speak. Her face was turned away.</p> - -<p>"The horrible thing I did," he continued almost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> roughly, "which, if -you'd only believe me, I loathe as much as you do—I did only as the -consequence of other things, not quite so bad, before it. If a woman -like you had come along when I first fell—I was only nineteen—she -might have pulled me up again. But she didn't come. Other women came, -and they knocked me flatter. They couldn't forgive. Poor devils! I don't -blame them—they'd a great deal to forgive. I went down—and down—till -it became a sort of habit to lie there in the ditch. Then you came, and -I—I wanted to get up."</p> - -<p>She still looked away from him, but her head was bowed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tony—won't you give me a hand?"</p> - -<p>"How can I?"</p> - -<p>"By just believing I can and will do better, and by saying that if I -live a decent life, and pull my name out of the dirt, and make myself -fit to know you, I may be your—friend. You've a right to punish me, but -I ask you to put aside that right for—for pity's sake."</p> - -<p>"I don't see why you want my forgiveness so much—why it means such a -lot to you."</p> - -<p>"It means the world to me. Oh, Tony—little pal that was—forgive me! -Life's a hard, rotten, wretched thing, and if there was no one to -forgive...."</p> - -<p>"I'll try."</p> - -<p>"Oh, please try! If you think, you'll come to understand things -presently, even if you can't now. It's for your own sake as well as mine -I ask it. Think how many a man who lies in the mud<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> wouldn't be there if -only he had some woman to forgive him."</p> - -<p>"I'll try——" she repeated falteringly.</p> - -<p>"Then I've got what'll keep me going for the present. And, Tony, you'll -believe that I can and will behave decently, and make myself worthy to -be your—your friend?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'll believe it."</p> - -<p>"Thank you."</p> - -<p>She was trembling from head to foot.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," he said.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye."</p> - -<p>He took her hand, and longed to kiss it. But he was still humble and -afraid, and let it fall.</p> - -<p>"Tony—Tony—you will have to forgive me a great many things ... because -I am so very hungry."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> - -<h2>BOOK II</h2> - -<p class="bold">THE WORLD AGAINST THE THREE</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER I</span> <span class="smaller">GLIMPSES AND DREAMS</span></h2> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>There was a foam of anemones in the hollows of Furnace Wood. The wind -crept over the heads of the hazel bushes, bowing them gently, and -shaking out of them the scent of their budding. From the young grass and -tender, vivid mosses crept up more scents, faint, moist and earthy. The -sky was grey behind the stooping hazels, but glimmered with the yellow -promise of noon.</p> - -<p>Janet Furlonger and Quentin Lowe had met to say good-bye in Furnace -Wood. The scent of spring was in Janey's clothes, and when her lover -drew her head down to his shoulder he tasted spring in her hair. But -there was not spring on her lips when he sought them—only the salt wash -of sorrow.</p> - -<p>"Why do you cry, little Janey? This is the beginning of hope."</p> - -<p>Another tear slid down towards her mouth, but she wiped it away—he must -not drink her tears.</p> - -<p>"Quentin ... I hope it won't be for long."</p> - -<p>"No, no—not long, little Janey, sweet, not long. It can't be. In six -months, perhaps in less, you'll have a letter asking you to come up to -town and marry a poor but independent journalist."</p> - -<p>"You really think that this time you're going to succeed?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p><p>"Of course. Do you imagine I'd touch Rider's idiotic rag with the tongs -if I didn't look on it as a stepping-stone to better things. There's a -mixed metaphor, Janey. Didn't you notice it?"</p> - -<p>"No, dear."</p> - -<p>"You're not critical enough, little one. You're worthy of good -prose—when I'm too weak and heavy-hearted for poetry."</p> - -<p>The wind sighed towards them, bringing the scent of hidden water.</p> - -<p>"I must leave you, my own—or I shall be late. Now for months of hard -work and hungry dreams of Janey, who will be given at last to my great -hunger. Little heart, do you know what it is to hunger?"</p> - -<p>She trembled. "Yes."</p> - -<p>"Then pity me. Pity me from the fields when you walk in them, as you and -I have so often walked, over fallen leaves—pity me from your fire when -you sit by it and see in the embers things too beautiful to be—from -your meals when you eat them—you and I have had only one meal together, -Janey—and from your bed when you lie waking in it. Janey, Janey—pity me."</p> - -<p>"Pity ... yes...."</p> - -<p>He was holding her in his arms, looking into her beautiful, haggard -face. A sudden pang contracted her limbs, then released them into an -abandonment of weakness.</p> - -<p>"Quentin ... promise me that you will never forget how much you loved me."</p> - -<p>"Janey!"</p> - -<p>"Promise me."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p><p>"Janey, how dare you!—'loved you'! What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, please promise!"</p> - -<p>She was crying. He had never seen her like this. Hitherto at their -meetings she had left the stress and earthquake of love to him, fronting -it with a sweet, half-timid calm. Now she clung to him, twisted and trembled.</p> - -<p>"Promise, Quentin."</p> - -<p>"Well, since you're such a silly little thing, I will. Listen. 'I -promise never to forget how much I loved you.' There, you darling fool."</p> - -<p>"Thank you ..." she said weakly.</p> - -<p>He drew her close, kissed her, and laughed at her.</p> - -<p>"Janey—you're the spring, with its doubts and distresses. You were the -autumn when autumn was here, all tanned and flushed and rumpled, with -September in your eyes. Now you're the spring, thin, soft, aloof and -wondering—you're sunshine behind a cloud—you're the promise of August -and heavy apple-boughs."</p> - -<p>"And you'll never forget how much you loved me...."</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The golden lights of late afternoon were kindled in London, warring with -the smoky remnants of an April day. They shone on the wet pavements and -mud-slopped streets—down Oxford Street poured the full blaze of the -sunset, flamy, fogged, mysterious, crinkling into dull purples behind -the Circus and the spire in Langham Place.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p><p>The Queen's Hall was emptying—crowds poured out, taxi-horns answered -taxi-whistles, and the surge of the streets swept by, gathering up the -units, and whirling them into the nothingness of many people. It -gathered up Nigel Furlonger, and rushed him, like a bubble on a torrent, -down Regent Street, with his face to the darkness of the south—lit from -below by the first flash of the electric advertisements in Piccadilly -Circus, from above by the first pale, useless glimmer of a star.</p> - -<p>He walked quickly, his chin lifted, but mechanically taking his part in -the general hustle, not too much in dreamland to make way, shift, pause, -or plunge, as the ballet of the pavements might require. His hands were -clenched in his pockets. He, perhaps alone among those hundreds, saw the -timid star.</p> - -<p>A dream was threading through his heart, knitting up the tags of -longing, regret and hope that fluttered there. A definite scheme seemed -now to explain the sorrow of the world. The armies of the sorrowful had -received marching orders, had marched to music, had been given a nation, -and a song. Nigel had heard the Eroica Symphony.</p> - -<p>In his ears was still the bourdon of drums, the sigh of strings, the -lilt of wood-wind, the restless drone of brasses. He had heard sorrow -claim its charter of rights, vindicate its pleadings, fight, triumph and -crown itself. He had seen the life-story of the sorrowful man, presented -not as a tragedy or a humiliation, a shame to be veiled, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> as a -pageant, a tremendous spectacle, set to music, lighted, staged, -applauded.</p> - -<p>At first the sorrowful man was half afraid, he sought refuge and -disguise in laughter, he pined for distraction and a long sleep. But -each time he touched his desire, the wailings of heavenly wood-wind -called him onward to holier, darker things. He had dropped the dear, -dustless prize, and gone boldly on into the fire and blackness.... A -thick, dark cloud swagged on the precipices of frozen mountains, frowned -over deserts of snow. The sorrowful man stumbled in the dark, and his -loud crying and the flurry of his seeking rose in a wail against the -thudding drums of fate. Gold crept into the cloud, curling out from -under it like a flame, and the sorrowful man seemed to see a human face -looking down on him, and a hand that held seven stars.... "Who made the -Seven Stars and Orion...." It was by the light of those stars in the -Hero's hand that the sorrowful man saw, in a sudden awful wonder, that -he was not alone—he marched in the ranks of a huge army. All round him, -over the frozen plain, under the cloud with its lightnings, towards the -blackness of the boundless void, marched the army of the sorrowful, -unafraid. They marched in mail, helmeted, plated, with drawn swords. The -ground shook with the thunder of their tread, the mountains quaked, the -darkness smoked, the heavens heeled over, toppled and scattered before -the conquering host whom the Lord had stricken—triumphant, fearless, -proud, crowned and pierced....</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p><p>Footsteps overtook Nigel, and he heard the greeting of a fellow -student.</p> - -<p>"You're in the clouds, old man. Who sent you there? Beethoven?"</p> - -<p>Nigel stared.</p> - -<p>"But the only cosmic genius is Offenbach."</p> - -<p>"You mean the 'Orphée'?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—and 'Hoffmann.' Life isn't a triumphal march, for all Beethoven -would make it—it's comic opera, with just a pinch of the bizarre and a -spice of the macabre. That's Offenbach."</p> - -<p>Furlonger was still marching with the stricken army.</p> - -<p>"When a man suffers," continued the student, "the gods laugh, the world -laughs, and last of all—if he's a sport—the man laughs too."</p> - -<p>"Sorrow is a triumph," said Nigel, dreamily.</p> - -<p>"Not at all, old man—sorrow is a commonplace. The question is, what are -we to make of the commonplace—a pageant or a joke? I'm not sure that -Offenbach hasn't given a better answer than Beethoven."</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In a small room in Gower Street a man lay on his bed, his face crammed -into the pillow, his shoulders high against his ears, his legs twisted -in a rigid lock of endurance. Now and then a shudder went through him, -but it was the shudder of something taut and stiff, over which the -merest surface tremble can pass.</p> - -<p>In his hand he crushed a letter. Behind his teeth words were forming, -and fighting through to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> his colourless lips. "Janey!—my Janey! Oh, my -God! I can't bear this."</p> - -<p>He suddenly twisted himself round on to his back, and faced the aching, -yellow square of the window, where a May day was mocked by rain. There -was a pipe close to the window, and the water poured from it in a quick -tinkling trickle, cheering in rhythm, tragic in tone. Quentin unfolded -Janey's letter.</p> - -<p>He read it—but that word is inadequate, for he read it in the same -spirit as an Egyptian priest might read the glyphs of his divinity, -seeing in each sign a volume of esoteric meaning, so that every jot and -tittle was worthy of long minutes' contemplation.</p> - -<p>It was some time since Janey's letters had ceased to be for Quentin what -she hoped. Literally they were rather bald and laboured, for Janey was -no penwoman, but she put a wealth of thought and passion into the -straggling lines, and for a long while he had seen this. But now he saw -much more, she would have trembled to think of the meaning he read into -her words—he tested each phrase for the insincerity he felt sure it -must conceal, he hunted up and down the pages for that monster unknown -to Janet, the <i>arrière pensée</i>. Her letters were a torture to him—they -tortured his brain with shadows and seekings, they tortured his heart -with blue fires of misgiving and scorchings of jealousy. She did not -write oftener than once a week, but the torment of a single letter -lasted till its successor at once varied and renewed it.</p> - -<p>Lying there in the hideous dusk of what should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> have been a summer -afternoon, Quentin wondered if the doom of love and lovers had not been -spoken him—"thou canst not see My Face and live."</p> - -<p>It was a vital fear. Before he had brought his love to its consummation, -snatched the veil from its mysteries, and looked it in the face, it had, -in spite of hours of anguish, been his comfort, the strongest, -tenderest, purest thing in his life. But now he saw, without much -searching, that this love, though deeper and fiercer than ever, belonged -somehow to his lower self. To realise it brought despair instead of -comfort, wreckage instead of calm. He dared not, as in former days, -plunge his sick heart into it as into a spring of healing waters—rather -it was a scalding fountain, bubbling and seething out of death.</p> - -<p>He had hoped that perhaps separation would make him calmer. Of late he -had often denied himself the sight of Janey in that same vain hope. But -now, as then, he found her letters almost as disintegrating as her -presence—indeed more so, since they gave wider scope to his familiar -demon of doubt. He wondered if he would ever find rest. Would marriage -give it to him? He started up suddenly on the bed. An awful thought was -thrust like a sword against his heart—the thought that even in marriage -he would not find peace.</p> - -<p>He had fallen into the habit of looking on marriage as the end of -sorrows—and now, when fate and hard work seemed to have brought it -within gazing-distance of hope, he suddenly saw that it would be as full -of torment as his present state; or rather, more so—just as his present -state was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> an intensification of the pain of earlier days. He -realised—hardly definitely, but with horrible acuteness—that he had -allowed love to frustrate love, and that by his demand to look into that -great dread Face, he had brought on himself scorching and blindness and -doom.</p> - -<p>"Thou canst not see my Face and live."</p> - -<p>He sprang off the bed. His pulses were hammering, his blood was thick, a -kind of film obscured his eyes, so that he groped his way to the -dressing-table. A clock struck four, and he suddenly remembered an -engagement he had that afternoon. He would go—it would distract him. He -might forget Janey—if only for an hour, he would be free of the torment -that each thought of her carried like poison in a golden bowl. It was -strange, it was terrible, that he should ever have come to want to -forget Janey—and it was not because he did not love her; he loved her a -hundred times more passionately than ever. But the love which had once -been his strength and salve had now become a rotten sickness of the soul.</p> - -<p>He dressed himself, removed as far as possible the stains of sorrow and -exhaustion from his face, and plunged out to take his place in the -restless, ill-managed pageant of the pavements, where threads are -tangled, characters lost, and cues unheard. He was going to a -semi-literary gathering at a friend's flat in Coleherne Gardens. He did -not look forward to it particularly, but it might help him in his -twofold struggle—to win Janey in the future and forget her for the present.</p> - -<p>The room was crowded. Hallidie was presiding<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> over a mixed assembly of -more-or-less celebrities with that debonair self-confidence which had -helped make him a famous novelist in spite of his novels. There were one -or two great ones present, just to raise the level—he did not introduce -them to Lowe. He knew exactly whom they would like to meet, and Lowe, he -felt, would let the conversation down, just when it was becoming yeasty -with literary wit. There were other people in the room who showed a -tendency to do this, and Hallidie had carefully introduced them to one -another, so that they could all fail mutually in a well-upholstered corner.</p> - -<p>"Ah—Lowe. Glad to see you. Come, let me introduce you to Miss -Strife"—and sweeping Quentin past the renowned author of <i>Life and How -to Bear It</i>, and Dompter, the little, insignificant, world-famous -sea-poet, he presented him to a very young girl, sitting alone on a divan.</p> - -<p>Quentin's first feeling was one of outrage. What right had Hallidie to -drag him away from the pulse of things, so vital to his struggling -ambition, and condemn him to atrophy with a flapper. He stared down at -her disapprovingly—then something in her wistful look disarmed him.</p> - -<p>"I believe our fathers are neighbours in the country," he said stiffly.</p> - -<p>He did not notice her reply. It was not that which made him stop his -furious glances at Hallidie and sit down beside her. She was evidently -very young. There was a lack of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>sophistication about her hair-dressing -which proclaimed an early attempt, her frock was simple and girlish, her -face alert and innocent.</p> - -<p>Quentin found himself gulping in his throat, almost as if tears had -found their way there at last; for he suddenly realised how new and -beautiful it was to sit beside a woman and not be tormented. As he -looked at her delicate profile, the pure curves of her chin and -collarless neck, his heart became suddenly still. There was a great -calm. Peace had come down on him like water. Simplicity rested on his -parched thoughts like rain-clouds on a desert. He seemed suddenly to -come back to life, to the world, and to see them in the calm, usual -light of every day. The racket, the glare, the sense of being in an -abnormal relation to his surroundings—all were gone. For the first time -in his complicated, sophisticated, catastrophic life, Quentin Lowe was at peace.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>It was late in June. A haze wimpled the pine-trees of Shovelstrode, and -the heather between their trunks was in full flower. The old house -shimmered in the haze and sunshine, and stared away to yellow fields of -buttercups and distances of brown and blue.</p> - -<p>Tony and Awdrey Strife were lying in the shadow of a chestnut on the -lawn. Two young gracious figures in muslins, they lay with their chins -on their hands, and looked away towards the golden weald. They did not -speak much, for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> post had just come, and they were reading their -letters. Awdrey giggled to herself a good deal over hers, but Tony was -serious—the corners of her mouth even drooped a little, but whether -from sorrow or tenderness or both it would be hard to say. Suddenly she -made an exclamation.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" asked Awdrey.</p> - -<p>"It's a letter from Furlonger."</p> - -<p>"<i>The</i> Furlonger!"</p> - -<p>"Yes—he's written me quite a long letter."</p> - -<p>"What cheek. I thought you'd seen the last of him."</p> - -<p>"He came to say good-bye before he went to London."</p> - -<p>"Oh——"</p> - -<p>Awdrey rolled over on her side, and stared hard at her sister.</p> - -<p>"Did he know you were in town last month?"</p> - -<p>"No—I've never written to him, and this is the first time he's written -to me."</p> - -<p>"Then he hasn't shown unseemly eagerness—it's nearly six months since -he left. What does he say?—anything exciting?"</p> - -<p>"Exciting for him. Von Gleichroeder is giving a pupils' concert at the -Bechstein, and Mr. Furlonger is going to play."</p> - -<p>"A solo?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—something by Scriabin. He's only had six months' teaching, but von -Gleichroeder's so pleased with him that he's going to let him play at -this concert of his. Then he'll finish his course, and then he'll start -professionally."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p><p>"Good Lord!—it sounds thrilling for an ex-convict. Let's see his -letter."</p> - -<p>"Here it is. No," changing suddenly, "I think I'd rather read it to you."</p> - -<p>"Right-O! Excuse a smile."</p> - -<p>"Don't be an idiot, Awdrey. Now listen; he says: 'Von Gleichroeder's -concert is fixed for the twenty-seventh'—why, that's next Friday—'and -it's been settled that I'm to play Scriabin's second Prelude. It sounds -like cats fighting, but it's exciting stuff. Von Gleichroeder is -tremendously keen on the ultra-moderns—nothing makes him madder than to -hear Verdi or Gounod or Rossini. So I play d'Indy and Stravinsky and -Strauss and Sibelius; except when I'm alone in my digs—and then I have -the old tunes out, for I like them best.'"</p> - -<p>She did not read the next paragraph aloud.</p> - -<p>"I've been having a hard fight for it, Tony—but I'm pulling through. -Music has helped me, and the memory of our friendship, and the thought -that you're trying to understand me and forgive me."</p> - -<p>"Well, I wish him luck," said Awdrey; "what a good thing von -Gleichroeder found him out!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, he'll have his chance now—his chance of a decent life."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, Tony! That's not what he's after—fame and dibs, my dear -girl, fame and dibs."</p> - -<p>"He told me he was accepting von Gleichroeder's offer because he wanted -to be—good."</p> - -<p>"Well, London's a queer place to go for that."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p><p>"He's gone there to work. He had no chance here."</p> - -<p>"More chance than he'll have there—you bet he's painted the place -pretty red by this time."</p> - -<p>Her sister was about to retort sharply, when a man suddenly came round -the corner of the house towards them.</p> - -<p>"Awdrey!" cried Tony, springing up. "Here's Quentin!"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER II</span> <span class="smaller">THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME</span></h2> - -<p>The door was wide open at Sparrow Hall, and a square of sunshine lay on -the kitchen floor. In the little flower-stuffed garden bees were humming -lazily, and a thrush was singing in the last of the laburnum. Tangles of -roses trailed over the farm-house walls, they hung round the -window-frames, darkening the rooms, and over the door, sending faint -perfumes to Janey as she sat in the kitchen.</p> - -<p>She looked pale and washed-out with the heat. The outlines of her -splendid figure were drooping, and there was an ominous hollowing of the -curves of her face and arms. She sat at the table, her cheek resting on -her palm, reading from a pile of letters. They were long letters, -closely written in a sharp, scrawling hand, on thin paper that crackled -gently as she fingered it. Every now and then she looked up anxiously, -and seemed to listen. Then her head would bow again, and the paper would -crackle softly as before.</p> - -<p>At last the garden gate clicked, and she saw the postman's cap coming up -the path between the rows of sweet peas. She sprang to her feet, -trembling and fighting for her self-command. She reached the door just -as he lifted his hand to knock.</p> - -<p>"A letter for you, miss," and old Winkworth smiled genially.</p> - -<p>The colour rushed over Janey's cheeks like a wave, then as a wave ebbed -out again. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> took the letter with a hand that shook piteously, her -lips parted and a low laugh broke from them. Then suddenly her -expression changed—in such a manner that Winkworth muttered anxiously—</p> - -<p>"Fine afternoon, ain't it, miss?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—a glorious afternoon. Good-day, Winkworth."</p> - -<p>"Good-day, miss," and he shambled off.</p> - -<p>Janey turned into the house, and dropping into her chair by the table, -began to sob childishly. It was more from exhaustion than grief—the -exhaustion of hopes strained to breaking-point, and then allowed to -relax again into disappointment and frustration. She was so dreadfully -tired—she so longed to sleep, quietly, deeply, at once. She laid her -head on the table, and her shoulders heaved, straining and struggling as -if the burden of her sorrow were physical.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly she noticed the unopened letter, and her sobs broke out -with even greater vehemence. Nigel! poor Nigel! She had not opened his -letter—she had flung it aside and forgotten it, because it was not -Quentin's. It was the day of his concert, too—what a beast she felt!</p> - -<p>She tore open the envelope, and wiped away the tears that blinded her.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">My own dear Janey</span>,</p> - -<p>"This is just to keep myself from thinking of that damned concert. -It's scaring me a bit—more than a bit, in fact. Who would have -thought that any one with my past could suffer from stage<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> -fright?—but that little thing of Scriabin's is the very devil. Old -von G. has been ragging me no end over it—we nearly came to blows -last practice. I hope you and the lad don't mind my not wanting you -to come up for the show; I feel it would be the last straw for you -two to see me make a fool of myself—not that I mean to, but you -never know what may happen. Cheer up—you shall come and help me -when I fill the Albert Hall.</p> - -<p>"By the way, I saw that little bounder Quentin Lowe at a concert at -the Queen's last Sunday.</p> - -<p>"Now, good-bye; I'm turning into bed. This time to-morrow it'll all -be over, and I'll send you a telegram. Greetings to the lad.</p> - -<p class="right">"Ever yours, dear,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -"<span class="smcap">Nigel</span>."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Janey folded the letter with trembling hands. It filled her with a kind -of pitiful anguish, for she knew that the only thing in it that -interested her was the reference to Quentin. Nigel's wonderful concert, -about which she and Len had dreamed so many dreams, had faded into the -background of her thoughts, driven out by her sleepless, bruising -anxiety for her lover.</p> - -<p>It was over a fortnight since he had written. She had before her his -last letter, in which he said: "I will write again in a day or two, and -tell you the exact date of my return." She had waited, but the letter -had not come. She had written, but had had no answer. What could have -happened?</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p><p>There had been nothing in the past few weeks to make her expect this -silence. His last bid for independence had met with more success than -the others. He had fought hard against failure and discouragement, and -had now found work on one or two good dailies. Their marriage was at -last in sight. He was expected home for a couple of weeks' holiday, then -he would work on through the autumn, and there was no reason why, if -things prospered, they should not be married soon after Christmas.</p> - -<p>Yes—at last their marriage was a thing to be reckoned with, talked -about, and planned for. For the first time Janey could consider such -things as home and outfit, breaking the news to her brothers, and -leaving Sparrow Hall—all were now within the range of probability and -expectation. But a terrible gloom had settled on these last days. It was -not merely her sorrow at leaving the farm and the boys—it was something -less accountable and more tempestuous than that. It had its source in -Quentin's letters. She could see that he was not happy—their marriage, -their longed-for, prayed-for, wept-for, worked-for marriage, was not -bringing him happiness. On the contrary, his suffering seemed to have -increased. His doubts and forebodings had been transferred from material -circumstances to more subtle terrors of soul—he doubted the future more -passionately, because more spiritually, than ever.</p> - -<p>Janey had not been able to understand this at first, but in time his -attitude had communicated itself to her, though whether her distrust was -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>independent or merely a reflection of his, it would be hard to say. -Anyhow, she doubted—fiercely, miserably, despondingly. She had started, -on his recommendation, to make herself some clothes, but the work lagged -and depressed her. She found herself hungering for the early times of -their courtship, when their marriage was a dream made golden by -distance. She thought of the days when his name had rung like bells in -her heart, without a horrid dissonance of fear, when his letters were -pure joy, and the thought of meeting him pure anticipation. Would those -days return?—And now, here was his silence, consuming her. Why didn't -he write? He had been so eager in his last letter, though, as usual, -eagerness had soon been throttled by despair.</p> - -<blockquote><p>"I shall have you—I shall have you at last, my beautiful, tall -Janey, for whom I hunger. But I am filled with doubts. There are -some men in whose mouths manna turns to dust and the water of life -to gall. Everything I touch is doomed. Either my soul or my body -betrays me—my soul is so hot and my body so weak—so damnably -weak. If only my hot soul had been given a stout body, or my weak -body a weak soul ... then I should have been happy. But now it is -the eternal fight between fire and water."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Janey pushed the letter aside, and picked up another. She had been -trying to comfort herself with Quentin's letters, but they were not on -the whole of a comforting nature. His restless misery was in them all. -If his last letter had been happy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> she would not have worried nearly so -much. She would have put down his silence to some trite external -cause—pressure of work or indefiniteness of plans—he had always been -an erratic correspondent. But his unhappiness opened a dozen roads to -her morbid imaginings. It was dreadful to think that all she had given -to Quentin had only made him more unhappy.</p> - -<p>Perhaps he was too miserable to write—not likely, since he was one of -those men whom despair makes voluble, but nevertheless a real terror to -her unreason. Perhaps he had not received her last letter, and thought -that she had played him false—he had always been jealous and inclined -to suspicion. This last idea obtained a hold on her that would have been -impossible had not her mind been weakened by anxiety. She had heard of -letters going astray in the post, and probably Quentin had been -expecting one from her, and not receiving it had been too proud to write -himself. Or perhaps he had received it, but had thought it cold. He had -often taken her to task for some fancied coldness which she had never -meant.</p> - -<p>In her desperation she resolved to write again. Hastily cramming his -letters into the boot-box where she unromantically kept them, she seized -paper and ink, and began to scrawl despairingly—</p> - -<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">My Darling, Darling Boy</span>,</p> - -<p>"Why don't you write? Didn't you get my last letter? I posted it on -the 16th. Quentin, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> can't stand this suspense. Are you unhappy? -Oh, my boy, my boy, my heart aches for you. I know you suffer—and -I can't bear it——"</p></blockquote> - -<p>The pen fell from her shaking hand as footsteps sounded in the garden. -The next minute Leonard came in—luckily for Janet he was not very -observant.</p> - -<p>"Well, Janey—I've sent off the wire."</p> - -<p>"What wire?" she asked dully.</p> - -<p>"To the old bounder, of course—to buck him up for to-night. I said -'Cheer up. You'll soon be dead.' That ought to encourage him."</p> - -<p>Janey smiled wanly.</p> - -<p>"Meantime I've got a piece of news for you. It'll make you laugh. But -let's have a drink first—I'm dreadfully thirsty. This weather dries one -up like blazes."</p> - -<p>"There's beer in the cupboard."</p> - -<p>"Right-O! Now we'll drink to Nigel's very good health. Have some, old -girl. No? But I say, you look as if you needed it. You're as white as -chalk."</p> - -<p>"It's only the heat. What's your news, Len?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing much, really—only that little misshapen monkey Quentin Lowe's -engaged to be married."</p> - -<p>"Quentin Lowe...."</p> - -<p>Janey's voice seemed to her to come from very far away, as if some one -in another part of the room were speaking. She grew sick and faint, but -at the same time knew it was all ridiculous.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p><p>"Yes—I don't wonder you're surprised. Guess whom to."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure—quite sure?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course. I had it from his father. Guess whom to."</p> - -<p>"I can't ... I—I can't believe it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's no end of a joke, isn't it? You'd never think a woman would -be fool enough to have him, when you can get the genuine article from -any organ-grinder. But stop laughing, Janey, and guess who it is."</p> - -<p>"I—I can't.... Did you really hear it from his father?... It can't be -true. Quentin's in London."</p> - -<p>"He's been there for the last three months, but he came home on -Wednesday."</p> - -<p>"Wednesday——"</p> - -<p>"Yes—why not? But you haven't guessed who the girl is yet."</p> - -<p>"I can't guess ... tell me, Len."</p> - -<p>"Well, it's Strife's youngest daughter, the one that's just come out."</p> - -<p>Janet made a grab at Leonard's half-emptied glass and drained it.</p> - -<p>"That's it—drink her health. She'll need it."</p> - -<p>"Len—did—did you really hear it from old Lowe?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I heard it first of all in the Wheatsheaf. I've been as thirsty -as hell all the afternoon, so on my way back from the post-office I -turned in at the old pub for a pint. Dunk told me, Dunk of Golden -Compasses. Then no sooner had I got outside than I saw the old -devil-dodger prancing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> along, and I couldn't resist howling to -him—'Hear your son's engaged—wish him victory in the strife.' He -looked poisonous, so I just said, 'You'll be letting strife into your -household.' To which he deigned reply, 'I -am—ah—um—completely—ah—satisfied with -my—ah—son's—um—matrimonial choice."</p> - -<p>Janey managed to reach the window.</p> - -<p>"He met her a lot in town, I believe. Of course, he'd known her father -down here, but had never met the girl herself. I believe it all happened -pretty quick. Dunk says so. I don't see how he knows, but every one -always seems to know everything about engaged couples."</p> - -<p>"Is that all?"</p> - -<p>"What more do you want?—I'm off now to Cherrygarden Farm—I promised -Wilsher I'd be round to look at those chicks of his."</p> - -<p>"Don't be long...."</p> - -<p>"What time's supper?"</p> - -<p>"Any time you like."</p> - -<p>"Well, make it half-past eight. It's a good peg over to Cherrygarden, -and if I come back by Dormans I can send another wire to Nigel."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't, Len!"</p> - -<p>"Why ever not?"</p> - -<p>"I don't see that it's so ... so very important that he should know."</p> - -<p>"About what?"</p> - -<p>"The—the engagement."</p> - -<p>"You silly old girl! I wasn't going to wire him about that—waste of a -good sixpence that would be! But don't you realise that at eight -<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>to-night <i>the</i> concert begins? I telegraphed to him an hour ago, just -to buck him up beforehand—next time I want to catch him in full -squeak."</p> - -<p>"Very well—but, Len ... don't be late."</p> - -<p>She was still standing by the window, but something in her words made -him go across to her.</p> - -<p>"You're feeling seedy, Janey?"</p> - -<p>"Just a bit washed-out."</p> - -<p>"It's the heat, I expect. It's made me feel a little queer too."</p> - -<p>"Then ought you to go to Cherrygarden?"</p> - -<p>"I must—and it's getting cooler now. Take care of yourself, old sister, -and don't sit too much in this hot kitchen."</p> - -<p>He squeezed her hand, and went out. She watched him go, blessing his -obtuseness, even though it was leaving her to fight through her awful -hour alone. He went down the path, and out at the gate—then she -staggered back into the room, and fell in a heap against the table.</p> - -<p>She had not fainted, though she longed to faint—to win the respite of -forgetfulness at whatever cost, if only for a minute. She lay an inert, -huddled mass against the table-leg, motionless except for a long shudder -now and then. All power had left her limbs—they indeed might be in a -swoon—but her brain throbbed with a dazzling consciousness; it seemed -as if it had drawn into itself all the consciousness of her body, -leaving senses dull, nerves dumb, and muscles slack, in order to prime -itself with the whole range of feeling.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p><p>Strange to say, pain was not the paramount emotion, and despair was -scarcely present. Rather, she was consumed by a passionate sense of -doubt—of Quentin, of herself, of the whole world. It was like the -sudden removal of a prop which one had thought could not be shaken—it -was like a sudden precipitation into a world where the ordinary cosmic -laws did not hold—she seemed almost to doubt her own identity in that -first gasp of revelation.</p> - -<p>It could not be true. Quentin could not have failed her like this. -Leonard must be mistaken. If one were to see the sun setting in the east -or the sea on fire one would doubt one's senses, one would not doubt the -universal laws. Neither would she doubt Quentin—she rather would doubt -Leonard's senses, doubt her own.</p> - -<p>She had not in the whole course of her love doubted Quentin. It was he -who had doubted her, who had tormented her with his distrusts and -jealousies. "I'm only a misshapen little bounder, Janey—the first -decent man who comes along will snatch you from me. But he will never -love you as I do—Janey, Janey, little Janey" ... the words seemed to -come from outside her, from the shadowy corners of the room. She sat up -and listened. They came again—"Janey, my own little love, my little -heart—our love wounds, but it is the wound of immortality, the wound -which must always be when the Infinitely Great lifts up and gathers to -itself the infinitely little." ... "Stand by me, stand by me—I have -nothing but my sword. I threw away my shield long ago. If you do not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> -stand by me I shall fall." ... "Janey, love, dear little love, with eyes -like September."...</p> - -<p>She crouched back in terror. Was she going mad? No, these were only -words from Quentin's letters—the letters she had just read—ringing in -her strung and distracted brain.</p> - -<p>"Love, my little sweet love, do you think of me sometimes in the long -evenings when I think of you?—sometimes when I am thinking of you, I -tremble lest you should not be thinking of me...." "Do you know how -often I dream of you, Janey? You come to me so often in sleep—once you -stood between me and the window, and I saw the stars through your hair. -Oh, God!—when I dream I hold you in my arms, and wake with them -empty."...</p> - -<p>She could stand it no longer. She sprang to her feet—the strength of -desperation had come at last. There was one only who could tell her -which she was to doubt—her own senses or, as it seemed to her, the -cosmic laws of his love.</p> - -<p>She would go over to Redpale Farm—she would see Quentin, she would have -an explanation. There would be one—and she would take her stand boldly -beside him, against his father, against the whole world—though she, -like him, had thrown away her shield long ago.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER III</span> <span class="smaller">ONLY A BOY</span></h2> - -<p>It was about four o'clock, and in spite of what Leonard said, not much -cooler than at noon. The sun scorched on the hay-grass, drawing out of -it a drowsy perfume, which a faint, hot breeze scattered into the -hedges. The trees scarcely moved, and their shadows were rusted with the -curling sorrel. Clumps of dog-roses and elder flowers splashed the -bushes with sudden pinks and whites, while vetches trailed their purples -less startlingly in the hedgerows.</p> - -<p>Janey walked fast, and every now and then she ran for little sprints. -Her breath sobbed in her throat, her eyes were fixed and her hands -clenched. She climbed recklessly over gates, and plunged through copses; -her hair was soon almost on her shoulders, flying from her face in -wisps, straggling round her ears; her face became flushed and moist with -the heat—she tore her sleeve, and scraps of bramble hung on her skirt. -What woman but Janey would have rushed to confront a faithless lover in -such a state? But even now, when almost any one would have realised how -much depended on her appearance, she was careless and oblivious. She did -not feel in the least dismayed at the start given by the servant who -admitted her, nor, later, by her own reflection in a mirror in the -study.</p> - -<p>It was the same little book-lined room in which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> she had had tea with -Quentin on her first visit to Redpale. There was the glorious Eastern -rug which he had said "had her tintings—her browns and whites and -reds." There was the big pewter jar that had then held chrysanthemums, -but held roses now. They were delicate white roses, faintly, sweetly -scented. Janey went over to them and laid her hot face against them. She -could hardly tell why, but they seemed to bring into the room an alien -atmosphere. Quentin had never given her white roses—as a matter of fact -he had given her scarcely any garden flowers, except chrysanthemums—he -had once said that only wild flowers were for wild things. She thought -of bunches of buttercups, of broom with bursting pods, of hazel sprays -and tawny grasses. Now she suddenly wished that he would give her a -white rose. She took one out of the jar, and was trying to fasten it in -her breast when footsteps sounded outside the room.</p> - -<p>She turned deadly pale, and dropped the rose. For the first time she -felt that she had been foolish to come. Quentin might be angry with her, -for her coming would rouse his father's suspicions. Her hurry and -desperation might prejudice him against her. In an unaccustomed qualm -she realised that she was flushed, dishevelled and perspiring. She felt -at a disadvantage, and drew back as the door opened, seeking the shadows -by the hearth.</p> - -<p>"Janey!"</p> - -<p>He stood in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his chin thrust forward, -his pale face bright in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> gleaming afternoon. His youth struck her -with a sudden appeal—his youth and delicacy, both emphasised in the -soft yellow light—and a sob tore up through her breast.</p> - -<p>"Oh ..." she said, and moved towards him.</p> - -<p>He shut the door.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm sorry I came!" she cried.</p> - -<p>He did not speak, but came forward, stopping abruptly a few feet away.</p> - -<p>"Janey—I want to explain...."</p> - -<p>"Explain...." She had not thought there would be any explanation -needed—or, if needed, possible.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I ought to have written, but I couldn't, somehow—or rather, I -wrote you a dozen letters, and tore them all up."</p> - -<p>She wondered why she felt so calm.</p> - -<p>"I—I asked my father to call and see you."</p> - -<p>"You mean to say—he knows?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my God!"</p> - -<p>Her calmness staggered, and all but collapsed. For the first time her -doubts gave way to even bitterer realisation. This confession to -Quentin's father, this betrayal of the secret she had spent her health -and happiness for four years to keep, made her grasp what an hour ago -had seemed beyond the reach even of credulity.</p> - -<p>"Quentin—why did you tell him?—how could you!—after all we've -suffered...."</p> - -<p>"I—I—I was desperate, Janey, I had to tell some one, and he was so -sympathetic—much more than I'd expected."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p><p>"When did you tell him?"</p> - -<p>"The night I came back from town."</p> - -<p>"After the—the rest was settled?"</p> - -<p>He nodded.</p> - -<p>"Quentin, have you told <i>her</i>?" She was accepting the impossible quite -meekly now.</p> - -<p>"No, no!—I can't tell <i>her</i>."</p> - -<p>She waited a moment for what she thought the inevitable entreaty not to -betray him. Thank God!—it did not come.</p> - -<p>"She would never forgive you," she said slowly. "Young girls don't."</p> - -<p>"And you, Janey...."</p> - -<p>She drew back from him.</p> - -<p>"You can't ask me that now."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Well—well, can't you see I hardly realise things as yet. An hour ago I -preferred to doubt my own senses rather than doubt you. Now——"</p> - -<p>"You doubt me."</p> - -<p>"No, I don't doubt you. I'm convinced—that you're a cad."</p> - -<p>Her voice, clear at the beginning of the sentence, had sunk almost to a -whisper. He shrank back, wincing before her gentleness.</p> - -<p>She herself wondered how long it would last, this unnatural calm. It -came to her quite easily, she did not have to fight for it, and yet the -general sensation was of being under an anæsthetic. She only half -realised her surroundings, this horrible new earth on which she was -wandering homeless; her emotions seemed dull and inadequate to the -situation—it would be a relief if she could feel more.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p><p>Then suddenly feeling came—it came in a tide, a tempest, a whirlwind. -It shook her like an earthquake and blasted her like a furnace. She -staggered sideways, as a great gloom darkled on her eyes. Then the -shadows parted, and she saw Quentin's face, half turned away—pale, -fragile, sullen, the face of a boy—of a boy in despair.</p> - -<p>"Quentin!" she cried. "Oh, my boy—my little boy! You aren't going to -behave like a cad."</p> - -<p>"But I am a cad, my dear Janey."</p> - -<p>He spoke brutally, in the stress of feeling.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Quentin!—Quentin!"</p> - -<p>She was losing not only her calm, but her dignity—yet she did not heed -it. She sprang towards him, seized his hands, and gasped her words close -to his ear, as unconsciously he turned his head from her.</p> - -<p>"Quentin, you can't forsake me—not now—not after all I've given -you—you can't, you can't! You loved me so much—you love me still. You -can't have stopped loving me all of a sudden like this. And if you love -me, you can't forsake me. Quentin, I shall die if you forsake me."</p> - -<p>"Janey—let me explain. I can't explain if you're so frenzied. Oh, -Janey, don't faint."</p> - -<p>She fell back from him suddenly, and he caught her in his arms.</p> - -<p>The soft weight of her, her warmth, the familiar scent of her hair and -her tumbled gown, snatched him back into departing days. He suddenly -lost his self-command, or rather his sense of the present. He clasped -her to him, and kissed her and kissed her—as eagerly, passionately and -tenderly as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> ever in Furnace Wood. She did not resist or shrink, her -eyes were closed, and she lay back a dead weight in his arms, drinking -her last despairing draught of happiness.... His clasp grew tighter—oh, -that he would crush the life out of her as she lay there under his -lips!...</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he dropped his arms, and they staggered back from each -other, piteously conscious once more of the present and its doom.</p> - -<p>"Janey, Janey ... I can't—I mustn't love you."</p> - -<p>"But you do love me——"</p> - -<p>She sank into a chair, and covered her face.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I love you. But it's in byways of love. Can't you understand?"</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>"Don't you see that, all through, my love for you has been unworthy—the -worst in me?..."</p> - -<p>She tried to speak, but her words were unintelligible.</p> - -<p>"You and I have never been happy together——"</p> - -<p>"Never?..."</p> - -<p>"Yes—at times. But it was a blasting, scorching happiness—there was no -peace in it. We doubted each other."</p> - -<p>"I never doubted you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you did. When I said good-bye to you before going to London, you -made me promise never to forget how much I'd loved you."</p> - -<p>"But it wasn't you I doubted then. I doubted fate, chance, God, anything -you like—but not you."</p> - -<p>She had recovered her self-control, and her voice was hard and even.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't, Janey!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p><p>"Why not?—why should I spare you? You haven't spared me."</p> - -<p>"You mustn't think I intended you to—to hear things in this way. I'd -meant to give you an explanation first. But the news leaked out——"</p> - -<p>"Well, you can give me an explanation now."</p> - -<p>"I'll try—but it will be very difficult," he said falteringly. "You're -like a flood to me—I feel giddy and helpless when I'm with you. I don't -think I'll ever be able to make you understand. I wish you hadn't come -like this—I wish——"</p> - -<p>"Please go on, Quentin."</p> - -<p>Her manner disconcerted him. He could not understand her alternations -between hysteria and stolid calm.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't think I don't realise I've behaved like a skunk. But I -don't want to dwell on it—it would only be putting mud on my face to -make you pity me—but I do ask you to try to understand me.... Janey, -I've done this for your good as well as mine. You shared the misery and -ruin of my love. In saving myself, I've saved you too. Janey, -Janey—don't you see that our love was nothing but a rotten sickness of -the soul?"</p> - -<p>He looked at her anxiously, but her face was expressionless as wood.</p> - -<p>"You and I have always been more or less wretched together, and though -at first I felt our unhappiness was doing us good—strengthening us and -purifying us—of late I felt it was doing us harm, it was disorganising -and unmanning us...."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p><p>He paused—even an outburst of fury or denial would have been welcome.</p> - -<p>"To begin with," he continued in an uncertain voice, "I thought it was -the hopelessness of it all that was making it so dreadful, but when our -marriage was actually in sight—of hope, at least—I felt matters were -only getting worse. My thoughts were like sand and fire—my love was -like the salt water I compared it to long ago, with madness in each -draught. I felt our marriage would be a bigger hell than anything that -had gone before it—and yet, I wanted you! Oh, God! I wanted you!"</p> - -<p>She bowed forward suddenly, over her clenched hands.</p> - -<p>"Janey, Janey—I don't want to hurt you more than I must. It's not your -fault that every thought of you was fire and poison to me. You were just -a weapon in fate's hands to wound me—we were both in fate's hands, to -wound each other."</p> - -<p>Paradoxically it was at that moment the old impulse returned. He came -forward, holding out his arms to her. But this time she shrank back, -cowering into the chair. Her movement brought him to his senses.</p> - -<p>"You see how I can hardly speak to you. I must get on, and get done. I -want to tell you how I met <i>her</i> ... Tony."</p> - -<p>Janey shuddered. She had now come to the most awful pain of all.</p> - -<p>"Tony ..." repeated Quentin. She noticed how he dwelt on the word, as if -he were drawing strength from it, and at the same time she saw a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> slight -change in his manner. He lifted his head and spoke more steadily.</p> - -<p>"I met her at a literary function, and I sat beside her all the evening. -I remember every minute—I didn't speak much, nor did she, but a -wonderful simplicity and calm seemed to radiate from her, a beautiful -innocence—— What is it, Janey?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing—go on."</p> - -<p>"She was so young, scarcely more than a child—young and sweet. When I -got home that night I felt for the first time an infinite peace in my -soul—I felt all quiet and simple. I didn't worry or brood any more. I -wasn't in love with her then—oh, no!—but I wanted to meet her again, -just for the quiet of it. I did meet her shortly afterwards, and it was -as beautiful as before. Then suddenly it all rushed over me—I wanted -her, for my own; because she was pure and childlike and simple and -inexperienced."</p> - -<p>The confidence of his voice had grown, and in his eyes was something -Janey had never seen there before. She now realised a little what Tony -meant to him—what she, Janey, had never meant. She knew now that she -could never win him back, and more, that she did not particularly want -to. Tony stood to Quentin for all that was lovely and heroic in -womanhood, whereas she, his Janey, had never been more to him than the -incarnation of his own desperate passions. She stepped back, and the -action was symbolical—she stepped out of his way. Her pleadings would -no longer harass and shake him, she would leave him to his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>salvation, -since he loved it better than the woman who had meekly renounced hers -for his sake.</p> - -<p>"I grew desperate for her," continued Quentin, in the new assured voice. -"Oh, don't think I gave you up without a struggle!—I had a dreadful -time. I suffered horribly. But what will not a man do for his soul? I -felt that my soul was at stake. It's damned rot to talk of men turning -away from salvation—no man can get a real chance of salvation and not -grasp it at once. Oh, don't think it didn't cut me to the heart to treat -you as I did! I felt a swine and a cad, but I saw that I was grasping my -only chance of redemption—and yours too. I couldn't help it, I tell -you—no man can. Oh, don't think that if I could have saved myself with -you, I wouldn't have done it rather than.... Oh, my God!—but I -couldn't."</p> - -<p>There are moments in a woman's life when she is simply staggered by the -selfishness of the male, and yet to every woman there is something -inevitable about it, so that it does not stir up her rage and contempt, -as it would if she saw it in her own sex. Janey felt no anger with -Quentin, she only thought how pitifully young he looked.</p> - -<p>There was a pause—a long pause, broken by the rustling of the wind in -the garden. Janey's eyes were fixed on Quentin's face, her whole being -seemed concentrated upon it, all her thoughts, all her passion, all her -pity. Poor child! poor, poor boy!</p> - -<p>"Tony is very young," she said suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, only seventeen."</p> - -<p>"And she's very good and gentle and well-bred."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p><p>He nodded.</p> - -<p>"And she's never done anything really wrong."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>There was another silence. This time it was Quentin who stared at Janey. -He was still strong in the assurance Tony gave him; he was glad that -they had begun to discuss her—he had not that feeling of being left -alone with Janey, which at first had threatened to make the interview so -terrible. At one time it had seemed almost as if the past had risen to -swamp him—but now Tony had come to hold back the floods. The thought of -her changed everything somehow, altered the old values, weakened what -before had been invincible. Janey's face stood out from the shadows, -washed in the indiscreet light of the afternoon, and for the first time -he noticed a certain age and weariness about it. She was twenty-eight, -nearly four years older than he, but he had never thought of her in -relation to years and time. She had been to him an eternity of youth, -her age was as irrelevant as the age of a play of Shakespeare or a -symphony of Beethoven. But now he realised that she was -twenty-eight—and looked it. There were hollows under her cheek-bones, -where full, firm flesh should have been; there were tiny lines branching -from the corners of her eyes, very faint, still undoubtedly there; and -the autumnal colour on her cheeks did not lie as evenly as it might.</p> - -<p>These discoveries brought him a strange sense of relief. He had hitherto -looked on her loveliness as unapproachable, and the thought of her -physical perfection had been a mighty factor in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> the war that had raged -so devastatingly in his heart. But now he saw that it was no longer to -be reckoned with. Tony was, in point of fact, more beautiful than Janey. -His eyes travelled down from her face, and saw her collar all askew, her -blouse hanging sloppily out at the waist, her shoe-string untied. Tony -always wore such dainty muslins, such soft, pretty white things.... Then -he noticed Janey's hair. For the first time he wondered whether she -brushed it often enough.</p> - -<p>His spirits revived wonderfully during this contemplation, and with them -a surge of tender pity towards her. He did not want her to feel -humiliated by his unfaithfulness.</p> - -<p>"Janey, you mustn't think I don't thank you and honour you for all -you've been to me."</p> - -<p>"You don't know what I've been to you."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"You don't realise what I've sacrificed for you. You talk of Tony -Strife's purity and innocence as if it was more to her credit to have -them than for me to have given them up—for your sake."</p> - -<p>"Janey——"</p> - -<p>"Listen, Quentin. There's one thing this girl will never do for you—I -did it—and I think that now you despise me for it, in spite of your -words. You don't know what it cost me. I did my best to hide my pain -from you, because you were happy; but now I think you ought to know that -this thing for which you despise me was—was the greatest act of -self-sacrifice in my whole life. Oh, Quentin, I always meant to keep -straight, because of my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> brothers, and because—because I wanted to be -pure and good. Oh, I loved goodness and purity—I love them still, quite -as much as Tony Strife loves them—and there were the poor boys, with -only my example to restrain them. And then I loved you—and you asked me -to climb over the gates of Paradise with you, because they would never -be unlocked. Oh, God! I yielded because I loved you so. I gave up what -was dearer to me than anything else in the world, the one thing I was -struggling to keep unspotted, for my own sake and the boys'. I gave it -up to you—and now ... and now ... you talk about another woman's purity -and innocence."</p> - -<p>Her voice died into tearless silence.</p> - -<p>"Janey, you mustn't feel like that—you mustn't think that I reproach -you. It's myself I blame—not you."</p> - -<p>"But you do—you do—and I ought to have known it from the first."</p> - -<p>He could not speak, the words stuck to his tongue—he wanted to fall at -her feet, but could not, for he knew it would be mockery.</p> - -<p>"I can't say anything," he stammered huskily; "we're just the victims of -a damnable mistake, and the less we say about it the better. Each word -one of us speaks is a wound for the other. There's only this left—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'And throughout all eternity</div> -<div>I forgive you, you forgive me—</div> -<div>As our dear Redeemer said:</div> -<div>This the wine and this the bread.'"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p><p>"You don't believe in the dear Redeemer, do you?"</p> - -<p>"Of course not—but it's poetry."</p> - -<p class="space-above">They had neither of them realised that the interview was near an end, -but these last words seemed to have finished it somehow. They were both -standing, and the silence remained unbroken.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly Janey moved. An absolutely new impulse had seized her. She -went over to the glass, and looked at herself in it. Then she smoothed -her hair, arranged her gown, made it tidy at the waist, and buttoned it -at the wrists. Quentin watched her in blank wonder—he had never before -seen her pay the slightest heed to her appearance. But to-day she stood -a full five minutes before the glass, patting, smoothing, -arranging—settling every fold of her careless garments with minutest -care. Then she turned to him.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Quentin."</p> - -<p>Her head was held high—one would scarcely know her in her sleekness and -order.</p> - -<p>"Janey—you forgive me."</p> - -<p>She did not speak.</p> - -<p>"Janey—for God's sake!—oh, please forgive me!—because I've suffered -so much, because I've wanted you so, because I've struggled to find -redemption...."</p> - -<p>His eyes burned, full of entreaty. But at first she could not answer -him. She moved slowly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> towards the door, but stopped on the threshold, -and looked back at him, her heart hot and sick in her breast with pity. -She had never realised Quentin's youth so absolutely and heartrendingly -as to-day.</p> - -<p>"I forgive you," she said, "but not for any of those reasons. I forgive -you because you are—oh, God!—only a boy."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IV</span> <span class="smaller">FLAMES</span></h2> - -<p>Janet walked quickly through the darkening country. A power from behind -seemed to be driving her on—a hot, smoky power of uttermost shame. It -was symbolised by the thunder-vapour that curled in the east, a black, -swagging cloud that lumbered towards the sunset over reaches of -heat-washed sky.</p> - -<p>She hardly realised how she had won through that interview at Redpale -Farm. The details were dim and jumbled in her memory, like the details -of what has taken place just before an accident or during an illness. -She hoped she had not been undignified, but really did not care very -much about it. The tension which had characterised both her calmness and -her hysteria was gone—her emotions seemed to flop. Unlike so many -women, pride gave her no support in her dreadful hour.</p> - -<p>But her feelings were merely relaxed, not subdued, and her loose, -run-down nerves quivered as agonisedly as during their stretch and -strain. The realisation of all she had lost swept over her heart, -engulfing it. The very fields through which she walked were part of this -realisation—it was here, or it was there, that she had stood with -Quentin on such and such a day, or had watched him coming towards her -out of the mist-blurred distance, or seen him go from her, stopping to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> -raise his arm in farewell, just there, where the foxgloves lifted purple -poles in the ditches of Starswhorne. She could see the thickets of -Furnace Wood, hazed over with heat—they were haunted now, she would -never go near Furnace Wood again. Two ghosts wandered up and down its -heat-baked paths, rustled in the hazels, and stood where the tufted -hedge shut off Furnace Field—loving and dumb. They were not the ghosts -of dead bodies, but of dead selves—of two who walked apart in distant -ways, who would never again meet each other save in memory and in sleep.</p> - -<p>A metallic hardness had dropped upon the day. The arch of the sky was -steel, sunless, yet bright with a cold sheen; at the rim it dipped to -copper, hot and sullen, save where in the west two brazen bars sent out -harsh lights to rest on the fields and make them too like brass.</p> - -<p>Janet at last reached Sparrow Hall, and as she did so, for the first -time felt physical fatigue. It came upon her in a spasm—she was just -able to stagger into the kitchen, and sink down in her accustomed chair, -every muscle aching and exhausted, her head splitting with pain, and her -body shuddering with a sudden and unaccountable sickness.</p> - -<p>For some time she did not move, she just fought with the sheer physical -discomfort of it all. Her head lay on the table, her arms were spread -over the wood, and the collapsed line of her shoulders was of utter -powerlessness and pain. Then two tears rolled slowly from her eyes—they -were part of her physical plight, and for it alone she wept.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> For the -sorrow of her soul it seemed as if she could only weep dry salt.</p> - -<p>Oh, merciful God!—Quentin looked upon her love as his ruin, and turned -from her in panic to another woman. In this other love he would find the -peace and happiness and goodness that Janey had ached and striven for -years to give him; he would learn to forget the wicked Janey Furlonger, -whose love had all but been his perdition, who had brought him to sin -and torture and despair—and now would lie in the background of his -heart, as an evil thing we cover up and pray to forget. This young, -innocent girl would save him from his memories of the woman who had -given more for his sake than Tony Strife would ever dream of giving. He -did not realise her sacrifice—she had given up for his sake the -innocence and purity that were more to her simple soul than life, and -now he turned from her because she had them not.</p> - -<p>Then for the first time a convulsion of wrath seized Janey. For the -first time she saw the cruelty and outrage of it all. Her anger blazed -up—against Quentin, against the world, against herself. His last letter -lay on the table. She seized it, and thrust it into the fire. Then she -noticed the box that held his other letters. She seized that too, and -crammed it into the grate. Long tongues of flame shot out, and suddenly -one of them caught her dress—she screamed, flames and smoke seemed to -wrap her round, and in madness she rushed to the door. A man was in the -passage. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> grasped her, and held her to him, beating out the flames.</p> - -<p>"Quentin!" she shrieked, "Quentin! Quentin!"</p> - -<p>"Janey—darling sister! There! it's all over now. The fire's out. Are -you much hurt?"</p> - -<p>"Quentin! Quentin!"</p> - -<p>Leonard picked her up bodily, and carried her into the kitchen, sitting -down by the fire with her on his knee. He began to examine her. Her -skirt was nothing but charred rags, her face and hands were black with -grime, and there was a horrible smell of singed hair, but she did not -seem to be actually burnt. She was trembling from head to feet, her face -hidden against his breast.</p> - -<p>"I don't think you're really hurt, dear. What a lucky chance I happened -to be there! If I'd done as I said and gone to Cherrygarden, you might -have been burnt to death. How did you do it, Janey?"</p> - -<p>"I was burning Quentin's letters.... Oh, Quentin! Quentin!"</p> - -<p>The last dregs of Janey's self-control were gone. Anxiety, shock, grief, -humiliation, love, despair and sickening, physical fright, all crowded -into a few short hours, had almost deprived her of her reason.</p> - -<p>"Quentin! Quentin!" she cried, clinging to Leonard.</p> - -<p>She was so tall that he had difficulty in holding her on his knee while -she struggled.</p> - -<p>"Janey, I can't understand, dearest. Who's Quentin?—not Quentin Lowe?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p><p>"Yes—Quentin Lowe. Lenny, Lenny—he doesn't love me any more."</p> - -<p>Leonard kissed her smoke-grimed face repeatedly. He was utterly -bewildered.</p> - -<p>"He doesn't love me any more," she continued, gasping. "He loves Tony -Strife—he's going to marry her. Lenny, he's a devil."</p> - -<p>"My darling, can't you tell me what it is? Did you ever love him?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I loved him! I loved him! I gave up all I had to him. Lenny, he -thinks my love was his ruin ... he wants to be happy and good, and he -thinks he can't be either if he loves me ... he says—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>'And throughout all eternity</div> -<div>I forgive you, you forgive me.'"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>"My poor old Janey, I'm going to carry you upstairs."</p> - -<p>"I can walk," and she tried to stand, but he had only just time to catch -her.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to carry you. Poor, poor Janey—see what a big baby you are."</p> - -<p>He carried her up the rickety stairs, into her room, laying her on the -bed.</p> - -<p>"Would you like to undress?"</p> - -<p>"No—no—Lenny, don't leave me."</p> - -<p>He was in despair.</p> - -<p>"Janey, dearest, I wish you'd tell me what's happened. I can't comfort -you properly when I don't know. Do you really mean to say that you love -Quentin Lowe?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p><p>"I love him ... oh, I love him ... but he's a devil."</p> - -<p>"Did he know?—did he love you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, he loved me ... and he made me give up everything for his sake ... -and now he's going to marry another woman ... Oh, Lenny, Lenny, I want -Nigel!"</p> - -<p>"Janey—don't—I simply can't bear this. Don't give way so—he isn't -worth it."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I knew you'd say that."</p> - -<p>"I won't say it if you don't like it. But don't be in despair—you'll -soon feel better—you'll get over it. And meantime there's Nigel and -me...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I want Nigel!"</p> - -<p>"I'll wire to him to come down for the week-end, after his concert."</p> - -<p>"Lenny ... you'll never forsake me?"</p> - -<p>"What on earth are you talking about?"</p> - -<p>"I don't expect—I daren't——"</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"The disgrace ..."</p> - -<p>He stared at her in bewilderment.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lenny ... I don't think you understand."</p> - -<p class="space-above">She had made him understand at last—and in the process had strangely -enough recovered something of her self-control. At first she had thought -his brain could never receive this ghastly new impression; but gradually -she had seen the colour fade from his lips, while a terrible sternness -crept into his eyes; she had seen his hand go up to his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> forehead with -the swift yet uncertain movement of one who has been smitten.</p> - -<p>"My God!"</p> - -<p>Leonard stepped back from the bed.</p> - -<p>She lay gazing at him like a drowning woman. She saw the stern lines of -his mouth—had girls any right to expect their brothers to forgive them -such things? Yet if Lenny turned from her ... if she lost not only -Quentin but the boys....</p> - -<p>For a moment there was silence in the little room, with its faded reds -and casement open to the fields.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly Leonard sprang forward, stooped, and caught Janey in his -arms, turning her face to his breast.</p> - -<p class="space-above">They clung together in silence, both trembling. The first faint wind of -the evening crept in and ruffled their hair.</p> - -<p>"You won't love me so much now."</p> - -<p>"I will love you more—but, by God! I'll kill that man!"</p> - -<p>"No—no!—Len, no!"</p> - -<p>"Hush, dear, don't get excited again."</p> - -<p>"But you must promise ... he—he's only a boy."</p> - -<p>"Boy be damned! He's a skunk—he's a loathly little reptile, that's all. -He isn't worthy to sweep out your cinders, and he—oh, God, Janey! I'd -give my life to-morrow for the privilege of wringing his neck to-night."</p> - -<p>"Len, promise me you won't hurt him—I—I shall die if you do."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p><p>"Well, I'll promise to leave him alone for the present, because I've -got you to look after. I want you to go to sleep, dear. Do you think you -could sleep?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I couldn't."</p> - -<p>"You could if I mixed you some nice hot brandy and water. Let me go -downstairs and get some."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lenny—I'm frightened of being alone."</p> - -<p>"But it won't take me a minute—the kettle's on the fire."</p> - -<p>The combined longing for a stimulant and for oblivion was too intense -for Janey to resist.</p> - -<p>"You're sure you won't be long?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—I promise—just down and up again."</p> - -<p>"Then thank you, Len."</p> - -<p>He went down to the kitchen, and mixed a pretty stiff grog—for himself. -Janey had been too over-wrought to notice that her brother was trembling -and flushed, and that there was a strange, drawn look about his face. He -had turned back half-way to Cherrygarden because he felt "queer," and to -this no doubt she owed her life. In the horror and confusion of the last -half-hour he had forgotten his own illness, but now it was growing upon -him, and he must fight it for her sake. He drank a tumblerful of brandy -and water, then mixed some for Janey, and went upstairs.</p> - -<p>He helped her take off her charred skirt and bodice, and wrapped her in -a dressing-gown. He bathed her smoky face and hands, then he pulled a -rug over her, and gave her the brandy. It was a strong dose for a woman, -and in spite of all she had said she was soon asleep.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p><p>He sat down beside her and closed his eyes. The soft air fanned him, -and the scents of the little garden steamed up and scattered themselves -in the room.</p> - -<p>Janey lay with her head sunk deep in the pillow, her face half-buried in -it, and her breathing came heavily, almost in sobs. Her knees were drawn -up, and her arms crossed on her breast, the hands twisted -together—there was something pathetic and childish in the huddled -attitude.</p> - -<p>Leonard thought to himself—</p> - -<p>"It's nearly time for Nigel's concert—I wonder if he's thinking of -Janey and me."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER V</span> <span class="smaller">COWSANISH</span></h2> - -<p>Leonard dozed a little, but he did not sleep. A leaden weariness was in -his limbs, but his heart and brain were horribly active, forbidding -rest. His heart was full of rage, and his brain was full of images—he -could doze only till these last crystallised in dreams, when their -vividness woke him up at once. He woke each time with a start and a -vague feeling of uneasiness and alarm. He feared he was going to be -ill—just when Janey needed him so badly. He must bear up till -to-morrow; by then she would be better, to-night she was helpless -without him. He looked at the cramped figure on the bed, and his throat -tightened with sorrow, shame and rage.</p> - -<p>She should be avenged—he swore it. Lowe should be made to realise that -it was not with impunity that one dragged women like Janey into the mud -and then climbed out over their shoulders. He should be made to grovel -to her and implore her forgiveness. Len had not quite settled his course -of action, but he had fixed the results. Lowe was a worm, a miserable, -loathly, little, wriggling worm, and he had slimed a lily—he should -squirm under a decent man's boot....</p> - -<p>The room darkened. The curtains, fluttering in the dusk-wind, were like -ghosts. The line of woods on the horizon became dim, and an owl<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> called -from them suddenly. Then a procession of clouds began to flit solemnly -across the window—driven from the south-west. They were brown against -the bottomless grey, and there was a kind of majestic rhythm in their -march before the wind.</p> - -<p>Len rose with a shudder—somehow he could not sit still. He went to the -window and looked out. Then he remembered that he had not shut in the -fowls for the night or stalled the cows. He would have to leave Janey -for a little and attend to the farm. He stepped back and looked at her. -Her bed was in darkness, and all he could see was a long, black mass on -the paleness of the bed-clothes. She was sleeping heavily, with quick, -stertorous breathing, and it was not likely that she would wake for some -time—he had certainly better go now, while she slept so well.</p> - -<p>He crept quietly from the room and down the dark stairs. Outside the -breeze puffed healingly upon him, cooling him with a sweet dampness as -he climbed into the stream-field where the cows were pastured. The mists -were too high and clammy for them to be left out at night, and the man -had gone home after milking them. He called to them softly, and great -shadows began to move out of the fogs towards him. The peace of the -twilight and of his work with the calm, milk-smelling beasts, was so -great that, in spite of rage and suffering, a kind of dreamy comfort -came to Len—a quiet he felt only in the fields. He began to whistle as -he drove the cows home before him. Then suddenly the whistling made him -remember Nigel's concert.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p><p>He had meant to send off a second telegram, which Nigel would receive -just before he went on the platform at the Bechstein. The last -shattering hour had made him forget his plan, and he realised that if -his brother was to have his message of good-cheer it must be sent at -once. But how? There was still time, but he could not leave the house, -even on such an errand—and yet his brother must be "bucked up" at all -costs. To-morrow he would send another wire, asking him to come down for -the week-end, but he thought it as well not to risk alarming him -to-night. Len pondered a minute, then suddenly it occurred to him that -he could give his telegram to the postman, who was due to pass Sparrow -Hall on his way back from his round. By a lucky chance there was a -telegraph-form in the house; Len filled it in, and then ran out with it -to the lane.</p> - -<p>He looked up at Janey's window—all was quiet, only the white curtains -fluttered out on the wind; anyhow he would hear if she woke and called -him. The lane was very dark—the sky was still faintly light above it, -but night had fallen between the hedges. He heard footsteps, and saw a -figure coming down Wilderwick hill.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, Winkworth!" he cried, "I want you to do something for me."</p> - -<p>He stepped out into the middle of the lane, and at the same time the -figure began to climb the stile into Wilderwick meadows.</p> - -<p>"Hi!" shouted Len—he suddenly realised that on fine dry nights the -postman would take the field-path to Dormans.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p><p>"Hi!" he shouted, running after him. "Winkworth!—I've a——".</p> - -<p>The words died on his tongue. He had reached the stile, and saw standing -on the further side of it, on the high ground which the darkness had not -reached—with the last of the western light upon his face—Quentin Lowe.</p> - -<p>For a moment both men stared at each other, then Lowe moved away. Len -stood stock still, a queer grimace on his features.</p> - -<p>"Were you calling me, sir?"</p> - -<p>A voice behind him made him start. The postman had come out of the -darkness and stood at his elbow.</p> - -<p>"I thought I heard you shout 'Winkworth' when I was far up the hill. -Anything you want, Mus' Furlonger?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—yes—would you take this telegram to Dormans, and see it sent off? -Here's a bob...."</p> - -<p>His voice sounded vague, somehow, as if it were a mechanical process -unconnected with his real self. He stood watching the old postman as he -climbed the stile and took the turning for Dormans, where the track -divided. A minute later a figure became silhouetted against the sky on -his right; the path to Cowden and the valley farms dipped abruptly a few -yards beyond the stile, then climbed to the high grounds near Goatsluck -Wood. Quentin Lowe was clearly visible as he hurried away towards -Kent—almost as if he feared pursuit.</p> - -<p>Leonard stared after him, his eyes bright with hate and fever. A kind of -delirium was in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> brain as he watched that thick-set, slouching -figure, caricatured into a dwarf by his fury and the cheverel light. -Then suddenly he bounded forward.</p> - -<p>He forgot all about the illness that was creeping over him, and Janey -alone in the dark house. Or rather, he told himself that he would be up -with Quentin in a minute, and would have settled him in a couple more. -He would drag him back to Sparrow Hall by the scruff of the neck, and -Janey, poor, outraged Janey, should be his judge, and taste triumph even -in her despair.</p> - -<p>He climbed the stile and ran up the path, plunging recklessly through -the tall, ghostly buttercups, glowing faintly in the twilight. He had -soon lost the path, a mere borstall, and was trampling the hay-grass, -but he did not slack.</p> - -<p>Quentin had for the moment disappeared. The trees of Goatsluck Wood -waved against the sky: Len was conscious of a kind of illusion as he -approached them—it seemed as if they were very far away, then suddenly -he found himself on the tangled rim of the wood, the boughs shuddering -and rustling over him, as he groped his way into the darkness.</p> - -<p>He had to run along the hedge till he found the stile, and he realised -that Lowe now had a good start. But he would not stop, nor defer his -vengeance to another, more auspicious, day. Janey would probably not -wake till the next morning—and meantime his blood was up. He was not -quite sure what he should do to Quentin when he overtook him—he was not -worth killing, that would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> only mean more sorrow for Janey, but he had -ideas of pounding him more or less to a jelly and then dragging him back -to Sparrow Hall and making him kiss the ground at Janey's feet, and -grovel and slobber for her forgiveness, with other humiliations which he -did not think for a minute his sister would not enjoy.</p> - -<p>Meantime he floundered stupidly among the trees. The path was not often -used, and the undergrowth had become tangled across it—branches of ash -and hazel whipped his cheeks, and brambles caught his feet and sent him -stumbling. Once he fell full length, with the soft suck of mud under his -body, and once he had to stop and fight for his breath which had been -knocked out of him by the low bough of an oak. It was very dark in -Goatsluck Wood—like a dark dream. He looked up and saw shuddering -patches of sky, and they intensified the strange dream spell, for he -seemed to be moving through them, tossed by the wind and scorched by -whirling stars.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly a meadow swam towards him—another meadow full of -buttercups, all gleaming faintly in the marriage of twilight and -moonlight that revelled over the fields. A soft wind baffed him, and -cooled his lips with little drops of rain. He pounded on through the -buttercups, thought and self-consciousness both almost swallowed up in -the abnormal consciousness of environment that accompanies certain -states of fever. He saw the moon hanging low and yellow in the east, he -saw long, tangled hedges, and tufts of wood—and all round him, in -meadow after meadow, that ceaseless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> shimmer of buttercups, as the wind -puffed through them and bowed them to the moon.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he saw Quentin Lowe. His pace had slackened, for he had -not seen Furlonger for some minutes, but the next moment he looked over -his shoulder and hurried on again.</p> - -<p>"Stop!" cried Leonard.</p> - -<p>The figure hunched itself against the wind and plunged on.</p> - -<p>"Stop!" gasped Len, and calling up all his strength broke into a run.</p> - -<p>Quentin looked back, and saw that he was running. He himself was too -proud to run, but he doubled against the hedge, and changing his -direction, walked towards Langerish, so that Len nearly overran him.</p> - -<p>But just in time he saw the short, heavy figure groping along the rim of -the buttercups, and the chase took a southward direction.</p> - -<p>Len had not the breath to run far—he wondered vaguely what had winded -him. He came panting after Quentin, always the same distance behind; he -no longer cried "Stop!"—just padded gasping after him.</p> - -<p>They skirted the meadow known as Watch Oak, then followed the grass lane -to Golden Pot and the outhouses of Anstiel. Quentin was trying to work -his way back towards Kent and the valley of the hammer ponds, but -Leonard drove him obstinately southwards. He was beginning to gain on -him a little. Quentin could hear his footsteps, and he knew why he was -following him.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p><p>A sick dread was creeping up Lowe's back—he looked round at the -shuddering woods and that strange sky of storm and stars, and he -trembled with the presentiment that he saw them all for the last time. -Furlonger was a great, big, burly brute—and Furlonger would kill him. -Perhaps, after all, he deserved to die—the country through which he -plunged in this horrible death-chase had a reproach in each spinney, a -regret in each field. And yet his heart was stiff with defiance—what -right had the gods to dangle salvation before a man's eyes, and then -slay him when he grasped it? A sob rose in his throat. The gates of -Paradise had rolled back for him at last—and must he die just inside -them?</p> - -<p>His defiance grew. He would not be robbed of his salvation. To grasp it -he had let go more than he dared think. The gods should not mock him -with their gifts—or rather, merchandise. They should not take his awful -price, and then deny the goods. Life should not suddenly turn and smile -on him, and then hurry away. He called after departing Life—"I will not -let thee go except thou bless me...."</p> - -<p>He bent his head and began to run.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly his mood changed. The power that had steadied his voice -and straightened his back during his terrible interview with Janey, had -not forsaken him now. He loved Tony Strife, and he was too proud in her -love to play the coward. He would not run away from fate. It should not -be said of Tony's lover that he had died running<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> away. He stopped -abruptly, swung round and faced Furlonger.</p> - -<p>Leonard was so surprised at this change of tactics that for a moment he -did not speak. He stood staring at Lowe, his hands clenched, his muscles -taut, his veins boiling and throbbing. The two men faced each other in -the corner of a high field known as Cowsanish. On one side a hedgerow -was whispering with winds, on the other the ground sloped downwards to a -ruined outhouse—then it dipped suddenly, and the distance was full of -mists, through which could be seen blotches of woods and farmhouse -lights. The sky was still wind-swept and scattered with stars.</p> - -<p>"What do you want?" asked Lowe at last.</p> - -<p>Leonard mumbled a little before he spoke. "To wring your neck."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"You know why."</p> - -<p>Furlonger's mouth was working with passion, and his eyes were -deliriously bright. He really meant to wring Lowe's neck. He had -forgotten his earlier schemes of vengeance—nothing would suffice him -now but the extreme, the uttermost.</p> - -<p>Lowe folded his arms across his chest, and called up all his memories of -Tony.</p> - -<p>"You want to kill me," he said in a struggling voice, "because of what -I've done to Janey—but I tell you it's been a blessing to her as well -as to me. We were both in the mud together, and now I've got out it'll -be easier for her to do so."</p> - -<p>"You've blighted her with your damned love!" cried Leonard incoherently, -"she's half dead, she's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> in the mud, she's in hell. When you got out, as -you call it, you kicked her deeper in."</p> - -<p>"But there's no good killing me for it."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>Len asked the question almost lamely. He felt giddy and inert, and -Quentin's words seemed to be trickling past him somehow—it was a -strange feeling he could not quite realise.</p> - -<p>"Why?—because you'll probably be hanged for it, and that won't do your -sister any good. Besides"—and here his voice quickened suddenly into -passion—"you've no right to kill me for grasping my only chance of -salvation."</p> - -<p>"Damn your salvation!—I'm not going to kill you for getting out of the -ditch, but for dragging her into it—Janey, my sister, whose shoes you -aren't worthy to clean."</p> - -<p>Lowe quailed for a moment. Furlonger's eyes were blazing, and he -crouched back as if for a spring.</p> - -<p>"There's no good gassing about it," he said thickly, "if I let you talk, -you'll talk me stupid. I'm going to wring your neck because you dragged -my Janey into your own beastly hell, and then when you saw the chance, -climbed out over her shoulders, and left her to rot there. She's ill, I -tell you—she's half dead—and I'm going to kill you for it."</p> - -<p>Quentin flung a last imploring look at the silent fields with their -waving, whispering grass. The clouds were scattering now, and the sky -blazed with stars. The night was full of the scent of hay.... In a -moment they would be lost in a black,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> choking whirl, that sky, those -stars—that sweet smell of hay. He sniffed at it. He thought of the huge -mown meadow by Shovelstrode, where only yesterday he and Tony had -lounged and played. He heard the voices of the workers, as they turned -the great swathes, and shook them on their forks, filling the air with -fragrance; he saw Tony in a muslin frock, with the white rose he had -given her in her breast. He saw the sun on the coils of her -mouse-coloured hair—heard her say some little, trivial, slangy thing -that had somehow made him kiss her. He remembered that kiss, so sweet, -so cool, so calm—and, as he drew back his head, the look of her -innocent eyes....</p> - -<p>But once more the thought of Tony put courage into him. If he must die -inside the gates of Paradise, he would die worthily of the woman who had -opened them to him. For her sake he would die game—it was the only -thing he had left to do for her now. He would die with a proud face and -a high courage—and his last conscious thought should be of Tony, who, -if only for a few short days, had allowed him to see what love can be -when it comes in white.</p> - -<p>He braced himself up, flung back his shoulders, and waited for the -attack.</p> - -<p>It came.</p> - -<p>Furlonger sprang forward and seized Quentin by the throat. For a moment -they swayed together, Lowe snatching at the other's hands and struggling -with the frenzy of despair. His eyes bulged, his lips blackened, and -still he fought. Then the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> darkness began to rush over him—first in -little clouds, then in long, black sweeps.</p> - -<p>"Janey!... Janey!" he cried.</p> - -<p class="space-above">He opened his eyes at last. He was lying under the hedge, his cheek -scratched, his hands twisted in the grass. He stirred feebly, then sat -up, still crouching back against the hazel. Furlonger lay prone among -the buttercups, his chin turned up sharply, the moonlight blazing on his -face. Then Lowe remembered how things had happened—how the sickening -grip on his throat had suddenly relaxed, and he had gone crashing -backwards into the brambles, while something fell with a heavy thud at -his feet.</p> - -<p>He wondered if Furlonger was dead. He went and looked into his face. The -features were strangely drawn, and there was a look of desperate anxiety -in their contraction. Then suddenly the eyes opened and looked up into -Lowe's, full of terror and fever.</p> - -<p>"What's happened? Who's there? Oh, my God!"</p> - -<p>Remembrance had come with a spasm of that ghastly face. Leonard sat up -in the grass, and held his hands to his head.</p> - -<p>"I'm ill, I think," he muttered.</p> - -<p>He must have fainted—fainted through the stress and horror of it all, -just when his enemy's breath had nearly sobbed away under his hands.</p> - -<p>"You'd better go home," said Quentin.</p> - -<p>Leonard did not speak. He still sat there in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> piteous huddle—and then -suddenly tremor after tremor began to go through him. He shuddered from -head to foot, his teeth chattered, and his limbs shook so that he could -not rise.</p> - -<p>"I want some water—I want something to drink," he panted.</p> - -<p>Quentin put his hands under his shoulders to help him get up. He felt -quite generously towards him now. He had been snatched by a timely -accident from death, and could afford to pity this poor fellow who had -tried to kill him, but failed.</p> - -<p>"Let me help you home."</p> - -<p>"No—by God!"</p> - -<p>"Let me—you're ill."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I was ill when I started after you—or you wouldn't be alive and -grinning at me now. I was a fool—I should have waited. But look out for -me another day, you skunk!"</p> - -<p>The ghastly rigor choked his last words. The look of terror and anxiety -deepened on his face. Then at last he managed to stumble up.</p> - -<p>"I—I'm going home," he stuttered, and felt sick as he realised he would -have to pass again through Goatsluck Wood.</p> - -<p>"And you won't let me go with you?"</p> - -<p>"No—I shan't let myself owe you anything, for I mean to kill you some -day."</p> - -<p>"I advise you not to threaten me—I might be obliged to take proceedings -against you."</p> - -<p>"A pretty mess you'd be in if you did. I suppose you don't want your new -girl to hear about Janey?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p><p>Quentin flushed.</p> - -<p>"If I wasn't obliged to shield my sister," continued Len, "I'd tell that -girl myself. But you know my tongue's tied—besides, I'd rather kill -you."</p> - -<p>"The secret might come out that way too. No, Furlonger, if you are wise -you'll let me alone."</p> - -<p>He drew back a little as he spoke—the friendly reaction was passing. He -had always hated Janey's brothers, because he was jealous of her love -for them; and now, though the original reason was gone, he still hated -them for the cause of that reason—for what he believed was the -foundation of Janey's love, their physical strength and fitness.</p> - -<p>However, there was not much of either to be seen in Leonard now. He -swayed pitifully as he stood there facing Quentin, and though his lips -moved, no sounds came past them. Then he turned away. Lowe watched him -stagger across the field. He expected him to fall every minute, except -once, when for some strange reason he expected him to turn back and -confront him again. But he neither fell nor turned. He stumbled blindly -on, then disappeared into the next field.</p> - -<p>For a moment or two Quentin stood alone in the great meadow, under the -hurrying sky. The scent of hay no longer blew to him wistfully, but -triumphantly, like the fragrance of festal wine. He spread out his arms, -and stood there in the quivering, scented hush, while the wind cooled -his damp forehead, and ruffled the hair back from it tenderly.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p><p>Then he turned homewards from Cowsanish.</p> - -<p>But he had not gone far before he altered his direction. He struck again -southwards, through the grass lanes that wind past Old Surrey Hall, -towards Shovelstrode. He would lay his thankfulness, his deliverance, -his redemption, at Tony's feet—at the feet of the woman who symbolised them all.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VI</span> <span class="smaller">AND I ALSO DREAMED</span></h2> - -<p>Behind the stage at the Bechstein Hall one could hear the applause that -burst from the auditorium. Nigel listened hungrily. He wondered whether -those hands would clap and those feet stamp when it was his turn to -leave the platform, his violin under his arm. He stood leaning against -the wall, his fiddle already out of its case, but still wrapped tenderly -in silks. The little group of girls and men who were whispering together -not far off sent him from time to time glances of mingled curiosity and -admiration.</p> - -<p>There was a big difference between the convict with his close-cropped -hair and disreputable clothes, and this young man in orthodox evening -dress, whose hair was brushed in a heavy, shining mass from his -forehead, to hang over his ears and neck in the approved musician's -style. Nigel had been unable to resist this rather primitive piece of -swank—besides, it was symbolical, it marked the contrast between what -he had been in the days of his shame, and what he was now in the days of -regeneration. The girl who had just come off the stage stared at him -half amused, half envying.</p> - -<p>"Do you come on soon?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—after this next thing."</p> - -<p>"Just a little bit nervous?"</p> - -<p>He nodded.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p><p>As a matter of fact, he was in a mortal funk. He would not have -believed it possible that he could be afraid of a crowd of strangers, -who were nothing to him and to whom he was nothing. But infinite things -were at stake. If he failed, if he made an ass of himself, he pushed -further away, if not altogether out of sight, the dream in which for the -last six months he had worked and lived. On the other hand, if he -succeeded, if to-morrow's papers took his name out of the gutter, just -as four years ago they had helped to kick it in, his dream would be -transmuted into hope. The violin he clutched so desperately was no mere -instrument of music, but an instrument of redemption, the token of that -dear salvation which if a man but see truly he must grasp.</p> - -<p>Six months had gone by since he left Sparrow Hall, and during them he -had worked desperately with scanty rest. He had flung his proud -self-will and undisciplined love of prettiness into mechanical exercises -for fingers and bow, he had subjected his taste for the tuneful and -sentimental to Herr von Gleichroeder's dissonantal preferences. But he -had been happy—his dream had always been with him, and had breathed all -the sentimentality of hope into the dry bones of Chabrier, Chausson and -Strauss. He had found it everywhere—even in his bow exercises.</p> - -<p>He was happy, too, in his environment—the companionship of his -fellow-students with their young, clear spirits and enthusiasm. Most of -them knew his story, but in their careless code it did not tell much -against him, for every one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> admired him for his originality and liked -him for his desperate pluck. So Nigel found a new form of gratification -for that strange part of him born in prison. The companionship of an -unripe little school-girl with her slang, the sight of children dancing -in the dusk, had been succeeded by many a racket with young men and -women of his own age—Bohemian supper-parties, followed by impromptu -concerts or startling variety turns; expeditions in rowdy throngs to a -theatre or music-hall; small, friendly meals with some -fellow-enthusiast, who confessed in private an admiration for Gounod.... -It was a draught of new life to him; he loved it all—down to the -constant musical jargon, the endless "shop." Much of his bitterness was -leaving him, his sullen bouts were rarer, even the lines of his face -were growing rounded and more boyish.</p> - -<p>Chausson's "Chanson Perpetuelle" drawled and wailed its way towards a -close. Nigel's muscles tightened to prevent a shudder. To-night the hall -would be full of the friends and relations of the students; they had -come out to encourage their respective prodigies, and his item on the -programme would belong, so to speak, to no one. He almost wished he had -not forbidden Len and Janey to come—at least they would have made a -noise.</p> - -<p>The thought of Len and Janey brought an additional stake into the game. -He must succeed for their sakes too. He must justify to them his -departure from Sparrow Hall. If he failed, they would look upon it as a -mere piece of obstinate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> cruelty, they would plague him to return, and -he, in all the sickness of failure, would find it hard to resist them.</p> - -<p>Another round of applause ... the "Chanson Perpetuelle" had ended, and -the singer, a self-confident little contralto, came off, with the string -quartet which had accompanied her. Herr von Gleichroeder bustled up, and -there was some talk of an encore, which was in the end refused. Then he -turned to Nigel.</p> - -<p>"You'd better go on at once. Here are two telegrams for you—but you -mustn't wait."</p> - -<p>Nigel stuffed the two yellow envelopes into his pocket, and moved -mechanically towards the stage. Two telegrams—a sick hope was in his -heart—one was from Len, he knew; but the other ... Tony knew the date -of his concert; perhaps.... He dared not think it, yet that "perhaps" -made him hold his head high as he walked on the stage.</p> - -<p>He bowed stiffly. Von Gleichroeder had spent a long time trying to teach -him a graceful bow. He remembered his last public appearance, and it -made him not only stiff but a trifle hard. There was no applause at -first—no one in the hall knew him; then a kind-hearted old lady felt -sorry for the poor young man who had no one to encourage him, and gave a -feeble clap, which was more disconcerting than silence.</p> - -<p>The accompanist struck the chord—his fiddle was soon in tune and he -lifted it to his shoulder. A cold chill ran down his back—he had -entirely forgotten the first bars of the Prelude.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p><p>The accompanist had some preliminary business. Nigel listened to him in -detached horror, as if he were the spectator of some dreadful scene with -which he had absolutely no connection. He heard the music crashing -through familiar phrases—only five bars more—only three—only one—</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause-bar—a very long pause.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he realised that he had been playing for some time. The -violin was warm under his chin, the bow warm between his fingers. He -knew that if he stopped to think about it all, he was lost. It was -always fatal for him to think of his music as so many little black signs -on paper, and it was nearly as fatal for him to think of it as so many -movements of his bow or positions of his fingers. Von Gleichroeder had -always had to combat his pupil's tendency to play almost entirely by -ear, lost meanwhile in a kind of sentimental dream—in the transports of -which he swayed violently from side to side and generally looked -ridiculous.</p> - -<p>To-night he slapped into the Scriabin with tremendous vigour—the -infinite pains he had spent during the last six months showing clearly -in the ease with which he surmounted its technical difficulties. But the -watchful ear of von Gleichroeder told him that his pupil was playing -subconsciously, so to speak—from his heart, rather than his head. If -anything—the slipping of a peg or a sudden noise in the hall—were to -interrupt him, to wake him up, all would be lost.</p> - -<p>But luckily nothing happened. Nigel was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> roused only by the last crash -of his bow on the strings. The Prelude was finished, and at the same -time a desperate panic seized him. He forgot to bow, and bolted headlong -from the stage.</p> - -<p>The audience applauded heartily, and his fellow-students crowded round -him with congratulations.</p> - -<p>"Well done, old man!—pulled it off splendidly," and his back was -vigorously thumped.</p> - -<p>"Worked up beautifully over the climax."</p> - -<p>"But played G instead of B in the last bar but one," added a precise -youth.</p> - -<p>"Muddled your runs in that chromatic bit," put in some one else, -encouraged.</p> - -<p>"Go on and bow—go on and bow," blustered von Gleichroeder, hurrying up.</p> - -<p>Nigel bowed perfunctorily and came back. The clapping did not subside.</p> - -<p>"I don't allow encores," said the German, "but you're in luck, my -friend, in luck."</p> - -<p>The colour was darkening on Nigel's face. It was his hour of triumph. He -wished Tony was there, and Janey and Leonard—he would let them come to -his next concert.</p> - -<p>He went on and bowed again—he had to appear several times before the -demand for an encore was given up as hopeless, and the applause -gradually died away.</p> - -<p>He went to the back of the stage and sat down, holding his head in his -hands. He wanted to be alone, and to read his telegrams. The future was -now a flaming promise—his feet at last were set on the honourable way. -He let his mind lose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> itself in its dream, and for a moment he was -conscious of nothing but infinite hope. From the stage a plaintive, -bizarre air of Moussorgski's came to him. To be Russian was to von -Gleichroeder synonymous with to be modern, and Moussorgski and Rimsky -Korsakov were encouraged where their French or Italian contemporaries -were banned. Every now and then a little slow ripple brought an end to -strange wailing dissonances; it was played without much fire—without -much feeling—but it haunted.</p> - -<p>Nigel opened his first telegram. It read—</p> - -<p>"Go it, old chap—laurels is cheap."</p> - -<p>That was from Leonard, and a half tender, half humorous smile crept over -Furlonger's grim mouth. Dear old Len!—dear old Janey! How he wished -they were there! He would wire to them the first thing to-morrow and -tell them of his success.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly the smile passed away, and his hands shook a little. Who -had sent the second telegram?</p> - -<p>He tore nervously at the envelope. Had Tony remembered him? one word of -encouragement from her was worth all the clappings and stampings of the -audience, all the eulogies of the press....</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"And I also dreamed, which pleased me most,</div> -<div class="i2">That you loved me still the same...."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>He took out the telegram and unfolded it. It ran—</p> - -<p>"Come at once. Leonard is ill. Janey."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VII</span> <span class="smaller">WOODS AT NIGHT</span></h2> - -<p>The little star melody wailed on, rippled characteristically and died. -Even then Nigel did not move, he sat with his hands dropped between his -knees, still holding Janey's telegram. He seemed to be sitting alone, in -a black corner of space, stricken, blank, forsaken.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he recovered himself. "Come at once." He must go at once. -He sprang to his feet, pushed his way past one or two meaningless -shadows who called after him meaningless words, and the next minute -found himself in the passage behind the stage. Seizing his hat and -overcoat from the wall, he hurried to the stage-door. The street outside -was quiet, at either end were lights and commotion, but the street -itself was plunged in echoing peace. A strange fear assaulted Nigel—he -hurried into Oxford Street and hailed a taxi. Then he knew what he was -afraid of—the opportunity to sit and think.</p> - -<p>He tried not to think—he tried to find refuge from thought even in the -words that had smitten him. "Come at once. Leonard is ill."—he repeated -them over and over, striving for mere mechanical processes. The taxi -threaded swiftly through the traffic, the lights swung past with the -roar and the whistles. Luckily the streets were not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> much crowded at -that hour—it was just before the closing of the theatres and the -consequent rush....</p> - -<p>He was at Victoria, and a porter had told him that the next train for -East Grinstead did not start for half-an-hour. He paced miserably up and -down, cursing the blank time, gnawed by conjectures. "Leonard is ill." -Len was hardly ever ill, and it must be something serious, or Janey -would not have said "Come at once." It must have been sudden too, for -the two telegrams had been handed to him together. Perhaps there had -been an accident. Perhaps Len was dead. Ice seemed to form suddenly on -Nigel's heart—Janey might be trying to break the news gently by saying -his brother was ill. No doubt Len was dead—— Oh, Lenny, Lenny!</p> - -<p>A strange thing had happened. The dream in which he had lived and worked -and slept and eaten for the last six months had suddenly fallen back -from him, leaving him utterly alone with his brother and sister. His -life in London, with all its struggle and ambition, was as something far -off, unreal; no part of his life seemed real, except what he had spent -with Len and Janey. After all did anything really matter as much as -they? They had been with him always, and his dream had sustained him -only a few months. He thought of their childhood together in the old -Sussex house, of their adventures and scrapes and hide-and-seeks; he -thought of their growing-up, of the wonderful discoveries they had made -about themselves, and shared; he thought of their arrival at Sparrow -Hall,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> full of pluck and plans, of the difficulties that had damped the -one and dashed the other—of the awful disgrace that had separated the -three Furlongers for damnable years. Len and Janey had been his pals, -his comrades, his comforters before he had so much as heard of Tony. She -was not dethroned, his dream was not dead, but the past which he had -half impatiently thrust behind him was coming back to show that it, as -well as the future, held treasures and the immortality of love.</p> - -<p>The half-hour was nearly over, and the platform was dotted with men and -women in evening dress, who had come up from the country to the -theatres, and now were going home by the last train. Nigel shut himself -into a third-class carriage. The train was not very crowded, and no one -disturbed him. Almost mechanically he lighted a cigarette, then leaned -back, closing his eyes.</p> - -<p>The train began to move—it pulled itself together with a shudder, then -slid slowly out of the station. Signal lights swept past, whistles -wailed up out of the darkness and died away—suburban stations -gleamed—then the train swung out into the night.</p> - -<p>Both the windows were wide open, and the wind blew in on Nigel, but he -did not notice it. His cigarette had gone out, but he still sucked and -bit the end, filling his mouth with strings of tobacco, which he did not -notice either, though every now and then he mechanically spat them out. -All he was conscious of was the pungent smell of night,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> which invaded -even the rushing train. He knew that the trees were heavy and the hedges -tangled with their green—he tried to fling his imagination into some -sheltered hollow by a wood, and find rest there. He tried to think of -sheep and grass and flowers and watching stars. But it was no use—the -night was full of the restlessness of the pulsing train, he could not -escape from the train, which throbbed like his heart, and by its -throbbing seemed to hold his heart a prisoner in it, as if some -mysterious astral link connected the two pulses. The train was the heart -of the night and darkness, pulsing in ceaseless despair, and he was the -heart of the train, pulsing despairingly too, the very centre of sorrow. -It was a definite strain for him to realise this, and yet somehow the -sensation would not relax—it was infinite relief when at last the -great, noisy heart, the heart of the train, stopped beating, though its -silence brought with it a sudden wrench and shock, like death.</p> - -<p>Nigel stumbled out on the East Grinstead platform, his limbs cramped, -his head swimming. He thought of taking a cab, but by the time he had -roused up the local livery stables and set off in one of their concerns -he could almost have reached Sparrow Hall by the fields. A walk would do -him good. The night was fine, though it smelled of rain.</p> - -<p>He had soon left the town behind him, and struck across the fields by -St. Margaret's convent. There was no moon, but the stars were unusually -lustrous, and the distance was clear, Oxted chalk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> quarry showing a pale -scar on the northern hills. Now and then dark sweeps of cloud passed -swiftly overhead, and the wind came in sudden gusts, whistling over the -fields, and throbbing through the woods with a great swish of leaves. -Nigel had not seen the Three Counties since Easter, which had been early -and bleak. The London months since then had to a certain extent -denaturalised him, and he was conscious of a vague strangeness in the -fields. It was, moreover, four years since he had seen them in their -June lushness—the scent of grass was brought him pungently now and -then, the scent of leaves, the scent of water.</p> - -<p>He crossed from Sussex into Surrey at Hackenden, then plunged through -Ashplats Wood into the Wilderwick road. His footsteps were like shadows -on the awful silence that filled the night. The stars were flashing from -a coal-black sky—between the high hedges only a wisp of the great waste -was visible with its dazzle of constellations. Nigel saw Cancer burning -his lamps in the west, while straight above him hung the sign of Libra, -brilliant, cold, unearthly. Surely the stars were larger and brighter -to-night than was normal, than was good. He wished he was at Sparrow -Hall. It could not be that he was frightened of the stars, and yet -somehow they seemed part of an evil dream. Perhaps he would wake to find -himself in his Notting Hill lodgings—perhaps his dream would go on for -ever, eternal, malevolent, but still a dream—he would lie on in his bed -at Notting Hill, and people would shake him and try to wake<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> him, and, -when they could not wake him, take him and bury him—and he would lie in -the earth, deep, with a stone over him—but still with his awful dream -of night and high hedges, terror and stars....</p> - -<p>He had come to Sparrow Hall. He saw the tall, black chimney against a -mass of stars—it seemed to be canting a little, perhaps that was part -of the dream. There was a light in Len's room, and the next moment some -one moved between it and the window.</p> - -<p>"Janey ..." called Nigel softly.</p> - -<p>His voice rose with the scents of the garden, in the hush of the night. -The next minute there were footsteps on the stairs, then the door flew -open, and Janey was in Nigel's arms.</p> - -<p>They clung together for several moments. The door had slammed in the -draught, and the darkness crept softly round them like an embrace. The -dream slipped from Nigel—his silly and hideous nightmare of stars. This -quivering, tear-stained woman in his arms had brought him into the -reality of sorrow.</p> - -<p>"Where is he?—what's happened?" he asked, still holding Janey.</p> - -<p>"He's upstairs in bed—he's very ill, Nigel."</p> - -<p>"But he's not dead?"</p> - -<p>"Not yet."</p> - -<p>"Is there any hope?"</p> - -<p>"Not much—he's got pneumonia. It's dreadful."</p> - -<p>"Has the doctor seen him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—he's been gone only an hour. He said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> you were to be sent for at -once. Oh, Nigel, Nigel, it's my fault!"</p> - -<p>"What d'you mean?"</p> - -<p>"I was wretched and selfish—he'd been queer all the afternoon, and I -didn't notice it. I thought only of myself. Then he went out while I was -asleep, and when he came back.... Oh, Nigel!... the doctor says he -practically did for himself by going out then."</p> - -<p>Nigel did not understand, but his mind made no effort to grasp at -details.</p> - -<p>"I'd better go at once," he said; "is he conscious?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—but he says funny things sometimes."</p> - -<p>She led the way upstairs, and the next minute they were in Leonard's -room. It was a queer little room, extremely low, with bulging walls, -sagging beams and an uneven floor. Len lay propped very high with -pillows. His face was drawn and feverish—he was literally fighting for -his breath, and his lips were blue.</p> - -<p>He smiled when he saw Nigel.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, old man!... good of you to come.... Lord!"—as he saw his -clothes—"put me among the nuts."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk," said his brother sharply.</p> - -<p>"Your hair ..." panted Len.</p> - -<p>"Shut up!"</p> - -<p>Len pointed to a glass of water by the bed. Janey gave him a drink. He -began to cough violently, and his face became purple. Nigel felt sick.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p><p>"I—I'm better," gasped Leonard. "I—I had ... a beastly stitch ... but -it's gone."</p> - -<p>"When's the doctor coming again?" Nigel asked Janet.</p> - -<p>"The first thing to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"He ought to have a nurse."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no!" cried Len; "you and Janey can manage me ... between you ... -I'll soon be all right ... I don't want any little Tottie Coughdrop -fussing round."</p> - -<p>"He's dreadful," said Janey, "he will talk."</p> - -<p>"How long has he been like this?"</p> - -<p>"As I tell you, he'd been feeling queer all the afternoon. Then I -crocked up for some silly reason, and instead of being properly attended -to, he had to look after me"—a sob broke into her voice, and she pulled -Nigel aside. "The doctor says it's a frightfully acute case," she -whispered.</p> - -<p>"But ... but" interrupted Len, "Nigel hasn't told us ... about the -concert ... where's the laurel crown?... left it in the train?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, do shut up! I'll tell you anything you like if you'll hold your -tongue."</p> - -<p>"Tell him while I'm giving him his milk," said Janey; "the doctor -ordered him milk every two hours, but he simply won't take it."</p> - -<p>"I'll make him," said his brother grimly.</p> - -<p>"I'll go and fetch it—you stay with him, Nigel."</p> - -<p>She left the room, and Len lay silent a moment, looking out at the -stars.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p><p>"Old man," he whispered suddenly, "while Janey's away ... I want to -tell you something."</p> - -<p>"What is it?—can't it wait till you're better?"</p> - -<p>"No.... It's this.... She ... she's in ... infernal trouble."</p> - -<p>Nigel quailed.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Len?"</p> - -<p>"She'd rather tell you herself ... she's going to ... all I want to say -is ... when you hear, just remember that ... she's our Janey."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VIII</span> <span class="smaller">VIGIL</span></h2> - -<p>The doctor called early the next morning, and looked serious. Leonard -had had a restless night, and his symptoms were becoming very grave. He -still kept up his efforts at conversation, though they were more painful -than ever.</p> - -<p>"I—I'm not going to die, Doc," he panted.</p> - -<p>"Well, keep quiet, and we'll see about it," said the doctor.</p> - -<p>"But have you heard about my brother?... the one who fills the Albert -Hall?... Oh, 'ninety-nine,' since you insist."</p> - -<p>Nigel had been sent over to Dormans the first thing in the morning, to -buy up all the papers he could. Several of them had a report of von -Gleichroeder's concert, and most of these mentioned Nigel's performance -favourably.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Furlonger has undoubtedly a great deal to learn on the mechanical -side of his art, but he has a wonderful force of temperament, which last -night compensated in many ways for faulty technique. He even managed to -work some emotional beauty into Scriabin's bundle of tricks, and one can -imagine that in music which depended on the beautiful instead of on the -bizarre for its appeal, he would have the chance, which was denied him -last night, of a really fine performance. We do not say that Mr. -Furlonger will ever be a master, but if he will avoid fashionable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> -gymnastics and not despise such out-of-date considerations as beauty and -harmony, he may become a temperamental violinist of the first order." -All the critics, more or less, had a hit at the "advanced" type of -music, and Nigel imagined von Gleichroeder's wrath.</p> - -<p>Len insisted on having all the criticisms read to him, and a thrill of -pride went through even Janey's numb breast. She had never tried to -speak to Nigel alone, and he gave her no hint that he knew she was in -trouble. But when his heart was not bursting with anxiety for Len, it -brimmed with compassion for Janey. She might have been nursing her -brother for weeks instead of hours to judge by her haggard face, white -lips, and faded eyes. Her movements were listless, and her figure in -rest had the droop of utter exhaustion.</p> - -<p>She and Nigel divided the nursing between them. Len was never left -alone. He had to be fed every two hours, and it generally took both of -them to do it, as he was very perverse in the matter of meals, saying -that the food choked him. In the afternoon he became a little delirious. -He seemed to be trying to ask for things, and yet to be unable to say -what he really meant, often saying something quite different. He was -intensely pathetic in his weakness. This dulling, or rather disturbance, -of his faculties seemed to distress him far more than his difficult -breathing or the pain in his side. Now and then he would hold out his -hands piteously to Nigel and Janey, and would lie for some time holding -the hand of each, his brown eyes staring at them imploringly, as if they -were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> fighting for the powers of speech which the tongue had lost—in -the way that the eyes of animals often fight.</p> - -<p>They tried to make him go to sleep, but he was always restless and -awake. They read to him, talked to him and to each other, with no -success. Outside, the day was dull, yet warm and steamy. Every now and -then a shower would rustle noisily on the leaves, and after it passed -there would be many drippings.</p> - -<p>Nigel went out for an hour or two's work on the farm when evening fell. -It seemed extraordinary that only some eighteen hours lay between him -and the concert at the Bechstein Hall. That part of his life had been -put aside—not for ever, perhaps, but none the less temporarily banished -by a usurping present. Some day, no doubt, he would put on the last six -months again, just as he would put on the dress clothes he had folded -away, but now he wore corduroys and the last eighteen hours.</p> - -<p>At six the doctor called again. He shook his head at the sight of -Leonard.</p> - -<p>"He must have a nurse," he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no ... for heaven's sake!" groaned Len.</p> - -<p>"Nigel and I can nurse him," said Janey.</p> - -<p>"My dear young lady, have you seen your own face in the glass?"</p> - -<p>Len raised himself with difficulty on his pillows.</p> - -<p>"Lord, Janey!—you look quite cooked up.... I say, old girl, I won't -have it.... Doctor, I surrender."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p><p>"I don't know whether I can send any one in to-night—but I'll try. -Anyhow, to-morrow morning—now 'ninety-nine,' please."</p> - -<p>Nigel went over to East Grinstead for ice and fruit. Len was dreadfully -thirsty all the evening. They put bags of ice on his forehead and sides, -but it did not seem to cool him much. The doctor had left a -sleeping-draught, to be administered the last thing at night.</p> - -<p>"If I take it," said Len, "will you two go to bed?"</p> - -<p>"Janey will," said Nigel. "I'll have a shake-down in here."</p> - -<p>"Well, it'll keep me quiet, I suppose ... so I'll take the beastly -thing.... I want to sleep ... but I don't want to die.... I won't die, -in fact."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk of it, old man."</p> - -<p>He lifted Len in his strong arms, and settled him more comfortably in -the bedclothes. Then he gave him the sleeping-draught.</p> - -<p>The window was wide open, and one could hear the rain pattering on the -lilac bushes. The wind, sweet-smelling with damp and hay, puffed the -curtains into the room, then sucked them back. A fire was burning low on -the hearth. Janey went and sat beside it. Nigel sat by the bed, for -between sleeping and waking his brother suffered from strange fears.</p> - -<p>At last, after a few sighs and struggles, Len fell asleep, still high on -his pillows, the lines of his face very tired and grim. There was a -little light in the room, or rather the mingled lights of a dying<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> fire -and a fighting moon. Nigel rose softly, and went over to Janet.</p> - -<p>"You must go to bed."</p> - -<p>"No—I'd rather stay here."</p> - -<p>"You must have some sleep, or you'll be worn out."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't sleep."</p> - -<p>The words broke from her in a strangling sigh, and the next minute his -arm crept round her, for he remembered Leonard's words.</p> - -<p>"Dear Janey ..." he whispered.</p> - -<p>She began to cry.</p> - -<p>For a moment or two he held her to him, helping her to choke her sobs -against his breast.</p> - -<p>"Won't you tell me what it is?"</p> - -<p>"How do you know there's anything more than that?" and she pointed -towards the bed.</p> - -<p>"Len told me."</p> - -<p>"About Quentin?..."</p> - -<p>"Quentin!"</p> - -<p>"Yes—I thought you said he'd told you."</p> - -<p>"He told me you were wretched about something. But who's Quentin?—not -Quentin Lowe?"</p> - -<p>They were the very words Len had used, and Janey shuddered.</p> - -<p>"Yes ..." she said faintly, "Quentin Lowe."</p> - -<p>"But——"</p> - -<p>"You'll never understand.... I hid it from you for three years."</p> - -<p>"Hid what, Janey?"</p> - -<p>"My—my love."</p> - -<p>Nigel's arm dropped from her waist, but hers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> was round his neck, and -she clung to him feverishly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I loved him. I loved him and I pitied him ... and I wanted, I -tried, to help him—and—and I've been his ruin—and another woman has -saved him."</p> - -<p>Nigel was speechless. What astonished him, the man of secrets, most, was -that Janey should have had a secret from him for three years.</p> - -<p>"Don't tremble so, darling—but tell me about it. I won't be hard on -you."</p> - -<p>"You will—when you know all."</p> - -<p>"Does Len know all?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>He glanced over to the sleeping man, then put back his arm round Janey's -waist.</p> - -<p>"Now tell me—all."</p> - -<p>Janey told him—all.</p> - -<p class="space-above">For some moments there was silence. The rain was still beating on the -leaves, but the moon had torn through the clouds, and flung a white -patch over Leonard's feet. The fire was just a red lump, and Janey and -Nigel, sitting outside the moonrays, were lost in darkness.</p> - -<p>Janey wondered when her brother would speak. She could see the outline -of his face, blurred in the shadows. He held his head high, and he had -not dropped his arm from her waist, but his free hand was clenched—then -she felt the other clench against her side. Sickening fears assailed -her. Why did he not speak? Only that arm round her gave her hope....</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p><p>Then suddenly he took it away, and put both his hands over his face. -She saw his shoulders quiver, just for a moment, then for what seemed -long moments he did not move.</p> - -<p>A paralysis of horror was creeping towards her heart. He was taking -things even worse than she had expected, but they did not seem to fill -him with anger so much as with grief. His body was crumpled as if under -a load, and when he suddenly dropped his hands and looked up at her, she -drew back shuddering from what she saw in his eyes.</p> - -<p>"My poor boy!—I wish I hadn't told you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, God!—oh, God!"</p> - -<p>Something in his cowering, hopeless attitude woke all the divine -motherhood in Janey. She forgot her fear of unforgiveness, her danger of -a rebuff, and put her arms round him, drawing his head to her breast.</p> - -<p>"My poor Nigel ... my poor, poor lad!"—so she comforted him for the -shame he felt for her.</p> - -<p>After a time, when thought was not quite swallowed up in tenderness, she -began to wonder why he let her hold him so.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he rose, and began to pace up and down the room—up and -down, up and down, swinging round sharply at the corners, but always, -she noticed with a gulp, treading softly for fear of waking Len. She -watched him in numb despair. The minutes dragged on. Now and then he put -his hand over his brow, as if he fought either for or against some -memory, now and then he bent his head so low that she could not see his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> -face. She wondered how much longer she would be able to endure it.</p> - -<p>"Nigel——" she whispered at last.</p> - -<p>He stopped and turned towards her.</p> - -<p>"Nigel ..."</p> - -<p>"What is it?"</p> - -<p>"For heaven's sake ... don't keep me in suspense."</p> - -<p>"Suspense about what?"</p> - -<p>"Your forgiveness."</p> - -<p>In a moment he was at her side.</p> - -<p>"Janey—if I thought you could be doubting that——"</p> - -<p>He put his arms round her, and the relief was so sudden that she burst -into tears.</p> - -<p>"What a selfish hound I am!—wrapped up in my own beastly feelings, and -forgetting yours. But I never imagined you could think——"</p> - -<p>"I thought ... perhaps you couldn't."</p> - -<p>"Janey, how dare you!"</p> - -<p>"When you got up and walked about ..."</p> - -<p>"I know—I know. But that wasn't anger against you—my poor, outraged, -suffering darling," and he covered her face with kisses.</p> - -<p>She clung to him in a passion of love and relief.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're good—you and Len!"</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, Janey. You mustn't talk like that. We're not worthy to tie -your shoes—we never shall be. How could you think we'd turn against -you? It's him, that little, loathly cad, that——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, hush, dear—I can't bear it."</p> - -<p>His rage was stronger and fiercer than Len's, his whole body quivered in -the passion of it. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> suddenly it changed unaccountably to grief, and -his head fell back against her shoulder, the eyes dull, the mouth old -and drawn. She thought it was for her, and he hugged his poor, dead -secret too tight to grant her the mercy of disillusion.</p> - -<p>The night wore on, and they clung together on the hearthstone, where -cinders fell and glowed, making the only sound, the only light, in the -room. Two lost children, they huddled together in the only warm place -they had left—each other's arms.</p> - -<p class="space-above">There was a feeble sigh, a feeble stirring in the bed—just as the first -of the morning came between the curtains, and pointed like a finger into -the gloom.</p> - -<p>"Lenny...."</p> - -<p>Janet and Nigel rose, wearily dropping their stiff arms from each other, -and went over to the bed.</p> - -<p>"How long have you been awake?"</p> - -<p>"Only just woke up ... would you draw back the curtains?"</p> - -<p>Nigel pulled them back, and a white dawn shuddered into the room.</p> - -<p>"What time is it?"</p> - -<p>"About three—can't you go to sleep again?"</p> - -<p>"No—I've wakened for good ... I mean ... I mean ..."</p> - -<p>"What, old man?"</p> - -<p>"I think I am going to die after all."</p> - -<p>"No, Lenny, no...."</p> - -<p>"It's rather a come down ... after saying I wouldn't ... but I feel so -tired."</p> - -<p>His face was spread over with a ghastly pallor,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> and something which -Nigel and Janey could not exactly define, which indeed they hardly saw -with their bodily sight, but which impressed them vaguely as a kind of -film.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to die," he repeated, plucking with cold fingers at the -sheet.</p> - -<p>"I'll go and fetch the doctor," cried Nigel.</p> - -<p>"No ... I don't want you to leave me."</p> - -<p>"But we must do something."</p> - -<p>"There's nothing to do ... only talk to me ... and don't let me get -funky."</p> - -<p>"You might look out of the window, Nigel, and see if any one's passing," -said Janey.</p> - -<p>There was not likely to be any one at that hour, but he thrust his head -out and eagerly scanned the lane. The rain had stopped, though the sky -was shagged over with masses of cloud. One or two stars glimmered wanly -above the woods. It was the constellation of Orion, setting.</p> - -<p>"There's no one," said Nigel, "nor likely to be—I must go, Len."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no ... don't ... don't leave me ... the doctor couldn't do -anything.... Perhaps I won't die ... only I hate the dark."</p> - -<p>A strangling pity seized Nigel. He went over to his brother, and sat -down beside the bed, taking his hand.</p> - -<p>"There, there, old boy, don't worry. We'll both stay with you. I'll hold -this hand, and Janey 'ull hold the other, and you'll soon get over it."</p> - -<p>Len lay shivering and gasping. Nigel and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> Janey looked into each other's -eyes across him, and swallowed their grief.</p> - -<p>"I—I expect it's nothing," panted Leonard. "One often feels low at this -time of night."</p> - -<p>They leaned upon the bed each side of him, and suddenly Janey thrust out -her hand and grasped Nigel's across him.</p> - -<p>"Now we're all three holding hands," she said.</p> - -<p>The minutes flew by. A clock was ticking—measuring them out.</p> - -<p>"Kiss me ..." moaned Leonard suddenly.</p> - -<p>They both stooped and kissed him.</p> - -<p>He shut his eyes, then opened them, and a strange, piteous resignation -was in their glazing depths.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry ... I must die.... I'm so tired."</p> - -<p>"You will go to sleep, Len."</p> - -<p>"No ... I'm too tired ... it wouldn't be enough."</p> - -<p>Janey's tears fell on his face.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry, Janey ... it's—it's all right.... Remember me to the doctor -... and say my last words were 'ninety-nine' ... laugh, Janey ... it's a -joke."</p> - -<p>"Lenny, Lenny...."</p> - -<p>There was another silence, and a faint flush tinted the watery sky. A -bird chirrupped in the eaves of Sparrow Hall.</p> - -<p>"Hold my hands tighter," gasped Len.</p> - -<p>They both gripped tighter.</p> - -<p>"And give my love to Tottie Coughdrop ... and say I'm sorry to have -missed her.... Tighter ... oh!... tighter."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p><p>His breath came in a fierce, whistling rush, and he sat bolt upright, -gripping their hands and struggling.</p> - -<p>"Nigel, fetch the doctor!" shrieked Janey.</p> - -<p>But Len had his brother's hand in the agonised grip of dying.</p> - -<p>"Tighter ... oh, tighter...."</p> - -<p>There was another whistling rush of breath, but this time no -struggle—only a sigh.</p> - -<p>Len fell back on the pillow, and the terror passed suddenly from his face.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IX</span> <span class="smaller">AND YOU ALSO SAID ...</span></h2> - -<p>During the week that followed Leonard's death, there was a succession of -heavy storms. Chill sodden winds drove June from the fields, and -substituted a bleak mock-autumn. Sparrow Hall was full of the moaning -winds—they sped down the passages, and throbbed against the doors, they -whistled through cracks and chinks, and rumbled in the chimneys.</p> - -<p>Janey was in bed for the first few days; she had collapsed utterly. The -two blows which had fallen on her almost together had smitten her into a -kind of numbness, in which she lay, white and stiff and tearless, -through the windy hours. Nigel scarcely ever left her, and he scarcely -ever spoke to her—they just crouched together, she on the bed, he on a -chair beside it, their fingers twined, both dumbly busy with the -problems of death and anguish that had assaulted their lives.</p> - -<p>Meantime the routine of the house and farm remained unbroken. The "man" -looked after the latter, and through the former moved a figure that -seemed strangely out of place. When "Tottie Coughdrop" arrived the -morning after Len's death, she proved to be no more or less than a -novice from St. Margaret's Convent, and finding her ministrations as -truly needed as if her patient had been alive, she did not leave on -finding him dead.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p><p>She nursed Janey—at least she did for her the little that Nigel could -not do; she dusted and cooked; she made Furlonger eat, the stiffest duty -of all. It used to hurt Nigel when he thought how Len would have enjoyed -seeing him sit down to supper every night with a nun.</p> - -<p>Novice Unity Agnes also undertook all the arrangements for the -funeral—which had always been a nightmare to Nigel and Janey. Moreover, -the day before, she went to East Grinstead and bought a black skirt and -blouse and hat for Janey, who but for her would never have thought of -going into mourning at all; and though her charity was not able to -overcome her diffidence and buy a mourning suit for Nigel, she sewed -black bands on all his coats.</p> - -<p>That was how it happened that the funeral of Leonard Furlonger was such -a surprise to the inhabitants of the Three Counties. The coffin was met -at the church door by the choir headed by a crucifix, and the service -was read by a priest in a black cope. There were hymns too—Novice Unity -Agnes's favourites, all about as appropriate as "How doth the little -busy bee"—and incense, and a little collection of nuns, persuaded by -the kind-hearted novice to swell the scanty number of mourners. In fact, -as Nigel remarked bitterly, the whole thing was a joke, and it was a -shame Len had missed it.</p> - -<p>He and Janey walked home alone, arm in arm, through the wet lanes. As -usual, they did not speak, but they strained close together as the -solitude of the fields crept round them. The rain had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> cleared, but the -wind was still romping in the hedges—little tearful spreads of sky -showed among the clouds, very pale and rain-washed, soon swallowed up by -moving shapes of storm.</p> - -<p>Janet went to bed early. She had suddenly found that she could sleep, -and her appetite for sleep became abnormal. She woke each morning -greedily counting the hours till night. In the old careless days she had -never set such store on sleep, because it had meant merely strengthening -and resting and refreshing; now it meant what was more to her than -anything else in life—forgetting.</p> - -<p>Nigel could not sleep. In his heart the lights were not yet all put out. -There were flashes of terror and sparks of desire, and dull flares of -conjecture. He had sometimes hesitated whether he should tell Janey his -secret, but had drawn back on each occasion, urged partly by the thought -of adding to her burden, but principally by a feeling of shame. His -wonderful dream, which had sustained him so triumphantly during six -months of work and sacrifice, had now shrivelled into a poor little -secret, such as school-girls nurture—a love which must always be hidden -and silent and unconsummated.</p> - -<p>His brain ached with regrets and revisualisations, quaked with -apprehension and the knowledge of his own utter helplessness in the face -of circumstances. The thought of Lowe's perfidy to Janet would rouse in -him a sweat of rage from his poor attempts at sleep. Janey stood to -Nigel for all that was noble, meek and understanding, and that she -should be treated heartlessly and lightly by a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> scoundrel not worthy to -black her boots, was a thought that drove him nearly rabid with hate. -What was he to do to save Tony from this swine? He knew perfectly well -how she would look upon him if she heard his story. He remembered the -hard, stiff little figure in the garden of Shovelstrode—"You won my -friendship under false pretences." What would she say to the cad who had -won by false pretences not only her friendship but her body, her heart -and her soul? Yet he could never tell her the truth. He would not betray -Janet even to this girl he loved, and a vague accusation could easily be -denied by Lowe, and was not likely to be believed by Tony.</p> - -<p>Often he envied Len—lost in cool sleep, free from responsibilities and -problems, eased for ever from the soul-chafing burdens of hate and love.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was the beginning of July. Sunshine baked on the fields, and drank -the green out of the grass, so that the fields were brown, with splashes -of yellow where the buttercups still grew. In the hedges the wild -elder-rose sent out its sickening sweetness, while from the ditches came -the even more cloying fragrance of the meadowsweet. The haze of a great -heat veiled the distance from Nigel, as he tramped over the parched -grass into Kent. He saw the roofs of Scarlets and Redpale shimmering in -the valley of the hammer ponds, but beyond them was a fiery, thundering -dusk, which swallowed up the hills of Cowden in the east.</p> - -<p>He walked with bent head and arms slack. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> often took these lonely -walks, undaunted by either storm or swelter. He knew that Janey missed -him, but he could not keep his body still while his mind ran to and fro -so desperately.</p> - -<p>His walks were full of dark and furious planning of schemes that came to -nothing. He roamed aimlessly through the country, without noticing where -he went—except that he half unconsciously avoided the roads and wider -lanes. He was desperate because his brain worked so slowly, a cloud -seemed to lie on it, and he had a tendency to lose the thread of his -ideas after he had followed them a little way.</p> - -<p>This afternoon he was wandering towards the valley of the hammer ponds. -It was nearly seven when he came to Furnace Wood. The sun was swimming -to the west through whorls of heat. A sullen glow crawled over the sky, -nearly brown in the west. The air hung heavy in the wood, laden with the -pungency of midsummer flowers and grasses—scarcely a leaf stirred, -though now and then an unaccountable rustling shudder passed through the -thickets.</p> - -<p>Weariness dropped on Nigel like a cloak—he was used to it. It was not -really physical, only the deadly striving of his soul reaching out to -his body and exhausting it. He flung himself down in a clump of bracken -and tansy, sinking down in it, till everything was shut out by the tall, -earth-smelling stalks. This was what he often found himself longing for -with a desperate physical desire—a little corner, cool and quiet and -green,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> shut off from life, where he could drowse—and forget.</p> - -<p>This evening only the first part of his desire was satisfied. He had his -corner, but he could not drowse in it. His limbs lay inert, but his -thoughts kicked painfully. His brain hammered with old impressions, -which, instead of wearing away with time, each day bored and jarred with -renewed power. He was the victim of an abnormally acute mentality—just -as to a swollen limb the lightest touch is painful, so to Nigel's brain -inflamed with grief and struggle, every impression was like a blow, an -enduring source of agony.</p> - -<p>He heard footsteps on the path. No one could see him—it was still quite -light in the fields, but in the wood was dusk and a blurring of -outlines; besides, he was deeply buried in the tall stalks. However, -though he could not be seen, he could see, for on the path stood a -golden pillar of sunshine into which the footsteps must pass. Nigel -wondered if it could be Lowe, returning early for some reason from -Shovelstrode. But the steps did not sound heavy enough, and the next -minute he saw the white of a woman's dress through the trees. In an -instant his limbs had shrunk together, for another of those sickening -blows had smitten his brain. The figure had passed out of the pillar of -sunset, but he had seen Tony Strife as she went by.</p> - -<p>She was dressed in white, and wore no hat, only a muslin scarf over her -hair. She carried a cloak on her arm, and Furlonger realised that she -must be going to dine at Redpale. The sight of Tony—he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> had not seen -her since he lost her, or rather his dream of her—threw him into a fit -of torment. He flung himself back among the stalks, and rolled there, -biting them, suddenly mad with pain.</p> - -<p>The next moment he started up. A thud and a low cry came from a few -yards further on.</p> - -<p>Nigel sprang to his feet. He remembered that not far off the path ran by -the mouth of a disused chalk quarry, from which it was divided only by a -very rickety fence. Suppose.... He crashed through the bushes to the -path, and dashed along it to the chalk-pit. Something white lay only a -few feet from the dreadful brink.</p> - -<p>Just here the path was in darkness—hazel bushes and a dense thicket of -alder shut out the sun. For a moment he could not make out clearly what -had happened, but was immediately reassured by seeing Tony sit up, and -try to struggle to her feet.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she cried, hearing his steps behind her. "Who's there?"</p> - -<p>"Are you hurt?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Furlonger...."</p> - -<p>She made another struggle to rise, but could not without his hand.</p> - -<p>"Are you hurt?" he repeated.</p> - -<p>"No-o-o."</p> - -<p>"I think you are a little."</p> - -<p>He was trembling all over, and hoped she did not notice it.</p> - -<p>"I fell over some wire, just here, where the path<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> is so dark. I might -have gone over the edge," she added with a shudder.</p> - -<p>"You had a lucky escape—but I'm afraid you're hurt."</p> - -<p>"It isn't much. I may have twisted my ankle a bit, that's all."</p> - -<p>She stood there in the shadows, her white dress gleaming like a moth, -her face mysterious in the disarray of her wrap. Nigel's eyes devoured -her, while his heart filled itself with inexpressible pain.</p> - -<p>"Take my arm," he said huskily, "and I'll help you back to -Shovelstrode."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no!—I'll go on to Redpale. It's much nearer—if you'll be so kind -as to help me."</p> - -<p>"But how about getting home?"</p> - -<p>"My fiancé, Mr. Lowe, will drive me home. He was to have fetched me too, -but at the last moment he had to go up to town, and couldn't be back in -time."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure you're well enough to go out to dinner?" He hated the idea -of taking her to Redpale.</p> - -<p>"Oh, quite—this is nothing. Besides, dining at Redpale is just like -dining at home—I don't call it going 'out' to dinner."</p> - -<p>Furlonger winced, and gave her his arm, hoping she would not notice how -it shook.</p> - -<p>They walked slowly out of Furnace Wood, towards the leaden east. Tony -limped slightly, and Nigel wanted to carry her, but he dared not risk -his patched self-control too far.</p> - -<p>"You should never have come all this way<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> alone," he said gruffly, -"these woods by the quarries are dangerous."</p> - -<p>"I expect my father will be furious when he finds out what I've done. -But I hoped that if I walked across the fields, instead of driving round -by the road, I—I might meet my fiancé on his way home from the -station."</p> - -<p>A tremulous archness crept into her voice. Nigel shuddered.</p> - -<p>"I'm pleased I met you," she said gently, after a pause, "because I -wanted to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am about your brother."</p> - -<p>"Thank you."</p> - -<p>"And I want to tell you that I'm so glad about your success in London. I -saw in the papers how you distinguished yourself at Herr von -Gleichroeder's concert."</p> - -<p>Nigel did not speak.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you'll soon be going back to town?" she went on timidly.</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I can't leave my sister."</p> - -<p>"But you can take her with you. It would be a pity to throw up your -career just when everything looks so promising."</p> - -<p>They were not far from Redpale now. The sunset was creeping over the -sky—only the east before them was dark, banked high with thundery -vapour. Nigel could still hear Tony speaking, as if in a kind of dream. -His thoughts were busy elsewhere.</p> - -<p>"Won't you?" repeated Tony for the second time.</p> - -<p>"Won't I what?"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p><p>"Go back to London, and make yourself famous."</p> - -<p>"I don't see much chance of that."</p> - -<p>"But I do—and so will you when you're not so unhappy. Now, to please -me, won't you promise to go back to London and make yourself a great -career? You and I used to be friends once—I hope we're friends -still—and I shall always be interested in everything you do. I expect -to see your name in a very high place some day. Now, for my sake, -promise to go back."</p> - -<p>"For your sake...."</p> - -<p>"Yes—since you won't go for your own."</p> - -<p>They had stopped a moment to rest her foot. Nigel lifted his eyes from -the grass and looked into hers—wondering. Was it true, was it even -possible, that she had never seen his love? She could not, or she would -not speak like this—"For my sake." After all, she would never expect -him to dare ... that would blind her to much that might have betrayed -him had he been worthier. No, she had not seen his love, and she had -never loved him. She had never loved any man but Quentin Lowe—he was -her first love, he had lit the first flame in her heart, and that heart -was his, in all its purity and burning.</p> - -<p>Standing there beside her in the sunset, her weight resting deliciously -on him as she raised her injured foot from the ground, he realised the -change that had come to Tony. Her manner was as entirely different from -her manner of six months ago at Shovelstrode as that had been different -from the manner of those still earlier days at Lingfield<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> or Brambletye. -In those days, during their playtime, Tony had been a school-girl, a -delightful hoyden, the best pal and fellow-adventurer a man could have. -In December, in the garden at Shovelstrode, she had lost that valiant -girlhood, and at the same time her womanhood was unripe—she had been a -crude mixture of girl and woman, sometimes provokingly both, sometimes -repellingly neither. But to-day she was woman complete. Both her mind -and her body seemed to have stepped out of their green adolescence. -There was a certain dignity of curve about the tall figure resting -against him, which Nigel had not seen in the forest or in the garden; -there was a clear and confident look in the eyes which in earlier days -had been either wistful or timid; there was a heightened colour on the -cheeks. Her manner was full of gentle assurance, her speech easy and -sympathetic—as utterly different from the crude tactlessness of -Christmastide as from the school-girl rattle of November.</p> - -<p>Yes, Tony was a woman come into her kingdom, proud, sweet, compassionate -and strong. Quentin Lowe had made her this in the short weeks of his -love. Unworthy little cad as he was, he had yet been able to raise her -from girlhood to womanhood, to crown her with the diadem of her -heritage....</p> - -<p>"Tony," cried Nigel, caught in a sudden storm of impulse, "do you love -Quentin Lowe?"</p> - -<p>"Love him!—why, of course.... Let's move on."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p><p>"You're not angry with me?—I have my reason for asking."</p> - -<p>"No, I'm not angry. But what reason can you have?"</p> - -<p>"I remember," said Nigel desperately, "what you told me six months ago. -You said you couldn't forgive...."</p> - -<p>The colour rushed to his face, but he fought on.</p> - -<p>"There is something which I think you ought to know about him."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>She spoke sharply, but not quite so sharply as he had expected.</p> - -<p>"Miss Strife—it's very difficult for me ... but I think I ought——"</p> - -<p>"I suppose," she said, her voice faltering a little, "you're trying to -tell me—you think you ought to tell me—that Quentin hasn't always been -quite—quite worthy of himself. I know."</p> - -<p>"You know!"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>There was silence, broken only by the swish of their footsteps through -the grass.</p> - -<p>"How did you know?—Who told you?" cried Furlonger suddenly.</p> - -<p>"I might ask—how do <i>you</i> know?"</p> - -<p>"The girl—was a friend of mine...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm sorry."</p> - -<p>"Don't mistake me. I—I didn't love her—not in that way, I mean. But, -Tony—who told you?"</p> - -<p>"Quentin."</p> - -<p>"My God!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p><p>"Why are you so surprised? It was right that he should tell me."</p> - -<p>"Of course. But I—I didn't think he would."</p> - -<p>Tony hesitated a moment—it struck Nigel that she was considering how -far she ought to take him into her confidence. The thought humiliated him.</p> - -<p>"He did tell me," she said after a pause, "he told me everything, one -night, nearly three weeks ago, just before your brother died. He -suddenly came to Shovelstrode—very late, after we had all gone -upstairs. He wanted to see me—and I came down ... oh, I shall never -forget it! He was standing there, all white and tired—and very wet, as -if he'd been lying in the grass. He tried to speak, but he couldn't—and -I was frightened, like a silly ass, and I cried ... and then he told me -all about himself—and this girl."</p> - -<p>"And you?..."</p> - -<p>She shuddered.</p> - -<p>"I—I told him he must go."</p> - -<p>"You told him to go!"—his voice had a hungry catch in it.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I was a beast."</p> - -<p>Anxiety and scorn strove together in him.</p> - -<p>"But you changed your mind."</p> - -<p>She nodded.</p> - -<p>"Tony!"</p> - -<p>"Well, why not?"</p> - -<p>"Because it's paltry and weak of you—he doesn't deserve your -forgiveness—and you've no right to forgive him for what he did to -another woman."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p><p>"Do you think I haven't considered that other woman?"</p> - -<p>"You must have. But—egad!—you're so calm about it. Don't you realise -what all this means—to her?"</p> - -<p>"You think I ought to make him marry her?"</p> - -<p>"Of course not—she wouldn't have him if she was paid. But—but how can -<i>you</i> marry him, Tony?"</p> - -<p>She bit her lip.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry I put things so bluntly, but I'm always a blundering ass when -I'm excited. Tony, you're not to marry this man."</p> - -<p>By her mounting colour he saw that he had said too much.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon—I know all this sounds like impertinent -interference. But it isn't. I've been worrying about it a lot—about -your marrying him. I felt you ought to know...."</p> - -<p>"Well, I do know—and I've forgiven him."</p> - -<p>"I'm not sure that isn't even worse than your not knowing."</p> - -<p>She stared at him in anger and surprise.</p> - -<p>"You say that!—you!—the man but for whom perhaps I never should have -forgiven him."</p> - -<p>Nigel gasped. "What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Well, at first, as I told you, I felt I couldn't forgive him. But -afterwards I remembered all you said."</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> said!"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"What?—When?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you remember that day you came over to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> Shovelstrode and said, -'You will have to forgive me a great many things because I am so very -hungry'?"</p> - -<p class="space-above">They had stopped again; the fields swelled round them, ghostly in the -lemon twilight, and a wistful radiance glowed on Tony's face. He -searched her eyes despairingly—he scarcely knew what for. The anger in -them had died, and in its place was a beautiful serenity and kindliness. -But that was not what he was looking for. His heart was full of hunger -and tears, yet he did not hunger or cry for the woman who stood before -him, but for the little girl he had known long months ago.</p> - -<p>"Quentin used almost the same words as you did," she said, breaking the -silence, "he told me how all his life he had been hungry, always craving -for something good and pure and satisfying, never able to reach it. Then -he met this girl, and he thought that he'd find in her all he was -seeking. But he found only sorrow—sorrow for them both. He was in -despair, in hell—and he believed I could help him out and make him a -good man again. Don't you remember how you said that a man's only chance -of rising out of the mud was for some woman to give him a hand and help -him up?"</p> - -<p>Nigel could not find words. A thick, misty horror was settling on him. -Had those poor pleadings of his dying self then turned against him in -his hour of need?</p> - -<p>"There was Quentin asking for my help," continued Tony. "Oh, I know I'm -no better than other girls, than the girl he used to love, but <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>somehow -I can't help feeling I'm the girl sent to help Quentin. When I told him -he must go, he nearly went crazy ... his father said he was afraid he -would kill himself ... and I—I was nearly mad too, for I—oh, God! I -loved him."</p> - -<p>A sounding contralto note swept into her voice; it seemed to swell up -from her heart, from her heaving woman's breast on which her hands were -folded.</p> - -<p>"So I forgave him."</p> - -<p>"Tony!..." cried Nigel faintly.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I'm grateful to you. I'm afraid that when I saw you at -Shovelstrode I was very stupid and stiff—I was a horrid little beast, -and I couldn't forgive you for what was after all an honour you had done -me. Now I see how much your friendship meant to me. But for you, Quentin -and I might have been parted for ever."</p> - -<p>A stupid rage was tearing Furlonger, and there was a mockery of laughter -in it. He saw that his tragedy was after all only a farce—he was the -time-honoured lover of farce, who with infinite pains makes a ladder to -his lady's chamber, and then sees his rival swarm up it. There he stood, -forlorn, discomfited, frustrated—but also intensely comic. Perhaps the -student was right about Offenbach....</p> - -<p>"I'm surprised that you should be so disgusted with me," said Tony.</p> - -<p>The ghostly laughter pealed again, and at the same time he remembered -that "if the man's a sport, he laughs too." He threw back his head, and -startled her with a hearty laugh.</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p><p>"Mr. Furlonger!"</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry—but things struck me suddenly as rather funny."</p> - -<p>"How?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't suppose they'd strike you the same way. But it seems funny -you should care whether I'm disgusted or not."</p> - -<p>"I do—of course I do; and I can't see why you are disgusted. After all -you said...."</p> - -<p>"Damn all I said!—I'm sorry, but I never thought of a case like this." -He blushed, remembering the case he had thought of.</p> - -<p>They walked down the hill—they could see Redpale now, huddling beneath -them in its orchards. The colours of the sunset had grown fainter, and -pale, trembling lights burned on the barn-roofs and the pond.</p> - -<p>Their feet beat swiftly on the rustling grass. Furlonger's time was -short.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to try to be a big woman," said Tony softly, "a strong, brave -woman; and I don't want to think sentimental rot about a perfect knight -and a spotless hero and all that. I want to be a man's fighting -comrade—I want to feel he can't do without me. It was you who first -told me that I must take men as I find them—but not leave them so."</p> - -<p>"Tony, if only I thought there was any good in him——"</p> - -<p>"I tell you there's a mine of good in him. But he's never had a chance -till now. Our engagement is to be a very long one, and already I can see -a difference in him. It's not I that have done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> it—it's his love for -me. And all the sorrow he went through, when he thought he'd lost me, -seems to have made him gentler and humbler somehow. Quentin has suffered -dreadfully"—there was a little click in her throat—"and he wants so -much to be good and pure and true. And I've promised to help him, by -believing that he can and will do better."</p> - -<p>His own words were being mercilessly fired back at him. He remembered -how he had first breathed them to her, full of hope and entreaty. In the -face of such artillery his rout was complete.</p> - -<p>"Forgive him, Tony!" he cried. "Forgive him! But oh, forgive me, too!"</p> - -<p>They had reached the gate of Redpale Farm. He stopped—he would go no -further.</p> - -<p>"Tony—forgive me too."</p> - -<p>The words broke from his lips in an exceeding bitter cry.</p> - -<p>"Forgive you!—what for?"</p> - -<p>"For a great deal—for all you know of, and for the more you don't -know."</p> - -<p>"Of course I forgive you—but I thank you most."</p> - -<p>"No, you must forgive me most—are you sure that you forgive me for what -you don't know as well as for what you know?"</p> - -<p>"Quite sure"—her voice trembled a little, for he was beginning to -frighten her.</p> - -<p>"Then good-bye."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye. I—I hope I haven't brought you very far out of your way."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p><p>He muttered something unintelligible, pulled off his cap, and left her.</p> - -<p>He walked quickly, pricked on by a discovery which was also a triumph. -Quentin Lowe had not taken Tony from him after all. The Tony he loved -had never known Quentin Lowe, she had been no man's friend but Nigel -Furlonger's—and so much his friend that when he had been taken from her -she would not stay without him, but herself had gone away. Quentin Lowe -loved a beautiful woman—proud and sweet and assured, with just a dash -of the prig about her. Nigel had never loved this woman, he had loved a -little girl—and the little girl who had been his comrade in the Kentish -lanes and the ruins of Brambletye, would never be any man's but his.</p> - -<p class="space-above">He plunged recklessly through the fields, and recklessly into Furnace -Wood. Lowe could not be far off. He must have missed the fast train from -Victoria, but the next one arrived only an hour or so later. Nigel -hurried through the wood, now coal dark, and full of a strange dread for -him—though he did not know of the ghosts which haunted it. As he caught -his first glimpse of the faintly crimsoned west, he saw a figure -outlined against it. Some one was coming down the slope of Furnace -Field. It must be Lowe.</p> - -<p>The two men met on the rim of the wood. It was a moment of blackness for -Quentin when he saw the blazing eyes and bitten lips of Furlonger. -Strange words broke from his tongue—</p> - -<p>"Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p><p>Nigel's great body towered over him. His lips had shrunk back from his -teeth, which gleamed in the dying ugly light. Lowe remembered the other -Furlonger who was dead. In Furnace Wood fate would not tamper with -vengeance as at Cowsanish.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Nigel spoke.</p> - -<p>"Two good women have forgiven you—so I've nothing to say—or do. -Pass——"</p> - -<p>He moved out of the path, and waved his hand towards the wood.</p> - -<p>"Pass——" he said.</p> - -<p>Quentin hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>"Won't—won't you shake hands?"</p> - -<p>"No. Pass—and for God's sake, pass quickly."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER X</span> <span class="smaller">A TOAST</span></h2> - -<p>A few faint stars were in the west as Nigel tramped towards it. They -seemed to swim up out of the eddies of crimson fog that floated -there—they seemed to be showing little candles of hope to the man who -turned his back on the east. The castle of the dayspring lay behind him, -swallowed in thundery murk, but before him were the lights of a broader -palace where dead hopes and dead hatreds keep state together.</p> - -<p>The west glowed and trembled and purpled—fiery rays rested on the -woods, and reached over the sky to the moon. Then against the purple -showed a tall chimney, rising from a high-roofed cottage that squatted -in the fields of Wilderwick.</p> - -<p>As Nigel walked down the hill towards Sparrow Hall, a great quickening -realisation struck his exhausted heart. He knew that his dream was not -dead. Tony, the light in which he had seen it, was gone for ever, but -the dream itself was still there in the dark. For six months he had -tried to lead a good and honourable life, and now, though the motive was -gone, the old desire remained as strong and white as ever. He could -never be as he had been before he met Tony. He knew now that it was not -she that had called him—she had merely opened his ears to a voice that -had been calling him all through his life, through struggle, lust and -pain, failure and hate—and was calling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> him still, through the utter -darkness. The child in him, which had desperately sought congenial -comradeship in a little girl, rose out of the wreck, and heard as in a -dream the voices of boys and girls in London, laughing, fooling and -ragging together, calling to all in him that was gay and young and -outrageous. He wanted to go back to London, he wanted to play and to -work, and to win for himself what he had once yearned to win for Tony. -His music, that one touch of the poetic and supernatural in his sordid, -materialistic life, would raise him up in this his Last Day, and give -him his heart's desire—his desire for a clean life and an honourable -name.</p> - -<p>He stood for a moment in the great lonely field—the last of the sun and -the first of the moon upon him, around him the dawning eternity of the -stars. Two hours ago he had been festering, sick, with his schemes, the -comrade of a hundred repulsive ideas. Now he was alone—utterly alone -with his one great ambition, stripped of the last rag of personal motive -that had clung to it—his ambition to be honest and pure and true.</p> - -<p>Tony had pointed him out the way, and directly he had taken it, she had -gone—to show it to another man, and walk in it with him. Nigel suddenly -pictured that man. He was at Redpale Farm ... he kneeled in the dust at -Tony's feet ... her hands were upon his head. In her he found -redemption, love and blessing—and dared he, Furlonger, grudge -redemption, love and blessing to any man? He did not grudge them—let -Quentin Lowe take them, walk in white with Tony,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> and be worthy of her. -Furlonger, too, would walk in white and be worthy—but he would walk -alone.</p> - -<p>No, not quite alone. He trod softly up the path to Sparrow Hall, between -the ranks of the folded flowers. The evening primroses and night-scented -stock sent their fragrance in with him at the door. The house was in -darkness, and he groped his way to the kitchen, where he found Janey.</p> - -<p>She was half asleep in the armchair by the fire—she had laid the -supper, that dreary little supper for two, and now lay huddled by the -dying embers, cold, in spite of the thick heat of the night.</p> - -<p>"Janey," whispered Nigel, as he kissed her.</p> - -<p>She started.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're back at last!—what a time you've been!"</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry, dear. Come now, I'll light the lamp, and we'll have supper."</p> - -<p>She rose listlessly, and sat down opposite him.</p> - -<p>"It's a rotten supper—I don't cook so well as Novice Unity Agnes."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense! you cook quite well enough for me. Janey—will you come and -cook for me in London?"</p> - -<p>"In London?"—she stared at him blankly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I must go back to my work—and I can't leave you here."</p> - -<p>"But—but—I don't understand—and what shall we do about the farm?"</p> - -<p>"We can sell it, and the money will keep us—just the two of us in a -workman's flat—till my training is over, and I'm earning money on my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> -own. Oh, Janey, I don't suppose I'll ever be rich or famous or that I'll -fill the Albert Hall—but I—I shall be more worthy of you, dear."</p> - -<p>"Of me!"—she laughed.</p> - -<p>"Yes. Don't you understand? I've got my dream back again—but there's an -empty place in it.... Will you fill it, Janey?"</p> - -<p>She looked questioningly at him with her great haggard eyes.</p> - -<p>"Who left it empty?"</p> - -<p>"Tony Strife," he said in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"Nigel!..."</p> - -<p>She rose to her feet and came to him.</p> - -<p>"My poor, poor boy."</p> - -<p>Her pity, the first he had received, had an unexpected effect on him. It -nearly unmanned him—he put up his hands to her neck, and drew down her -face to him, while his body shuddered.</p> - -<p>"Nigel ... did she know?"</p> - -<p>"No, never—thank God!"</p> - -<p>She stroked his hair, and held his head against her breast.</p> - -<p>"It was a hopeless dream, Janey."</p> - -<p>She could not contradict him.</p> - -<p>"But it helped me."</p> - -<p>"Then it was a good dream."</p> - -<p>He gently slipped himself free.</p> - -<p>"And now we'll say no more about it."</p> - -<p>After supper Janey asked Nigel to play to her. He often used to play to -her in the evenings, to relieve the aching weight of agony that gathered -on her with the dusk. She lay back in the armchair, her eyes closed, -wondering why Nigel's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> music, which she had used sometimes to hate, -soothed her so inexpressibly now. She always asked him to play when she -felt her heart was becoming hard—music seemed to melt down that stony -sense of outrage which sometimes grew like a cancer into her thoughts. -She would not, dared not, have a hard heart, and music was the only -thing at present that could keep it soft.</p> - -<p>She thought with gathering tears of the confession her brother had just -made her, but she would not let her mind dwell on it—somehow she felt -he would not like it. The episode did not belong to the surface of -things, it belonged to the hidden life of a secret man, a holy, hopeless -thing, to be guarded from the prying even of reverent thoughts. She knew -that though she and Nigel might often talk together of her sorrow, they -would never talk of his.</p> - -<p>He was playing a strange tune that pattered on the silence like rain. It -was the song of the man who has dreamed of love, who has wakened at last -to find it only a dream, and that he lies with empty arms on a hard -bed—and then suddenly realises that he has before him that which is -sweeter than sleep and dreams—the joy of the day's work. He played the -Prelude of the Day's Work, through which would trill the magic memory of -love—love, which is so much sweeter in memory and in dream than in -realisation.</p> - -<p>At last he put aside his violin, and going over to Janey, he knelt down -by her and kissed her tired face.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Nigel ... Nigel!"</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p><p>"You'll come with me to London, and help me in my new life?"</p> - -<p>"I want a new life too."</p> - -<p>"We'll start one together."</p> - -<p>"And—and you'll play the devil out of me when he comes?"</p> - -<p>"Always—and we won't have any secrets from each other, Janey."</p> - -<p>She smiled faintly. Her brother always amused her when he spoke of -secrets.</p> - -<p>There was silence for some minutes. The moon was leaving the window, -climbing high among the stars. A little wind began to flutter round -Sparrow Hall, whispering and throbbing.</p> - -<p>"I'm tired," said Janey.</p> - -<p>"You must go to bed."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"And you'll dream of the life you and I are going to live together—of -success for me, and happiness for you."</p> - -<p>She rose and put her hands on his shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, lad."</p> - -<p>"Good-night. I think I'm going to bed too. I think I can sleep to-night. -But before we go we must drink a toast, Janey."</p> - -<p>"A toast!—to whom?"</p> - -<p>"To—to two people who we thought were going to make you and me -happy—but are going to make each other happy instead."</p> - -<p>She did not answer for a moment. She and her brother stood facing each -other in the strange freak of lamplight and moonlight. Then she said—</p> - -<p>"Yes. We must <i>want</i> them to be happy, Nigel."</p> - -<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p><p>He turned to the uncleared supper-table and poured out some of the red -wine that Janey drank in these days of her weakness.</p> - -<p>"We'll drink to their happiness, old sister. We won't go whining and -grudging because it isn't ours. Besides, we're going to have it some -day—we'll make a new lot of our own."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Nigel"—Janey's eyes had kindled—"we're not going to grudge them -what they've got, or be envious and mean."</p> - -<p>They faced each other across the table. The wind gave a sudden little -sigh round Sparrow Hall—blustered—and was still.</p> - -<p>"A toast!" cried Nigel, lifting his glass, "a toast!—To those who've -got what we have lost."</p> - -<p class="center space-above">THE END</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Furlongers, by Sheila Kaye-Smith - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FURLONGERS *** - -***** This file should be named 56161-h.htm or 56161-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/6/56161/ - -Produced by ellinora, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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