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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..e54d0cc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60324 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60324) diff --git a/old/60324-0.txt b/old/60324-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f820e34..0000000 --- a/old/60324-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13460 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Enchanted, by Hugh Walpole - -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 Young Enchanted - A Romantic Story - -Author: Hugh Walpole - -Release Date: September 19, 2019 [EBook #60324] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG ENCHANTED *** - - - - -Produced by David T. Jones, Al Haines, Paul Ereaut & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: cover] - - [Illustration: title_page] - - - - The Young Enchanted - - _A ROMANTIC STORY_ - - by HUGH WALPOLE - - GROSSET & DUNLAP _Publishers_ - - _by arrangement with_ Doubleday-Doran & Company, Inc. - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1921, - - BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - - TO MY FRIEND - - LAURITZ MELCHIOR - - AND, THROUGH HIM, - - TO ALL MY FRIENDS - - IN DENMARK - - THIS BOOK - - IS DEDICATED - - - - - MOTTO - - "This minute that comes - to me over the past - Decillions. - There is no better than it - And now. What behaves well - In the past or behaves well - To-day is not such a wonder. - The wonder is always and - Always how there can be - A mean man or an infidel." - - WALT WHITMAN. - - - - - - - CONTENTS - - - BOOK I: TWO DAYS - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I THE SCARLET FEATHER 13 - - II HENRY HIMSELF 28 - - III MILLIE 49 - - IV HENRY'S FIRST DAY 64 - - V THE THREE FRIENDS 74 - - - BOOK II: HIGH SUMMER - - I SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE 83 - - II MILLIE AND PETER 97 - - III THE LETTERS 113 - - IV THE CAULDRON 129 - - V MILLIE IN LOVE 138 - - VI HENRY AT DUNCOMBE 156 - - VII AND PETER IN LONDON 163 - - - BOOK III: FIRST BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY - - I ROMANCE AND CLADGATE 175 - - II LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 195 - - III HENRY IN LOVE 212 - - IV DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD 222 - - V NOTHING IS PERFECT 229 - - VI THE RETURN 236 - - VII DUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 247 - - VIII HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED 259 - - IX QUICK GROWTH 268 - - - BOOK IV: KNIGHT ERRANT - - I MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND IS MADE UP AT LAST 281 - - II HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT 286 - - III A DEATH AND A BATTLE 292 - - IV MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH 302 - - V AND FINDS SOMEONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF 309 - - VI CLARE GOES 317 - - VII THE RESCUE 320 - - VIII THE MOMENT 324 - - IX THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR 328 - - X THE BEGINNING 333 - - - - - -BOOK I - -TWO DAYS - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE SCARLET FEATHER - -I - - -Young Henry Trenchard, one fine afternoon in the Spring of 1920, had an -amazing adventure. - -He was standing at the edge of Piccadilly Circus, just in front of Swan -and Edgar's where the omnibuses stopped. They now stop there no longer -but take a last frenzied leap around the corner into Regent Street, -greatly to the disappointment of many people who still linger at the -old spot and have a vague sense all the rest of the day of having been -cheated by the omnibus companies. - -Henry generally paused there before crossing the Circus partly because -he was short-sighted and partly because he never became tired of the -spectacle of life and excitement that Piccadilly Circus offered to him. -His pince-nez that never properly fitted his nose, always covered one -eye more than the other and gave the interested spectator a dramatic -sense of suspense because they seemed to be eternally at the crisis of -falling to the ground, there to be smashed into a hundred pieces--these -pince-nez coloured his whole life. Had he worn spectacles--large, -round, moon-shaped ones as he should have done--he would have seen -life steadily and seen it whole, but a kind of rather pathetic -vanity--although he was not really vain--prevented him from buying -spectacles. The ill-balancing of these pince-nez is at the back of all -these adventures of his that this book is going to record. - -He waited, between the rushing of the omnibuses, for the right moment -in which to cross, and while he waited a curious fancy occurred to him. -This fancy had often occurred to him before, but he had never confessed -it to any one--not even to Millicent--not because he was especially -ashamed of it but because he was afraid that his audience would laugh -at him, and if there was one thing at this time that Henry disliked it -was to be laughed at. - -He fancied, as he stood there, that his body swelled, and swelled; he -grew, like 'Alice in her Wonderland,' into a gigantic creature, his -neck shot up, his arms and his legs extended, his head was as high -as the barber's window opposite, then slowly he raised his arm--like -Gulliver, the crowds, the traffic, the buildings dwindled beneath him. -Everything stopped; even the sun stayed in its course and halted. The -flower-women around the central statue sat with their hands folded, -the policemen at the crossings waited, looking up to him as though for -orders--the world stood still. With a great gesture, with all the sense -of a mighty dramatic moment he bade the centre of the Circus open. The -Statue vanished and in the place where it had been the stones rolled -back, colour flamed into the sky, strange beautiful music was heard and -into the midst of that breathless pause there came forth--what? - -Alas, Henry did not know. It was here that the vision always stayed. -At the instant when the ground opened his size, his command, his force -collapsed. He fell, with a bang to the ground, generally to find that -some one was hitting him in the ribs, or stepping on his toes or -cursing him for being in the way. - -Experience had, by this time, taught him that this always would be so, -but he never surrendered hope. One day the vision would fulfil itself -and then--well he did not exactly know what would happen then. - -To-day everything occurred as usual, and just as he came to ground -some one struck him violently in the back with an umbrella. The jerk -flung his glasses from his nose and he was only just in time to put -out his hands and catch them. As he did this some books that he was -carrying under his arm fell to the ground. He bent to pick them up and -then was at once involved in the strangest medley of books and ankles -and trouser-legs and the fringes of skirts. People pushed him and -abused him. It was the busiest hour of the day and he was groping at -the busiest part of the pavement. He had not had time to replace his -pince-nez on his nose--they were reposing in his waistcoat pocket--and -he was groping therefore in a darkened and confusing world. A large -boot stamped on his fingers and he cried out; some one knocked off his -hat, some one else prodded him in the tenderest part of his back. - -He was jerked on to his knees. - -When he finally recovered himself and was once more standing, a man -again amongst men, his pince-nez on his nose, he had his books under -his arm, but his hat was gone, gone hopelessly, nowhere to be seen. It -was not a very new hat--a dirty grey and shapeless--but Henry, being in -the first weeks of his new independence, was poor and a hat was a hat. -He was supremely conscious of how foolish a man may look without a hat, -and he hated to look foolish. He was also aware, out of the corner of -his eye, that there was a smudge on one side of his nose. He could not -tell whether it were a big or a little smudge, but from the corner of -his eye it seemed gigantic. - -Two of the books that he was carrying were books given him for review -by the only paper in London--a small and insignificant paper--that -showed interest in his literary judgment, and but a moment ago they had -been splendid in their glittering and handsome freshness. - -Now they were battered and dirty and the corner of one of them was -shapeless. One of the sources of his income was the sum that he -received from a bookseller for his review copies; he would never now -receive a penny for either of these books. - -There were tears in his eyes--how he hated the way that tears would -come when he did not want them! and he was muddy and hatless and -lonely! The loneliness was the worst, he was in a hostile and jeering -and violent world and there was no one who loved him. - -They did not only not love him, they were also jeering at him and this -drove him at once to the determination to escape their company at all -costs. No rushing omnibuses could stop him now, and he was about to -plunge into the Piccadilly sea, hatless, muddy, bruised as he was, when -the wonderful adventure occurred. - -All his life after he would remember that moment, the soft blue sky -shredded with pale flakes of rosy colour above him, the tall buildings -grey and pearl white, the massed colour of the flowers round the -statue, violets and daffodils and primroses, the whir of the traffic -like an undertone of some symphony played by an unearthly orchestra far -below the ground, the moving of the people about him as though they -were all hurrying to find their places in some pageant that was just -about to begin, the bells of St. James' Church striking five o'clock -and the soft echo of Big Ben from the far distance, the warmth of the -Spring sun and the fresh chill of the approaching evening, all these -common, everyday things were, in retrospect, part of that wonderful -moment as though they had been arranged for him by some kindly -benignant power who wanted to give the best possible setting to the -beginning of the great romance of his life. - -He stood on the edge of the pavement, he made a step forward and at -that moment there arose, as it were from the very heart of the ground -itself, a stout and, to Henry's delicate sense, a repulsive figure. - -She was a woman wearing a round black hat and a black sealskin jacket; -her dress was of a light vivid green, her hair a peroxide yellow and -from her ears hung large glittering diamond earrings. - -To a lead of the same bright green as her dress there was attached -a small sniffing and supercilious Pomeranian. She was stout and -red-faced: there was a general impression that she was very tightly -bound about beneath the sealskin jacket. Her green skirt was shorter -than her figure requested. Her thick legs showed fairly pink beneath -very thin silk black stockings; light brown boots very tightly laced -compressed her ankles until they bulged protestingly. All this, -however, Henry did not notice until later in the day when, as will soon -be shown, he had ample opportunity for undisturbed observation. - -His gaze was not upon the stout woman but upon the child who attended -her. Child you could not perhaps truthfully call her; she was at any -rate not dressed as a child. - -In contrast with the woman her clothes were quiet and well made, a -dark dress with a little black hat whose only colour was a feather of -flaming red. It was this feather that first caught Henry's eye. It was -one of his misfortunes at this time that life was always suggesting to -him literary illusions. - -When he saw the feather he at once thought of Razkolnikov's Sonia. -Perhaps not only the feather suggested the comparison. There was -something simple and innocent and a little apprehensive that came at -once from the girl's attitude, her hesitation as she stood just in -front of Henry, the glance that she flung upon the Piccadilly cauldron -before she stepped into it. - -He saw very little of her face, although in retrospect, it was -impossible for him to believe that he had not seen her exactly as she -was, soul and body, from the first instant glimpse of her; her face was -pale, thin, her eyes large and dark, and even in that first moment very -beautiful. - -He had not, of course, any time to see these things. He filled in the -picture afterwards. What exactly occurred was that the diamond earrings -flashed before him, the thick legs stepped into the space between two -omnibuses, there was a shout from a driver and for a horrible moment -it seemed that both the girl and the supercilious Pomeranian had -been run over. Henry dashed forward, himself only narrowly avoided -instant death, then, reaching, breathless and confused, an island, -saw the trio, all safe and well, moving towards the stoutest of the -flower-women. He also saw the stout woman take the girl by the arm, -shake her violently, say something to her in obvious anger. He also saw -the girl turn for an instant her head, look back as though beseeching -some one to help her and then follow her green diamond-flashing dragon. - -Was it this mute appeal that moved Henry? Was it Fate and Destiny? Was -it a longing that justice should be done? Was it the Romantic Spirit? -Was it Youth? Was it the Spirit of the Age? Every reader of this book -must make an individual decision. - -The recorded fact is simply that Henry, hatless, muddy, battered and -dishevelled, his books still clutched beneath his arm, followed. -Following was no easy matter. It was, as I have already said, the most -crowded moment of the day. Beyond the statue and the flower-woman a -stout policeman kept back the Shaftesbury Avenue traffic. Men and women -rushed across while there was yet time and the woman, the dog and the -girl rushed also. As Henry had often before noticed, it was the little -things in life that so continually checked his progress. Did he search -for a house that he was visiting for the first time, the numbers in -that street invariably ceased just before the number that he required. -Was anything floating through the air in the guise of a black smut -or a flake of tangible dust, certainly it would settle upon Henry's -unconscious nose: was there anything with which a human body might at -any moment be entangled, Henry's was the body inevitably caught. - -So it was now. At the moment that he was in the middle of the crossing, -the stout policeman, most scornfully disregarding him, waved on the -expectant traffic. Down it came upon him, cars and taxi-cabs, omnibuses -and boys upon bicycles, all shouting and blowing horns and screaming -out of whistles. He had the barest moment to skip back into the safe -company of the flower-woman. Skip back he did. It seemed to his -over-sensitive nature that the policeman sardonically smiled. - -When he recovered from his indignant agitation there was of course no -sign of the flaming feather. At the next opportunity he crossed and -standing by the paper-stall and the Pavilion advertisements gazed all -around him. Up the street and down the street. Down the street and up -the street. No sign at all. He walked quickly towards the Trocadero -restaurant, crossed there to the Lyric Theatre, moved on to the -churchyard by the entrance to Wardour Street and then gazed again. - -What happened next was so remarkable and so obviously designed by a -kindly paternal providence that for the rest of his life he could not -quite escape from a conviction that fate was busied with him! a happy -conviction that cheered him greatly in lonely hours. Out from the upper -Circle entrance to the Apollo Theatre, so close to him that only a -narrow unoccupied street separated him, came the desired three, the -woman and the dog first, the girl following. They stood for a moment, -then the woman once more said something angrily to the girl and they -turned into Wardour Street. Now was all the world hushed and still, -the graves in the churchyard slept, a woman leaning against a doorway -sucked an orange, the sun slipped down behind the crooked chimneys, -saffron and gold stole into the pale shadows of the sky and the morning -and the evening were the First Day. - -Henry followed. - - * * * * * - -Around Wardour Street they hung all the shabby and tattered traditions -of the poor degraded costume romance, but in its actual physical -furniture there are not even trappings. There is nothing but Cinema -offices, public houses, barber shops, clothes shops and shops with -windows so dirty that you cannot tell what their trade may be. It is a -romantic street in no sense of the word; it is not a kindly street nor -a hospitable, angry words are forever echoing from wall to wall and -women scream behind shuttered windows. - -Henry had no time to consider whether it were a romantic street or -no. The feather waved in front of him and he followed. He had by now -forgotten that he was hatless and dirty. A strangely wistful eagerness -urged him as though his heart were saying with every beat: "Don't count -too much on this. I know you expect a great deal. Don't be taken in." - -He did expect a great deal; with every step excitement beat higher. -Their sudden reappearance when he had thought that he had lost them -seemed to him the most wonderful omen. He believed in omens, always -throwing salt over his left shoulder when he spilt it (which he -continually did), never walking under ladders and of course never -lighting three cigarettes with one match. - -Some way up Wardour Street on the left as you go towards Oxford Street -there is a public house with the happy country sign of the Intrepid -Fox. No one knows how long the Intrepid Fox has charmed the inhabitants -of Wardour Street into its dark and intricate recesses--Tom Jones may -have known it and Pamela passed by it and Humphrey Clinker laughed in -its doorway--no one now dare tell you and no history book records its -name. Only Henry will never until he dies forget it and for him it will -always be one of the most romantic buildings in the world. - -It stood at the corner of Wardour Street and a little thoroughfare -called Peter Street. Henry reached the Intrepid Fox just as the -Flaming Feather vanished beyond the rows of flower and vegetable stalls -that thronged the roadway. Peter Street it seemed was the market of -the district; beneath the lovely blue of the evening the things on -the stall are picturesque and touching, even old clothes, battered -hats, boots with gaping toes and down-trodden heels, and the barrow -of all sorts with dirty sheets of music and old paper-covered novels -and tin trays and cheap flower-painted vases. In between these booths -the feather waved. Henry pursuing stumbled over the wooden stands of -the barrows, nearly upset an old watery-eyed woman from her chair--and -arrived just in time to see the three pursued vanish through a high -faded green door that had the shabby number in dingy red paint of -Number Seven. - -Number Seven was, as he at once perceived, strangely situated. At its -right was the grimy thick-set exterior of "The City of London" public -house, on its left there was a yard roofed in by a wooden balcony -like the balcony of a country inn, old and rather pathetic with some -flower-pots ranged along it and three windows behind it; the yard and -the balcony seemed to belong to another and simpler world than the -grim ugliness of the "City of London" and her companions. The street -was full of business and no one had time to consider Henry. In this -neighbourhood the facts that he was without a hat and needed a wash -were neither so unusual nor so humorous as to demand comment. - -He stood and looked. This was the time for him to go home. His romantic -adventure was now logically at an end. Did he ring the bell of Number -Seven he had nothing whatever to say if the door were opened. - -The neighbourhood was not suited to his romantic soul. The shop -opposite to him declaring itself in large white letters to be the -"Paris Fish Dinner" and announcing that it could provide at any moment -"Fish fried in the best dripping" was the sort of shop that destroyed -all Henry's illusions. He should, at this point, have gone home. He -did not. He crossed the road. The black yard, smelling of dogs and -harness, invited him in. He stumbled in the dusk against a bench and -some boxes but no human being seemed to be there. As his eyes grew -accustomed to the half light he saw at the back of the yard a wooden -staircase that vanished into blackness. Still moving as though ordered -by some commanding Providence he walked across to this and started to -climb. It turned a corner and his head struck sharply a wooden surface -that suddenly, lifting with his pressure a little, revealed itself as -a trap-door. Henry pushed upwards and found himself, as Mrs. Radcliffe -would say "in a gloomy passage down which the wind blew with gusty -vehemence." - -In truth the wind was not blowing nor was anything stirring. The -trap-door fell back with a heavy swaying motion and a creaking sigh as -though some one quite close at hand had suddenly fainted. Henry walked -down the passage and found that it led to a dusky thick-paned window -that overlooked a square just behind the yard through which he had -come. This was a very small and dirty square, grimy houses overlooking -it and one thin clothes-line cutting the light evening sky now light -topaz with one star and a cherry-coloured baby moon. To the right of -this window was another heavily curtained and serving no purpose as -it looked out only upon the passage. Beside this window Henry paused. -It was formed by two long glass partitions and these were not quite -fastened. From the room beyond came voices, feminine voices, one raised -in violent anger. A pause--from below in the yard some one called. A -step was ascending the stair. - -From within voices again and then a sound not to be mistaken. Some -one was slapping somebody's face and slapping it with satisfaction. A -sharp cry--and Henry pushing back the window, stepped forward, became -entangled in curtains of some heavy clinging stuff, flung out his arms -to save himself and fell for the second time within an hour and on -this occasion into the heart of a company that was most certainly not -expecting him. - - -II - -He had fallen on his knees and when he stumbled to his feet his left -heel was still entangled with the curtain. He nearly fell again, but -saved himself with a kind of staggering, suddenly asserted dignity, a -dignity none the easier because he heard the curtain tear behind him as -he pulled himself to his feet. - -When he was standing once more and able to look about him the scene -that he slowly collected for himself was a simple one--a very ugly room -dressed entirely it seemed at first sight in bright salmon pink, the -walls covered with photographs of ladies and gentlemen for the most -part in evening dress. There were two large pink pots with palms, an -upright piano swathed in pink silk, a bamboo bookcase, a sofa with pink -cushions, a table on which tea was laid, the Pomeranian and--three -human beings. - -The three human beings were in various attitudes of transfigured -astonishment exactly as though they had been lent for this special -occasion by Madame Tussaud. There was the lady with the green dress, -the girl with the flaming feather and the third figure was a woman, -immensely stout and hung with bracelets, pendants, chains and lockets -so that when her bosom heaved (it was doing that now quite frantically) -the noise that she made resembled those Japanese glass toys that you -hang in the window for the wind to make tinkling music with them. The -only sounds in the room were this deep breathing and this rattling, -twitting, tittering agitation. - -Even the Pomeranian was transfixed. Henry felt it his duty to speak and -he would have spoken had he not been staring at the girl as though his -eyes would never be able to leave her face again. It was plain enough -that it was she who had been slapped a moment ago. There was a red mark -on her cheek and there were tears in her eyes. - -To Henry she was simply the most beautiful creature ever made in heaven -and sent down to this sinful earth by a loving and kindly God. He had -thought of her as a child when he first saw her, he thought of her -as a child again now, a child who had, only last night, put up her -hair--under the hat with the flaming feather, that hair of a vivid -shining gold was trying to escape into many rebellious directions. The -slapping may have had something to do with that. It was obvious at the -first glance that she was not English--Scandinavian perhaps with the -yellow hair, the bright blue eyes and the clear pink-and-white skin. -Her dress of some mole-coloured corduroy, very simple, her little dark -hat, set off her vivid colour exquisitely. She shone in that garish -vulgar room with the light and purity of some almost ghostly innocence -and simplicity. She was looking at Henry and he fancied that in spite -of the tears that were still in her eyes a smile hovered at the corners -of her mouth. - -"Well, sir?" said the lady in green. She was not really angry Henry -at once perceived and afterwards he flattered himself because he had -from the very first discovered one of the principal features of that -lady's "case"--namely, that she would never feel either anger or -disapproval--at any member of the masculine gender entering any place -whatever, in any manner whatever, where she might happen to be. No, it -was not anger she showed, nor even curiosity--rather a determination to -turn this incident, bizarre and sudden though it might be, to the very -best and most profitable advantage. - -"You see," said Henry, "I was in the passage outside and thought I -heard some one call out. I did really." - -"Well you were mistaken, that's what you were," said the green lady. "I -must say----! Of all the things!" - -"I'm really very sorry," said Henry. "I've never done such a thing -before. It must seem very rude." - -"Well it is rude," said the green lady. "If you were to ask me to be as -polite as possible and not to hurt anybody's feelings, I couldn't say -anything but that. All the same there's no offence taken as I see there -was none meant!" - -She smiled; the gleam of a distant gold tooth flashed through the air. - -"If there's anything I can do to apologize," said Henry, encouraged by -the smile, but hating the smile more than ever. - -"No apologies necessary," said the green lady. "Tenssen's my name. -Danish. This is Mrs. Armstrong--My daughter Christina----" - -As she spoke she smiled at Henry more and more affectionately. Had it -not been for the girl he would have fled long before; as it was, with a -horrible sickening sensation that in another moment she would stretch -out a fat arm and draw him towards her, he held his ground. - -"What about a cup of tea?" she said. At that word the room seemed to -spring to life. Mrs. Armstrong moved heavily to the table and sat down -with the contented abandonment of a cow safe at last in its manger. The -girl also sat down at the opposite end of the table from her mother. - -"It's very good of you," said Henry, hesitating. "The fact is that I'm -not very clean. I had an accident in Piccadilly and lost my hat." - -"That's nothing," said Mrs. Tenssen, as though falling down in -Piccadilly were part of every one's daily programme. - -"Come along now and make yourself at home." - -He drew towards her, fascinated against his will by the shrill green -of her dress, the red of her cheeks and the strangely intimate and -confident stare with which her eyes, slightly green, enveloped him. As -he had horribly anticipated her fat boneless fingers closed upon his -arm. - -He sat down. - -There was a large green teapot painted with crimson roses. The tea was -very strong and had been obviously standing for a long time. - -Conversation of a very bright kind began between Mrs. Tenssen and Mrs. -Armstrong. - -"I'm sure you'll understand," said Mrs. Tenssen, smiling with a rich -and expensive glitter, "that Mrs. Armstrong is my oldest friend. My -oldest and my best. What I always say is that others may misunderstand -me, but Ruby Armstrong never. If there's one alive who knows me through -and through it's Mrs. Armstrong." - -"Yes," said Henry. - -"You mustn't believe all the kind things she says about me. One's -partial to a friend of a lifetime, of course, but what I always say is -if one isn't partial to a friend, who is one going to be partial to?" - -Mrs. Armstrong spoke, and Henry almost jumped from his chair so -unexpectedly base and masculine was her voice. - -"Ada expresses my feelings exactly," she said. - -"I'm sure that some," went on Mrs. Tenssen, "would say that it's -strange, if not familiar, asking a man to take tea with one when one -doesn't even know his name, and his entrance into one's family was so -peculiar; but what I always say is that life's short and there's no -time to waste." - -"My name's Henry Trenchard," said Henry, blushing. - -"I had a friend once" (Mrs. Tenssen always used the word "friend" with -a weight and seriousness that gave it a very especial importance), "a -Mr. William Trenchard. He came from Beckenham. You remember him, Ruby?" - -"I do," said Mrs. Armstrong. "And how good you were to him too! No -one will ever know but myself how truly good you were to that man, -Ada. Your kind heart led you astray there, as it has done often enough -before." - -Mrs. Tenssen nodded her head reminiscently. "He wasn't all he should -have been," she said. "But there, one can't go on regretting all the -actions of the past, or where would one be?" - -She regarded Henry appreciatively. "He's a nice boy," she said to -Mrs. Armstrong. "I like his face. I'm a terrible woman for first -impressions, and deceived though I've been, I still believe in them." - -"He's got kind eyes," said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea to cool -it. - -"Yes, they're what I'd call thinking eyes. I should say he's clever." - -"Yes, he looks clever," said Mrs. Armstrong. - -"And I like his smile," said Mrs. Tenssen. - -"Good-natured I should say," replied Mrs. Armstrong. - -This direct and personal comment floating quite naturally over his -self-conscious head embarrassed Henry terribly. He had never been -discussed before in his own presence as though he didn't really exist. -He didn't like it; it made him extremely uneasy. He longed to interrupt -and direct the conversation into a safer channel, but every topic of -interest that occurred to him seemed unsuitable. The weather, the -theatres, politics, Bolshevism, high prices, food, house decoration, -literature and the Arts--all these occurred to him but were dismissed -at once as unlikely to succeed. Moreover, he was passionately occupied -with his endeavour to catch the glimpses of the girl at the end of the -table. He did not wish to look at her deliberately lest that should -embarrass her. He would not, for the world bring her into any kind of -trouble. The two women whom he hated with increasing vehemence with -every moment that passed were watching like vultures waiting for their -prey. (This picture and image occurred quite naturally to Henry.) -The glimpses that he did catch of the soft cheek, the untidy curls, -the bend of the head and the curve of the neck fired his heart to a -heroism, a purity of purpose, a Quixotism that was like wine in his -head, so that he could scarcely hear or see. He would have liked to -have the power to at that very instant jump up, catch her in his arms -and vanish through the window. As it was he gulped down his tea and -crumbled a little pink cake. - -As the meal proceeded the air of the little room became very hot and -stuffy. The two ladies soon fell into a very absorbing conversation -about a gentleman named Herbert whose salient features were that he -had a double chin and was careless about keeping engagements. The -conversation passed on then to other gentlemen, all of whom seemed -in one way or another to have their faults and drawbacks, and to all -of whom Mrs. Tenssen had been, according to Mrs. Armstrong, quite -marvellously good and kind. - -The fool that Henry felt! - -Here was an opportunity that any other man would have seized. He could -but stare and gulp and stare again. The girl sat, her plate and cup -pushed aside, her hands folded, looking before her as though into some -mirror or crystal revealing to her the strangest vision--and as she -looked unhappiness crept into her eyes, an unhappiness so genuine that -she was quite unconscious of it. - -Henry leant across the table to her. - -"I say, don't . . . don't!" he whispered huskily. - -She turned to him, smiling. - -"Don't what?" she asked. There was the merest suggestion of a foreign -accent behind her words. - -"Don't be miserable. I'll do anything--anything. I followed you here -from Piccadilly. I heard her slapping you." - -"Oh, I want to get away!" she whispered breathlessly. "Do you think I -can?" - -"You can if I help you," Henry answered. "How can I see you?" - -"She keeps me here . . ." - -Their whispers had been low, but the eager conversation at the other -end of the table suddenly ceased. - -"I'm afraid I must be going now," said Henry rising and facing Mrs. -Tenssen. "It was very good of you to give me tea." - -"Come again," said Mrs. Tenssen regarding him once more with that -curiously fixed stare, a stare like a glass of water in which floated a -wink, a threat, a cajoling, and an insult. - -"We'll be glad to see you. Just take us as you find us. Come in the -right way next time. There's a bell at the bottom of the stairs." - -Mrs. Armstrong laughed her deep bass laugh. - -He shook hands with the two women, shuddering once more at Mrs. -Tenssen's boneless fingers. He turned to the girl. "Good-bye," he said. -"I'll come again." - -"Yes," she answered, not looking at him but at her mother at the -other side of the table. The stairs were dark and smelt of fish and -patchouli. He stumbled down them and let himself out into Peter Street. -The evening was blue with a lovely stir in it as in running water. The -booths were crowded, voices filled the air. He escaped into Shaftesbury -Avenue as Hänsel and Gretel escaped from the witch's cottage. He was in -love for the first time in his young, self-centred life. . . . - - - - -CHAPTER II - -HENRY HIMSELF - - -In the fifth chapter of the second part of Henry Galleon's _Three -Magicians_ there is this passage (_The Three Magicians_ appeared in -1892): - - When he looked at the Drydens, father, daughter, and son, he would - wonder, as he had often in earlier days wondered, why writers - on English character so resolutely persisted in omitting the - Dryden type from their definitions? These analyses were perhaps - too sarcastic, too cynical to include anything as artless, as - simple as the Dryden character without giving the whole case - away . . . and yet it was, he fancied in that very character that - the whole strength and splendour of the English spirit persisted. - Watching Cynthia and Tony Dryden he was reminded of a picture in a - fairy-tale book read and loved by him in his youth, now forgotten - to the very name of its author, lingering only with a few faded - colours of the original illustration. He fancied that it had been - a book of Danish fairy romances. . . . This picture of which he - thought was a landscape--Dawn was breaking over a great champigné - of country, country that had hills and woods and forests, streams - and cottages all laid out in that detailed fancy that, as a child, - he had loved so deeply. The sun was rising over the hill; heavy - dark clouds were rolling back on to the horizon and everywhere the - life of the day, fresh in the sparkling daylight was beginning. - The creatures of the night were vanishing; dragons with scaly - tails were creeping back reluctantly into their caves, giants were - brandishing their iron clubs defiantly for the last time before - the rising sun; the Hydras and Gryphons and Five-Headed Tortoises - were slinking into the dusky forests, deep into the waters of the - green lakes the slimy Three-Pronged Alligators writhed deep down - into the filth that was their proper home. - - The flowers were thick on the hills, and in the valleys, the birds - sang, butterflies and dragon-flies flashed against the blue, the - smoke curled up from the cottage chimneys and over all the world - was hung a haze of beauty, of new life and the wonder of the - coming day. - - In the foreground of this picture were two figures, a girl and a - boy, and the painter, clumsy and amateurish, though his art may - have been, had with the sincerity and fervour of his own belief - put into their eyes all their amazement and wonder at the beauty - of this new world. - - They saw it all; the dragons and the gryphons, the heavy clouds - rolling back above the hill were not hidden from them; that they - would return they knew. The acceptance of the whole of life was in - their eyes. Their joy was in all of it; their youth made them take - it all full-handed. . . . - - I have thought of them sometimes--I think of the Drydens now--as - the Young Enchanted. And it seems to me that England is especially - the country of such men and women as these. All the other peoples - of the world carry in their souls age and sophistication. They - are too old for that sense of enchantment, but in England that - wonder that is so far from common sense and yet is the highest - kind of common sense in the world has always flourished. It is - not imagination; the English have less imagination than any other - race, it is not joy of life nor animal spirits, but the child's - trust in life before it has grown old enough for life to deceive - it. I think Adam and Eve before the Fall were English. - - That sense of Enchantment remains with the English long after it - dies with the men and women of other nations, perhaps because - the English have not the imagination to perceive how subtle, how - dangerous, how cynical life can be. Their art comes straight from - their Enchantment. The novels of Fielding and Scott and Thackeray - and Dickens and Meredith, the poetry of Wordsworth and Keats and - Shelley, the pictures of Hogarth and Constable and Turner. The - music of Purcell, the characters of Nelson and Wellington and - Gordon. . . . - - And think what that sense of Enchantment might do for them if - only their background would change. For generations gone that has - not moved. One day when the earthquake comes and the upheaval and - all the old landmarks are gone and there is a new world of social - disorder and tumbling indecency for their startled gaze to rest - upon then you will see what these children of Enchantment will do! - -So much, for Galleon who is already now so shortly after his death -looked upon as an old sentimental fogy. Sentimental? Why certainly. -What in the world could be more absurd than his picture of the English -gazing wide-eyed at the wonder of life? They of all peoples! - -And yet he was no fool. He was a Cosmopolitan. He had lived as much -in Rome, in Paris, in Vicenza, as in London. And why should I -apologize for one of the greatest artists England possesses? Other -times, other names . . . and you can't catch either Henry Trenchard or -Millicent--no, nor Peter either--and I venture to say that you cannot -catch that strange, restless, broken, romantic, aspiring, adventurous, -disappointing, encouraging, enthralling, Life-is-just-beginning-at-last -Period in which they had these adventures simply with the salt of sheer -Realism--not salt enough for _that_ Bird's tail. - -I should like to find that little picture of Henry Galleon's fairy -book and place it as a frontispiece to this story. But Heaven alone -knows where that old book has gone to! It was perhaps Galleon's own -invention; he was a queer old man and went his own way and had his own -fancies, possessions that many writers to-day are chary of keeping -because they have been told on so many occasions by so many wise -professors that they've got to stick to the Truth. Truth? Who knows -what Truth may be? Platitudinous Pilate failed over that question many -years ago, and to-day we are certainly as far as ever from an answer. -There are a million Truths about Henry and Millicent and the times they -lived in. Galleon's is at least one of them, and it's the one I've -chosen because it happens to be the way I see them. But of course there -are others. - -"The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth." What absurdity for any -story-teller in the world to think that he can get that--and what -arrogance! This book is the truth about these children as near as I -can get to it, and the truth about that strange year 1920 in that -strange town, London, as faithfully as I can recollect, but it isn't -everybody's Truth. Far from it--and a good thing too. - -Henry's rooms were at the top of 24 Panton Street. To get to them you -placed a Yale key in the lock of an old brown door, brushed your way -through a dim passage, climbed a shabby staircase past the doors of -the Hon. Nigel Bruce, Captain D'Arcy Sinclair, Claude Bottome, the -singer, and old Sir Henry Bristow, who painted his face and wore stays. -This was distinguished company for Henry who was at the beginning of -his independent life in London, and the knowledge that he was in the -very centre of the Metropolis, that the Comedy Theatre was nearly -opposite his door and Piccadilly only a minute away gratified him so -much that he did not object to paying three guineas a week for a small -bed-sitting room _without_ breakfast. It was a _very_ small room, -just under the roof, and Henry who was long and bony spent a good -deal of his time in a doubled-up position that was neither aesthetic -nor healthy. Three guineas a week is twelve pounds twelve shillings -a month, and one hundred and fifty-one pounds four shillings a year. -He had a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own, left to him by -his old grandfather, and by eager and even optimistic calculation he -reckoned that from his literary labours he would earn at least another -hundred pounds in his London twelve months. Even then, however, he -would not have risked these handsome lodgings had he not only a month -ago, through the kind services of his priggish brother-in-law, Philip -Mark, obtained a secretaryship with Sir Charles Duncombe, Bart., at -exactly one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. - -With inky fingers and a beating heart he produced this estimate: - - £ s. d. - - Income from Grandfahter 150 0 0 - - Literary Earnings 100 0 0 - - Sir Ronald D. 150 0 0 - _____ _____ _____ - - Grand Total £400 0 0 - - - And against this he set: - - - £ s. d. - - Rooms 163 16 0 - - Food 100 0 0 - - Clothes 50 0 0 - - Etceteras 50 0 0 - - ______ ______ _____ - - 363 16 0 - - Saved in first year in London 36 4 0 - -There were certain risks about this estimate. For one thing literature -might, conceivably, not contribute her hundred pounds quite so -completely as he hoped. On the other hand, she might contribute -more. . . . - -Again Henry was on trial with Sir Charles, was going into his -service the day after to-morrow for the first time, had never been -secretary to any one in his life before, and was not by temperament -fitted entirely for work that needed those two most Damnable and Soul -Destroying of attributes, Accuracy and Method. He had seen Sir Charles -only once, and the grim austerity of that gentleman's aristocratic -features had not been encouraging. - -Never mind. It was all enchanting. What was life for if one did not -take risks? Every one was taking risks, from Mr. Lloyd George down to -(or possibly up to) Georges Carpentier and Mr. Dempsey--Henry did not -wish to be behind the rest. - -Mr. King, his landlord, had suggested to him that he might possibly be -willing to lay a new wall-paper and a handsome rug or carpet. There -was no doubt at all that the room needed these things; the wall-paper -had once been green, was now in many places yellow and gave an exact -account of the precise spots where the sporting prints of the last -tenant (young Nigel Frost Bellingham) had hung. The carpet, red many -years ago, resembled nothing so much as a map of Europe with lakes, -rivers, hills, and valleys clearly defined in grey and brown outline. -Henry explained to Mr. King that he would wish to wait for a month -or two to see how his fortunes progressed before he made further -purchases, upon which Mr. King, staring just over Henry's shoulder at -the green wall-paper, remarked that it was usual for gentlemen to pay -a month's rent in advance, upon which Henry, blushing, suggested that -an improvement in his fortunes was perfectly certain and that he was -private secretary to Sir Charles Duncombe, Bart., of whom Mr. King had -doubtless heard. Mr. King, bowing his head as of one who would say -that there was no Baronet in the United Kingdom of whom he had not -heard, nevertheless regretted that the rule concerning the month's rent -was constant, unchanging and could, in no circumstances whatever, be -altered. - -This Mr. King was little in stature, but great in demeanour. His head -was bald save for a few black hairs very carefully arranged upon it, -as specimens are laid out in the Natural History Museum. His face also -was bald, in the strictest sense of the word; that is, not only did no -hairs grow upon it but it seemed impossible that any hairs ever had -grown upon it. His eyes were sharp, his mouth deprecating and his chin -insignificant. He wore, it seemed, the same suit of black, the same -black tie, the same stiff white shirt from year's end to year's end. -He showed no human emotion whether of anger, regret, disappointment, -expectation or sorrow. - -He told no jolly stories of other tenants nor of life about town such -as Henry would have liked him to tell. He had, Henry was sure, a great -contempt for Henry. He was not, from any point of view, a lovable human -being. - -Henry did what he could for his room, he was proud of it, felt very -kindly towards it and wanted to clothe it with beauty. It is difficult, -however, to make a room beautiful unless the wall-paper and the carpet -contribute something. Henry had a nice writing-table that his Uncle -Timothy had given him, a gate-legged table from his sister Katherine -and a fine Regency bookcase stolen by him from his Westminster home. He -had three pictures, a Japanese print, a copy of Mr. Belcher's drawing -of Pat O'Keefe, "The Wild Irishman," and a little water-colour by Lovat -Frazer of a king and queen marching into a banquet-hall and attended -by their courtiers. This last, splendid in gold and blue, green and -red was the joy of Henry's heart and had been given him by his sister -Millicent on his last birthday. - -In the bookcase there were, on the whole, the books that you would -expect--the poems of Swinburne, Dowson, and Baudelaire, some of the -1890 novelists and one or two moderns. But he was also beginning to -collect a few rare editions, and he had _Clarissa_ and _The Mysteries -of Udulpho_ and _The Monk_ in their original bindings, and an early -_Pilgrim's Progress_, a rather rare Donne and a second _Vicar of -Wakefield._ These were his greatest treasures. He had only two -photographs in his room--his sisters and that of his greatest and -perhaps his only friend. These stood one on either side of the very -plain alarm-clock that took the middle of the mantelpiece. - -Henry, as he sat on his bed, looking before him out of the little -window across to the corner gables of the Comedy Theatre, appeared very -much the same crude and callow youth that he had seemed on going up to -Oxford just before the war. - -He had not yet caught up to his size which had leapt ahead of his years -when he was about sixteen. He was still long, lean, and untidy, his -black hair refusing any kind of control, his complexion poor with a -suspicion of incipient pimple, his ears too red, his hands never quite -clean. The same and yet not at all the same. - -The hint of beauty that there had been when he was nineteen in the -eyes and mouth and carriage of neck and shoulders was now, when he was -twenty-six, more clearly emphasized. At first sight Henry seemed an -untidy and rather uncleanly youth; look again and you would see quite -clearly that he would be, one day, a distinguished man. His untidiness, -the way that his trousers bagged at the knee, that he carried, like -some knight with his lady's favour, the inevitable patch of white on -his sleeve, that his boots were not rightly laced and his socks not -sufficiently "suspended"--these things only indicated that he was in -the last division of the intermediate class, between youth and manhood. - -The war had very nearly made him a man, and had not the authorities -discovered, after his first wound in 1915, that he was quite hopeless -in command of other men but not at all a fool at intelligence he would -have been a man complete by this time. The war smartened him a little -but not very much, and the moment he was free he slipped back into his -old ways and his old customs with a sigh of relief. - -But there again not entirely. Like his cousin John, who was killed in -Galicia in 1915, stretcher-bearing for the Russians, he was awkward in -body but clean in soul. The war had only emphasized something in him -that was there before it, and the year and a half that he spent with -his family in the Westminster house after the Armistice was the most -terrible time of his life. No one knew what to do with him. His mother -had had a stroke in the spring of 1917 and now lay like a corpse at -the top of the old house, watching, listening, suffering an agony of -rebellion in her proud and obstinate soul. With her influence gone, -his grandfather and his great-aunt Sarah dead, his two aunts Betty and -Anne living in the country down at Walton-on-Thames, his father more -and more living his own life in his study, his sister Katherine married -and involved now entirely in her own affairs, Henry felt the big house -a mausoleum of all his hopes and ambitions. Return to Oxford he would -not. Strike out and live on his one hundred and fifty pounds he would -at the first possible moment, but one thing after another prevented -him. He remained in that grim and chilly house mainly because of his -sister Millicent, whom he loved with all his heart and soul, and for -whom he would do anything in the world. - -She also had a little money of her own, but the striking out was a -little difficult for her. Her father and mother, all the relations -said, needed her, and it wanted all the year and a half to prove to -the relations that this was not so. Her father scarcely saw her except -at breakfast and, although he regarded her with a kindly patronage, he -preferred greatly his books, his club, and his daily newspaper. Her -mother did not need her at all, having been angered before the war at -the action that Millie took in the great family quarrel of Katherine v. -Mrs. Trenchard, and being now completely under the control of a hard -and tyrannical woman, Nurse Bennett, whose word now was law in the -house, whose slightest look was a command. - -Millicent and Henry determined that when they escaped it should be -together. Millicent had her own plans, and after some months of -mysterious advertising in the newspaper, of interviews and secret -correspondences, she secured the post of secretary companion to a -certain Miss Victoria Platt who lived at 85 Cromwell Road, Kensington. -At the very same time Philip found for Henry the secretaryship of which -I have already spoken. They escaped then together--Millicent to rooms -at the top of Baker Street that she shared with a girl friend, Mary -Cass, and Henry to the hospitality of Mr. King. Their engagements also -were to begin together, Millicent going to Miss Platt for the first -time on the morning after the day of which I am writing, Henry to go to -his Baronet on the day after that. - -They were beginning the world together. There was surely a fine omen -in that. Apart they would do great things--but, together, was there -anything they could not do? - -At 7.15 that evening, bathed in the blue dusk that filtered in -through the little attic window Henry was sitting on his bed staring, -wide-eyed, in front of him. - -At 8.15 on that same evening, hidden now by the purple shades of -night he was still sitting there, his mouth open, staring in front of -him. It is desperately platitudinous--it is also desperately true, -that there is no falling in love like the first falling in love. And -Henry was fortunate in this--that he had fallen in love for the first -time at a comparatively ripe age. To some it is the governess or the -music-master, to some even the nurse or the gardener's boy. But Henry -had in the absolute truth of the absolute word never been in love -before to-night. - -He had loved--yes. First his mother, then his sister Katherine, then -his sister Millicent, then his friend Westcott. These affections had -been loyal and true and profound but they had been of the heart and the -brain, and for true love the lust of the flesh must be added to the -lust of the mind and the heart. - -He had tumbled in then, to-day, head foremost, right in, with all his -hero-worship, his adoration, his ignorance, his purity, his trust and -confidence, fresh, clean, unsullied to offer as acceptable gifts. He -could not, sitting on his bed, think it out clearly at all. He could -only see everything in a rosy mist and in the heart of the mist a -flaming feather, and Piccadilly boiling and bubbling and Mrs. Tenssen -with her bright green dress and the stable-yard and the teapot with -the flowers and there--somewhere behind these things--that girl with -her fair hair, her unhappy gaze beyond him, far far beyond him, into -worlds that were not as yet his but that one day might be. And with -all this his heart pounding in a strange suffocating manner, his eyes -burning, his throat choking, his brain refusing to bring before him two -connected thoughts. - -At last, when St. James's Church struck half-past eight a thought _did_ -penetrate. - -He had promised to go to the Hunters' evening party. Never less did he -want to go to a party than to-night. He would wish to continue to sit -on his bed and study the rosy mist. "I will sit here," he said, "and -perhaps soon the face will come to me just as it was. I can't see it -now, but if I wait. . . ." Then he had cramp in his leg and the sudden -jerk shot him from the bed and forced him to stand in the middle of the -floor in an extraordinary attitude with one leg stiff and the other -bent as though he were Nijinsky practising for the "Spectre de la Rose." - -The shock of his agony drove him to consider two very good reasons for -going to the Hunters' party. One was material--namely, that he had -had nothing to eat since Mrs. Tenssen's pink cake, that he was very -hungry in spite of his love and that there would be free sandwiches at -the Hunters. The other reason was a better one--namely, that it was -possible that his friend Westcott would be there and to Westcott, above -all human beings, save only Millicent, he wished to confide the history -of his adventure. - -Concerning his friendship with Westcott a word must be said. About a -year ago at the house of a friend of Philip's he had been introduced -to a thick-set saturnine man who had been sitting by himself in a -corner and appearing entirely bored with the evening's proceedings. -His host had thrown Henry at this unattractive guest's head as though -he would say: "I dare not offer up any of my more important guests to -this Cerberus of a fellow, but here's a young ass who doesn't matter -and I don't care whether his feelings are hurt or no." Henry himself -was at this time cultivating a supercilious air in public, partly -from shyness and partly because he did not wish to reveal how deeply -pleased he was at being invited to parties. He liked at once Westcott's -broad shoulders, close-cropped hair and nonchalant attitude. The first -ten minutes of their conversation was not a success, and then Henry -discovered that Westcott had, in the days of his youth, actually -known, spoken to, had tea with the God of his, Henry's, idolatry, -Henry Galleon. Westcott was perhaps touched by young Henry's ingenuous -delight, his eager questions, his complete forgetfulness of himself -and his surroundings at this piece of information. He in his turn -launched out and talked of the London of fifteen years ago and of the -heroes of that time, a time that the war had made historic, curious, -picturesque, a time that was already older than crinolines, almost -as romantic as the Regency. Their host left them together for the -remainder of the evening, feeling that he had most skilfully killed two -dull birds with one stone. They departed together, walked from Hyde -Park Corner together and by the time that they parted were already -friends. That friendship had held firm throughout the succeeding year. -As a friendship it was good for both of them. Westcott was very lonely -and too proud to go out and draw men in. Henry needed just such an -influence as Westcott's, the influence of a man who had known life at -its hardest and bitterest, who had come through betrayal, disappointed -ambition, poverty and loneliness without losing his courage and belief -in life, a man whose heart was still warm towards his fellowmen -although he kept it guarded now lest he should too easily be again -betrayed. - -There was no need to keep it guarded from Henry whose transparent -honesty could not be mistaken. Henry restored something of Westcott's -lost confidence in himself. Henry believed profoundly in what he -insisted on calling Westcott's "genius," and that even the simplest -soul on earth should believe in us gives some support to our doubting -hopes and wavering ambitions. Henry admitted quite frankly to Westcott -that he had not heard of him before he met him. Peter's novels--_Reuben -Hallard_, _The Stone House_, _Mortimer Stant_ and two others--had been -before Henry's time and the little stir that _Reuben_ had made had not -penetrated the thick indifference of his school-days. Westcott was -not at all sensitive to this ignorance. Before the war he had broken -entirely with the literary life and his five years' war service abroad -had not encouraged him to renew that intimacy. He had had hard starving -days since the Armistice and had been driven back almost against his -will to some reviewing and writing of articles. - -All men had not forgotten him he discovered with a strange dim pleasure -that beat like a regret deep into his soul--the younger men especially -because he had been a commercial failure were inclined to believe that -he had been an artistic success. Mysterious allusions were made in -strange new variegated publications to _Reuben Hallard_ and _Mortimer -Stant_. - -He began to review regularly for _The Athenæum_ and _The New -Statesman_, and he did some dramatic criticism for _The Nation_. He -soon found to his own surprise that he was making income enough to -live without anxiety in two small rooms in the Marylebone High Street, -where he was cared for by a kindly widow, Mrs. Sunning, who found that -he resembled her son who was killed in the war and therefore adored -him. Even, against his will, all his hopes, there were faint stirrings -of a novel in his brain. He did not wish to revive _that_ ambition -again, but the thing would come and settle there and stir a little and -grow day by day, night by night, in spite of his reluctance and even -hostility. - -Perhaps in this Henry had some responsibility. Henry was so sure that -Peter had only to begin again and the world would be at his feet. One -night, the two of them sitting over a small grumbling fire in the -Coventry Street attic, Peter spoke a little in detail of his book. - -After that Henry never left him alone. The book was born now in Henry's -brain as well as in Peter's; it knew its own power and that its time -would come. - -Peter had by no means confided all his life's history to Henry. The -boy only knew that there had been a great tragedy, that Westcott was -married but did not know where his wife was or even whether she were -still alive. Of all this he spoke to no man. - -Gabriel Hunter was a painter of the new and extravagant kind; his wife -wore bobbed hair, wrote poetry and cultivated a little Salon in Barton -Street, Westminster, where they lived. - -The Hunters were poor and their house was very small and quite a small -number of people caused it to overflow, but to Henry during the last -year the Hunter gatherings had stood to him for everything in life that -was worth while. It was one of his real griefs that Millicent wouldn't -go to that house, declaring that she hated the new poets and the new -painters and the new novelists, that she liked Tennyson and Trollope -and John Everett Millais and that as soon as she had a house of her own -she was going to collect wax flowers and fruit and horsehair sofas. She -said many of these things to irritate Henry and irritate him she did, -being able to separate him from his very volcanic temper within the -space of two minutes if she tried hard enough. - -On every other occasion going to the Hunter's had been synonymous to -Henry with going to Paradise. To-night for the first time it seemed to -be simply going to Westminster. At last, however, hunger drove him, and -at a quarter-past nine he found himself in the Hunters' little hall, -all painted green with red stripes and a curtain covered with purple -bananas and bright crimson oranges hanging in front of the kitchen -stairs. - -The noise above was deafening and had that peculiarly shrill sound -which the New literature seems to carry with it in its train, just as -a new baby enjoys its new rattle. When Henry peered into the little -drawing-room he could see very little because of the smoke. The scene -outlined from the doorway must have seemed to an unprepared stranger -to resemble nothing so much as a little study in the Inferno painted -by one of the younger artists. Behind and through the smoke there were -visions of a wall of bright orange and curtains of a brilliant purple. -On the mantelpiece staring through the room and grinning malevolently -was the cast of a negro's head. - -A large globe hanging from the ceiling concealed the electric light -behind patterns of every conceivable colour. The guests were sitting on -the floor, on a crimson sofa, and standing against the wall. Henry soon -discovered that to-night's was a very representative gathering. - -Standing just inside the door he felt for the first time in the -Hunters' house perfectly detached from the whole affair. Always before -he had loved the sensation of plunging in, of that sudden immersion in -light and colour and noise, of swimming with all the others towards -some ideally fantastic island of culture that would be entirely, -triumphantly their own. But to-night the intense personal experience -that he had just passed through kept him apart, led him to criticize -and inspect as though he were a visitor from another planet. Was -that in itself a criticism of the whole world of Art and Literature -proving to him that that must always crumble before real life, or -was it simply a criticism of some of the crudity and newness of this -especial gathering? Peering through the smoke and relieved that no -one appeared to take the slightest notice of him, he saw that this -was indeed a representative gathering because all the Three Graces -were here together. Never before had he seen them all at one time in -the same place. Whether it were because of the exhaustion that five -years' war had entailed upon the men of the country or simply that the -complete emancipation of women during the last decade had brought many -new positions within women's power it was certain that just at this -period, that is at the beginning of 1920, much of the contemporary -judgement on art and letters was delivered by women--and in letters by -three women especially, Miss Talbot, Miss Jane Ross and Miss Martha -Proctor. These three ladies had certain attributes in common--a healthy -and invigorating contempt for the abilities of the opposite sex, a -sure and certain confidence in their own powers and a love of novelty -and originality. Miss Talbot, seated now upon the red sofa, was the -reviewer of fiction in _The Planet_. She was the most feminine of the -three, slight in stature, fair-haired and blue-eyed, languid and even -timid in appearance. Her timidity was a disguise; week after week did -she destroy the novels before her, adroitly, dispassionately and with a -fine disregard for the humaner feelings. In her there burnt, however, -a truer and finer love of literature than either Jane Ross or Martha -Proctor would ever know. She had ever before her young vision her -picture of the perfect novel, and week after week she showed her scorn -in italicized staccato prose for the poor specimens that so brazenly -ventured to interfere between her vision and herself. - -Had she her way no novelist alive should remain ungoaded, so vile a sin -had he committed in thus with his soiled and clumsy fingers desecrating -the power, beauty and wisdom of an impossible ideal. - -Meanwhile she made a very good income out of her unending -disappointment. - -Far other Jane Ross. - -Jane Ross was plain, pasty-faced, hook-nosed, squat-figured, -beetle-browed, and she was the cleverest journalist at that time alive -in England. Originally, ten years ago when she came from the Midlands -with a penny in her pocket and a determination to make her way, it -may have been that she cared for literature with a passion as pure -and undeviating as Grace Talbot's own. But great success, a surprised -discovery of men's weakness and sloth, a talent for epigrams unequalled -by any of her contemporaries had led her to sacrifice all her permanent -standards for temporary brilliance. She was also something of a cat, -being possessed suddenly to her own discontent by little personal -animosities and grievances that she might have controlled quite easily -had not her tongue so brilliantly led her away. She had, deep down in -her soul, noble intentions, but the daily pettinesses of life were too -strong fer her; she won all her battles so easily that she did not -perceive that she was meanwhile losing the only battle that really -mattered. As her journalism grew more and more brilliant her real -influence grew less and less. When her brain was inactive her heart, -suddenly released, could be wonderfully kind. A little more stupidity -and she would have been a real power. - -For both Grace Talbot and Jane Ross the new thing was the only thing -that mattered. When you listened to them, or read them you would -suppose that printing had been discovered for the first time somewhere -about 1890 and in Manchester. Martha Proctor, less brilliant than the -other two, had a wider culture than either of them. The first glance -at her told you that she was a journalist, tall, straight-backed, her -black hair brushed back from a high forehead, dressed in tweeds, stiff -white collars, and cuffs, wearing pince-nez, she seemed to have nothing -to do with the prevalent fashion. And she had not. Older than the other -two she had come in with the Yellow Book and promised to go out with -Universal Suffrage. She had fought her battles; in politics her finest -time had been in the years just before the war when she had bitten a -policeman's leg in Whitehall and broken a shop-window in Bond Street -with her little hammer. In literature her great period had been during -the Romantic Tushery of 1895 to 1905. How she had torn and scarified -the Kailyard novelists, how the Cloak and Sword Romances had bled -beneath her whip. Now none of these remained and the modern Realism had -gone far beyond her most confident anticipations. She knew in her heart -that her day was over; there was even, deep down within her, a faint -alarm at the times that were coming upon the world. She knew that she -seemed old-fashioned to Jane Ross and her only comfort was that in ten -years' time Jane Ross would undoubtedly in her turn seem old-fashioned -to somebody else. Because her horizon was wider than that of her -two companions she was able to judge in finer proportion than they. -Fashions passed, men died, kingdoms fell. What remained? Not, as she -had once fondly imagined, Martha Proctor. - -Two children and a cottage in the country might after all be worth more -than literary criticism. She was beginning to wonder about many things -for the first time in her life. . . . - -I have outlined these ladies in some detail because for the past year -and a half Henry had worshipped at their shrines. How he had revelled -in Grace Talbot's cynical judgments, in Jane Ross's epigrams, in -Martha Proctor's measured comparisons! To-night for the first time -a new vision was upon him. He could only see them, as he stared at -them through the smoke, with physical eyes--Grace Talbot's languid -indifference, white hands and faint blue eyes. Jane Ross's sallow -complexion and crinkled black hair; Martha Proctor's pince-nez and -large brown boots. - -Then, as his short-sighted eyes penetrated yet more clearly he saw---- -Could it be? Indeed it was. His heart beat quickly. There seated -uncomfortably upon an orange chair from Heal's was no less a person -than the great K. Wiggs himself. Henry had seen him on two other -occasions, had once indeed spoken to him. - -That earlier glorious moment was strong with him now, the thrill of it, -the almost passionate excitement of touching that small podgy hand, the -very hand that had written _Mr. Whippet_ and _Old Cain and Abel_ and -_The Slumber Family_. - -What then to-night had happened to Henry? Why was it that with every -longing to recover that earlier thrill he could not? Why was it that -again, as just now with the Three Graces, he could see only Mr. Wiggs's -physical presence and nothing at all of his splendid and aspiring soul? -Mr. Wiggs certainly did not look his best on an orange chair with a -stiff back. - -And then surely he had fattened and coarsened, even since Henry's last -vision of him? His squat figure perched on the chair, his little fat -legs crossed, his bulging stomach, his two chins, his ragged moustache, -his eyes coloured a faint purple, his thin whispy hair--these things -did not speak for beauty. Nor did the voice that penetrated through the -clamour to Henry's corner, with its shrill piping clamour, give full -reassurance. - -It was not, no alas, it was not the voice of a just soul; there was, -moreover, a snuffle behind the pipe--that spoke of adenoids--it is very -hard to reconcile adenoids with greatness. - -And yet Wiggs _was_ a great man! You knew that if only by the virulence -with which certain sections of the press attacked him whenever he made -a public appearance. - -He _was_ a great man. He _is_ a great man. Henry repeated the words -over to himself with a desperate determination to recover the earlier -rapture. He had written great books; he was even then writing them. -He was, as Henry knew, a kindly man, a generous man, a man with noble -and generous ambitions, a man honest in his resolves and courageous in -his utterances. Why then did he look like that and why was Henry so -stupidly conscious of his body and of his body only? Could it be that -the adventure of the afternoon had filled his young soul with so high -and splendid an ideal of beauty that everything else in the world was -sordid and ugly? He moved restlessly. He did not want to think life -sordid and ugly. But _was_ this life? Or at any rate was it not simply -a very, very small part of life? Was he moving at last from a small -ante-room into a large and spacious chamber? (I have said before that -picturesque images occurred to him with the utmost frequency.) - -He caught fragments of conversation. A lady quite close to him was -saying--"But there's no Form in the thing--no Form at all. He hadn't -thought the thing out--it's all just anyhow. . . ." - -Somewhere else he heard a man's deep bass voice--"Oh, he's no good. -He'll always be an amateur. Of course it's obvious you miss truth the -moment you go outside the narrator's brain. Now Truth . . ." - -And Wigg's shrill pipe--"Ow, no. _That_ isn't History. That's fable. -What do _facts_ matter?" - -There was a little stir by the door. Henry turned and found Peter -Westcott standing at his side. - -He was instantly delighted to perceive that the change that had crept -over him since the afternoon did not include Peter. His feeling for -Peter was the same that it had ever been, intensified if possible. He -_loved_ Peter as he stood there, strong, apart, independent, resolute. -_That_ was the kind of independence that Henry himself must achieve so -that he would not be swayed by every little emotional and critical wind -that blew. - -"Hallo, Peter," he said, "I was looking for you." - -"You haven't been looking very hard," said Peter. "I've been here a -long time." - -"There's so much smoke," said Henry. - -"Yes, there is. And I've had enough of it. And I'm going." - -"I'm going too," said Henry. "Mrs. Hunter has looked at me twice and I -don't believe that she's the least idea who I am." - -"You're going?" said Westcott astonished. "Why, you _love_ these -parties. I expected you to be here all night." - -"I don't love it to-night," said Henry solemnly. "It all seems silly. -Let's go." - -They went down into the Hall, found their coats and passed into the -serenity and peace of Barton Street. - -"Do you mind walking a bit?" asked Henry. - -"As a matter of fact," said Westcott, "I'm going to walk all the way -home. I'll take you up through Coventry Street if you like and drop you -at your Palace." - -"I only went there to-night to see you," said Henry. "I've got -something very important to tell you." - -They walked in silence into Whitehall. Henry found it difficult to -begin and Westcott never spoke unless he had something that he really -wanted to say--a reason sufficient for the reputation of sulkiness that -many people gave him. The beauty of the night too kept them silent. -After that hot, over-coloured room London was like some vast, gently -moving lake upon whose bosom floated towers and lamps and swinging -barges--myriads of stars were faint behind a spring mist that veiled, -revealed and veiled again an orange moon. - -Only the towers of the Houses of Parliament were sharp and distinct and -they too seemed to move with the gentle rhythm as though they were the -bulwarks of some giant ship sailing towards some certain destination. - -So quiet was the world that all life seemed to be hypnotized into -wondering expectation. - -"Well now, Henry, what is it?" asked Peter at last. - -"It's the most extraordinary thing," said Henry. "I suppose you'll -laugh at me. Anybody would. But I just couldn't help myself. It didn't -seem like myself doing it." - -"Doing what?" - -"Why, before I knew I was following them. And I hadn't any reason to -follow them. That's the funny thing. Only I'd just fallen down." - -Peter turned upon him. "For God's sake, Henry, get it straight, whom -were you following and where? And where did you fall down?" - -"In Piccadilly Circus. I was just staring around and some one pushed me -and I fell on to my knees and when I'd picked myself up again they'd -got half-way across----" - -"They? Who?" - -"Why the woman and her daughter. At least of course I didn't know she -was her daughter then. It was only afterwards----" - -Peter was irritable. "Look here, if you don't straighten everything out -and tell me it all quite simply from the beginning with names and dates -and everything I leave you instantly and never see you again." - -Henry tried again and, staring in front of him so that he stumbled and -walked like a man in a dream, he recovered it all, seeing freshly as -though he were acting in it once more and giving it to Westcott with -such vivid drama that they had arrived outside the door in Panton -Street as though they had been carried there on a magic carpet. "And -after that," finished Henry, "I just came home and I've been thinking -about her ever since." - -The street was very quiet. Within the theatre rows and rows of human -beings were at that moment sitting, their mouths open and their knees -pressed together while "The Ruined Lady" went through incredible antics -for their benefit. Outside the theatre a few cars were standing, a man -or two lounged against the wall, and the stars and the orange moon -released now from their entangling mist, shone like lights through a -tattered awning down upon the glassy surface of the street. Peter put -his hand upon Henry's shoulder; the boy was trembling. - -"Take my advice," he said, "and drop it." - -"What do you mean?" asked Henry fiercely. - -"Of course you won't follow my advice, but I'm older than you are. You -asked me to advise you and I'm going to. Don't you see what those two -women are? If you don't you're even more of an ass than I know you to -be." - -"What do you mean?" said Henry again. - -"Well, just ask yourself, what kind of a woman is it who when a strange -man bursts in through her window smiles and asks him to tea?" - -"If she's like that," said Henry angrily, "then all the more I've got -to get the girl out of it." - -Peter shrugged his shoulders, "I bet the girl knows what she's about," -he said. - -Henry laughed scornfully. "That's the worst of you, Peter," he said. -"You're a cynic. You don't believe in anybody or in anything. You -always see things at their worst." - -Peter smiled. "That's as may be," he said. "I believe in you anyway. -You know quite well that if you get in a mess I've got to pull you out -of it. I'm only warning you. If you like, I'll go with you next time -and see the girl." - -Henry looked up at the moon. "I know I'm an ass about some things," he -said. "But I'm not an ass about this. I'll save her if I die for it." - -Peter was touched. - -"You're bewitched," he said, "I was once. I don't want to wake you up. -The only trouble with these things is that the enchantment doesn't last -but the things we do under the enchantment do. - -"However, it's better to have been enchanted, whatever comes of it, -than never to have been enchanted at all. Will you promise me one -thing?" - -"What's that?" asked Henry. - -"To tell me everything, exactly, truthfully." - -"Yes, if you don't laugh at me." - -"No, I won't--unless you can laugh as well. But you're going to get -into a mess over this as sure as you're Henry Trenchard, and if I don't -know all about it, I shan't be able to help you when the time comes -that you need me." - -"I'll tell you everything," said Henry fervently. - -"When do you go to your old Baronet?" - -"The day after to-morrow." - -"Well, I'll come in and see you here that afternoon about five and get -your news. Is that all right?" - -"Yes," said Henry. "Isn't it a wonderful night? I think I'll walk about -a bit." - -"You're going to look up at her window?" - -Henry blushed, a thing he did very easily. "You can't see her window -from the street," he said. "It's quite true I might go round that way." - -Westcott went off laughing. The moon and Henry were left alone -together. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -MILLIE - - -Millicent Trenchard was at this time twenty-five years of age. - -She had been pretty at eighteen, she was beautiful now, beautiful -in the real sense of that terribly abused word, because she aroused -interest as well as admiration in the beholder. The questions asked -about her would be always different ones, depending for their impulse -on the private instincts and desires of the individual. - -Her eyes were large, dark, her figure slender, her colouring fair, -her hair (she had a mass of it) dark brown with some shadow of dull -gold in its threads, her neck and shoulders lovely with a pure healthy -whiteness of colour and form that only youth could give her, her chin -strong and determined but not exaggerated--all this catalogue is -useless. Her beauty did not lie in these things, but in the vitality, -the freedom, the humour, the wildness of her spirit. Her eyes, the -dimple in her cheek, the high, clear forehead spoke of kindness, -generosity, love of her fellowmen, but it was the quality behind those -things, the quality of a soul absolutely free and independent but not -selfish, open-minded and honest but neither dogmatic nor impertinent, -young and ignorant perhaps but ready for any discovery, fearless and -excited but tender and soft-hearted, unsentimental but loyal-hearted, -that finally told. Although her means were so slender she dressed -admirably, liking bright colours, crimson and purple and orange, but -never looking so well as when she was in the simplest black. - -She knew everything about dress by natural instinct, could make clothes -out of nothing at all (not so difficult in 1920), was able to buy -things in the cheapest way at the smartest shops, and really spent -less time and thought over all these things than most of the clumsily -dressed girls of her acquaintance. She was always neat; her gloves and -her shoes and her stockings were as fine as those of any lady in the -land. She was never extravagant in the fashion of the moment nor was -she outside it; when women of sixty wore skirts that belonged more -properly to their granddaughters, she who might with pride have been -short-skirted was not. - -And, just at this time, she was so happy that it made you afraid to -watch her. Mary Cass, her friend, was often afraid. - -Miss Cass was five years older than Millicent and had seen a great deal -of life. She had driven an ambulance in France, and it was afterwards, -when nursing in a hospital in Boulogne, that she and Millicent had made -friends. She had nursed with the same quiet capacity with which she had -driven her ambulance, and now she was studying at the Women's College -of Medicine and at the end of her five years' course was going to be -one of the most efficient women surgeons in Europe. That was what she -set in front of her, and the things that she set in front of her she -obtained. She was a little, insignificant, mild-eyed mouse of a woman -with a very determined chin; she had none of Millicent's gaiety and -wild zest for life. Life seemed to her rather a poor thing at best; -she had no great expectations of it, but, on the other hand, bore no -one a grudge because she was in the midst of it. So long as she was -working at something she was happy; she was fond of Millicent but not -extravagant about her. - -Her work was more to her than any human being, and she would have liked -Millicent to look on work with a deeper seriousness. This was their -one deep difference of opinion, that to Mary Cass work was more than -human nature and that to Millicent people were everything. "I'd rather -live with people I love than write the greatest book in the world," -Millicent said. "I believe, Mary, that you only make a friend because -you hope one day to be able to cut his or her leg off." - -"I'd do it very nicely," said Mary gravely. - -There was a further little trouble between them that Mary was -rather impatient of Henry. She thought him untidy, careless, -inaccurate, clumsy and sentimental; he was undoubtedly all of these -things--Millicent, of course, adored Henry and would not hear a word -against him from anybody. - -"He's only careless because he's a genius," she said. - -"When's he going to begin his genius?" asked Mary. "He's twenty-six -now." - -"He has begun it. He's written ten chapters of a novel." - -"What's it about?" asked Mary, with an irritating little sniff that she -used on occasions. - -"It's about the Eighteenth Century," said Millie, "and a house in a -wood----" - -"People want something more real nowadays," said Mary. - -"He hasn't got to think of what people want," answered Millie hotly. -"He's got to write what he feels." - -"He's got to make his bread and butter," said Miss Cass grimly. - -Nevertheless it may be suspected that she liked Henry more than she -allowed; only her fingers itched to be at him, at his collar and his -socks and his boots and his tie. But she believed about this, as she -did about everything else, that her day would come. - -On the morning that Millie was to go to Miss Platt's for the first time -she dressed with the greatest care. She put on a plain black dress -and designed to wear with it a little round red hat. She also wore a -necklace of small pearls that her father had once given her in a sudden -swiftly vanishing moment of emotion at her surprising beauty. When she -came into the little sitting-room to breakfast she was compelled to -confess to herself that she was feeling extremely nervous, and this -amazed her because she so seldom felt nervous about anything. But it -would be too awful if this Platt affair went wrong! To begin all over -again with those advertisements, those absurd letters, that sudden -contact with a world that seemed to be entirely incapacitated and -desperately to need help without in the least being willing to pay for -it! - -_That_ was the real point about Miss Platt, that she was willing to -pay. The brief interview had shown Millicent a middle-aged, rather -stout woman, with a face like a strawberry that is afraid that at -any moment it may be eaten, over-dressed, nervous and in some as -yet undefined way, a little touching. She had taken, it seemed, -to Millicent at once, calling her "my dear" and wanting to pay her -anything in reason. "I'm so tired," she said, "and I've seen so many -women. They are all so pale. I want some one bright about the house." - -Upon this foundation the bargain had been struck, and Millicent, -looking back at it, was compelled to admit that it was all rather -slender. She had intended to talk to Mary Cass about it at breakfast, -to drive her into reassuring her, but discovered, as so many of us -have discovered before now, that our nearest and dearest have, and -especially at breakfast, their own lives to lead and their own problems -to encounter. Mary's brain was intent upon the dissection of a frog, -and although her heart belonged to Millie, medical science had for -the moment closed it. Millie therefore left the house in a mood of -despondency, very rare indeed with her. She travelled on the top of a -succession of omnibuses to Cromwell Road. She had time to spare and it -was a lovely spring morning; she liked beyond all things to look down -over the side of the omnibus and see all the scattered fragmentary life -that went on beneath her. This morning every one was clothed in sun, -the buildings shone and all the people seemed to be dressed in bright -colours. London could look on such a morning so easy and comfortable -and happy-go-lucky, like a little provincial town, in the way that -butchers stout and rubicund stood in front of their shops, and the -furniture shops flung sofas and chairs, coal-scuttles and bookcases -right out into the pavement with a casual, homely air, and flower-shops -seemed to invite you to smell their flowers without paying for it, and -women walked shopping with their hand-bags carefully clutched, and boys -dashed about on bicycles with a free, unrestrained ecstasy, as though -they were doing it simply for their amusement. Other cities had surely -acquired by now a more official air, but London would be casual, untidy -and good-natured to the last trump, thank God! - -Millie soon recovered her very best spirits, and was not in the least -offended when a seedy young man stared at her from an opposite seat and -wetted his lips with his tongue as though he were tasting something -very good indeed. - -She had, however, to summon all her spirits to her aid when Cromwell -Road encompassed her. Rows and rows of houses all the same, wearing -the air, with their white steps, their polished door-handles and the -ferns in the window, of a middle-aged business man dressed for church -on a Sunday morning. They were smug and without personality. They were -thinking about nothing but themselves. No. 85 was as smug as the others. - -She rang the bell, and soon a small boy dressed in a blue uniform -and brass buttons stared at her and appeared to be incapable of -understanding a word that she said. - -He stared at her with such astonishment that she was able to push past -him into the hall before he could prevent her. - -"You can't see Miss 'Toria," he was heard at last to say in a hoarse -voice. "She don't see any one before she's up." - -"I think she'll see me," said Millie quietly. "She's expecting me." - -He continued to stare, and she suggested that he should go and inquire -of somebody else. He was away for so long a time that she was able to -observe how full the hall was of furniture, and how strangely confused -that furniture was. Near the hall-door was a large Jacobean oak chest -carved with initials and an old date 1678, and next to this a rickety -bamboo table; there were Chippendale chairs and a large brass gong, and -beyond these a glass case with stuffed birds. Millie, whose fingers -were always itching to arrange things in her own way, could see at -once that this might be made into a very jolly house. From the window -at the stair-corner came floods of sunlight, she could hear cheerful -voices from the kitchen; the house was alive even though it were in a -mess. . . . - -A tall dark woman in very stiff cap and apron appeared; she -"overlooked" Millie scornfully, and then said in a voice aloof and -distant that Miss Platt would see Miss Trenchard upstairs. - -Millie followed the woman and, receiving the same impression of light -and confusion as she went up, reached the third floor and was led into -a room on the right of the stairs. - -Here the sun was pouring in, and for a moment it was difficult to -see, then through the sunlight certain things declared themselves: -item an enormous, four-poster bed hung with bright curtains, item a -whole row of long becking and bowing looking-glasses, item many open -drawers sprayed with garments of every kind, item Miss Victoria Platt -rising, like Venus from the sea, out of the billowy foam of scattered -underclothing, resplendent in a Japanese kimono and pins falling out -of her hair. The tall woman said sharply, "Miss Trenchard, miss," -and withdrew. Miss Platt, red-faced and smiling, her naked arms like -crimson rolling-pins, turned towards her. - -"Oh, my dear, isn't it too sweet of you to come so punctually? Never -did I need anybody more. I always say I'll be down by nine-thirty -sharp. Mrs. Brockett, I say, you can come into the morning-room at -nine-thirty precisely. I shall be there. But I never am, you know. -Never. Well, my dear, I _am_ glad to see you. Come and give me a kiss." - -Millie stepped carefully over the underclothing, found herself warmly -encircled, two very wet and emphatic kisses implanted on her cheek and -then a voice hissing in her ear-- - -"I do want us to be friends, I do indeed. We shall be, I know." - -There was a little pause because Millie did not know quite what to say. -Then Miss Platt made some masculine strides towards a rather faded -rocking-chair, swept from it a coat and skirt and pointing to it said: - -"There, sit down! I'm sure you must be wanting a rest after your -journey." - -"Journey!" said Millie laughing, "I haven't had a journey! I've only -come from Baker Street." - -"Why, of course," said Miss Platt, "it was another girl altogether who -was coming from Wiltshire. I didn't like her, I remember, because she -had a slight moustache, which father always told us implied temper." -She stood back and regarded Millie. - -"Why, my dear, how pretty you are! Aren't you the loveliest thing -ever? And that little hat! How well you dress!" She sighed, struggling -with her corsets. (The kimono was now a dejected heap upon the floor.) -"Dress is so easy for some people. It seems to come quite naturally -to them. Perhaps my figure's difficult. I don't know. It's certainly -simpler for slim people." - -"Oh, do let me help you," cried Millie, jumping up. She came over to -her and in a moment the deed was done. - -"Thank you a thousand times," said Miss Platt. "How kind you are. I -have a maid, you know, but she's going at the end of the week. I simply -couldn't bear her superior manner, and when she went off one Saturday -afternoon from my very door in a handsome motor-car that was too much -for me. And she wanted to practise on my piano. Servants! You'll have -to help there, my dear. Change them as often as you like, but they must -be willing and have some kind of friendly feeling for one. I can't bear -to have people in the house who look as though they'd poison your soup -on the first opportunity. Why can't we all like one another? I'm sure -I'm ready enough." - -Millie said: "I suppose it doesn't do to spoil them too much." - -"You're right, dear, it doesn't. But as soon as I speak severely to -them they give notice, and I _am_ so tired of registry offices. I just -go in and out of them all day. I do hope you're good with servants." - -"I'll do my best," said Millie, smiling bravely, although her heart was -already sinking at the sense of her inexperience and ignorance. - -"I'm sure you will," said Miss Platt, who was now arrayed in bright -blue. "Method is what this house wants. You look methodical. The very -way you put your clothes on shows me that. My sister Ellen has method, -but household affairs don't interest her. She lives in a world of -her own. Clarice, my younger sister, has no method at all. She's the -most artistic of us. She paints and sings too delightfully. Are you -artistic?" - -"No, I'm not," said Millie. "Not a little bit." - -Miss Platt seemed for a moment disappointed. "I'm sorry for that. I -do _love_ the Arts, although I don't do anything myself. But I do -encourage them wherever I can." Then she brightened again. "It's much -better you shouldn't be artistic. You're more likely to have method." - -"I have a brother who writes," said Millie. - -"Now, isn't that wonderful!" Miss Platt was delighted. "You must bring -him along. I do think I'd rather be able to write than anything. What -kind of thing does he write?" - -"Well, he's rather young and of course the war kept him back, but he's -in the middle of a novel and he reviews books for the papers." - -"Why, how splendid!" Miss Platt was ready now to depart. "How clever he -must be to write a novel! All those conversations they put in! I'm sure -I don't know where they get it all from. What a gift! Mind you bring -him to see me, dear, as soon as ever you can." - -"I will," said Millie. - -"I do love to have literary and artistic people round me. We do have -quite delightful musical parties here sometimes. And dances too. Do you -dance?" - -"I love it," said Millie. - -"That's splendid. Now come along. We'll go downstairs and start the -morning's work." - -The drawing-room was just such a place as Millie had expected, a -perfect menagerie of odds and ends of furniture and the walls covered -with pictures ranging from the most sentimental of Victorian to the -most symbolic and puzzling of Cubists. But what a nice room this could -be did it contain less! Wide, high windows welcomed the sun and a -small room off the larger one could have the most charming privacy -and cosiness. But the smaller room was at the moment blocked with a -huge roller-top desk and a great white statue of a naked woman holding -an apple and peering at it as though she were expecting it to turn -into something strange like a baby or a wild fowl at the earliest -possible moment. This statue curved in such a way that it seemed to -hang above the roller-top desk in an inquiring attitude. It was the -chilliest-looking statue Millie had ever seen. - -"Yes," said Miss Platt, seeing that Millicent's eyes were directed -towards this, "that is the work of a very rising young sculptor, -an American, Ephraim Block. You'll see him soon; he often comes to -luncheon here. I do love to encourage the newer art, and Mr. Block is -one of the very newest." - -"What is the subject?" asked Millie. - -"Eve and the Apple," said Miss Platt. "It was originally intended -that there should be a Tree and a Serpent as well, but Mr. Block very -wisely saw that very few Art Galleries would be large enough for a tree -such as he had designed, so they are to come later when he has some -open-air commissions. He is a very agreeable young man; you'll like him -I'm sure. Some of my friends think the statue a little bold, but after -all in the service of art we must forget our small pruderies, must we -not? Others see a resemblance in Eve to myself, and Mr. Block confessed -that he had me a little in mind when he made his design. Poor man, he -has a wife and children, and life is a great struggle for him, I'm -afraid. These Americans will marry so young. Now this," she went on, -turning to the roller-top desk, "is where I keep my papers, and one of -the very first things I want you to do is to get them into something -like order. - -"They are in a perfect mess at present and I never can find anything -when I want it. I thought you might begin on that at once. I have to go -out for an hour or two to see a friend off to America. What she's going -to America for I can't imagine. She's such a nice woman with two dear -little boys, but she had a sudden passion to see Chicago and nothing -could keep her. I shall be back by twelve, and if there's anything you -want just ring the bell by the fireplace there and Beppo will attend to -you." - -"Beppo?" asked Millie. - -"Yes, he's the page-boy. After dear father died I had a butler, but -he got on so badly with Mrs. Brockett that I thought it wiser to have -a boy. My sister, Clarice, suggested that he should be called Beppo. -He was a little astonished at first because he's really called Henry, -but he's quite used to it now. Well, good-bye, dear, for the moment. I -can't tell you what a relief it is to me to have you here. It simply -makes the whole difference." - -Millie was left alone in her glory. - -At first she wandered about the room, looking at the pictures, glancing -out of the windows at the bright and flashing colour that flamed on -the roofs and turned the chimney-pots into brown and gold and purple, -gazed at a huge picture over the marble mantelpiece of three girls, -obviously the Miss Platts twenty years ago, modest and giggling under -a large green tree, then unrolled the desk. She gave a little gasp -of despair at what she saw. The papers were piled mountain-high, and -the breeze that come from the rolling back of the desk stirred them -like live things and blew many of them on to the floor. How was she -ever to do anything with these? Where was she to begin? She gathered -them up from the floor, and looking at the first fist-full discovered -bills, letters, invitation cards, theatre programmes, advertisements, -some of them months old, many of them torn in half, and many more of -them, as she quickly discovered, requests for money, food and shelter. -She felt an instant's complete despair, then her innate love of order -and tidiness came to her rescue. She felt a real sense of pity and -affection for Miss Platt. Of reassurance too, because here obviously -was a place where she was needed, where she could be of real assistance -and value. She piled them all on to the floor and then started to -divide them into sections, invitations in one heap, begging letters -into another, advertisements into another. - -Strange enough, too, this sudden plunging into the intimacies of a -woman whom until an hour ago she had not known at all! Many of the -letters were signed with Christian names, but through all there ran an -implicit and even touching belief that certainly "Victoria," "dearest -Viccy," "my darling little Vic," "dear Miss Platt" would find it -possible to "grant this humble request," "to loan the money for only a -few weeks when it should faithfully be repaid," "to stump up a pound or -two--this really the last time of asking." - -Half-an-hour's investigation among these papers told Millie a great -deal about Miss Platt. Soon she was deep in her task. The heavy marble -clock in the big room muttered on like an irritable old man who hopes -to get what he wants by asking for it over and over again. - -She was soon caught into so complete an absorption in her work that she -was unaware of her surroundings, only conscious that above her head -Venus leered down upon her and that all the strange, even pathetic -furniture of the room was accompanying her on her voyage of discovery, -as though it wanted her to share in their own kindly, protective sense -of their mistress. The clock ticked, the fire crackled, the sun fell in -broad sheets of yellow across the hideous carpet of blue and crimson, -quenching the fire's bright flames. - -Ghosts rose about her--the ghosts of Victoria Platt's confused, -greedy, self-seeking world. Millie soon began to long to catch some of -these pirates by their throats and wring their avaricious necks. How -they dared! How they could ask as they did, again and again and again! -Ask! nay, demand! She who was of too proud a spirit to ask charity of -any human being alive--unless possibly it were Henry, who, poor lamb, -was singularly ill-fitted to be a benefactor--seemed, as she read on, -to be receiving a revelation of a new world undreamt of before in her -young philosophy. Her indignation grew, and at last to relieve her -feelings she had to spring up from the desk and pace the room. - -Suddenly, as she faced the windows to receive for a moment the warmth -and friendliness of the sunlight, the door opened behind her and, -turning, she saw a woman enter. - -This was some one apparently between thirty and forty years of age, -dressed in rather shabby black, plain, with a pale face, black hair -brushed severely from a high forehead, cross, discontented eyes and an -air of scornful severity. - -The two women made a strange, contrast as they faced one another, -Millicent with her youth, beauty and happiness, the other scowling, -partly at the sudden sunlight, partly at the surprise of finding a -stranger there. - -"I beg your pardon," said Millie smiling. "Do you want any one?" - -"Do I want any one?" said the other, in a voice half-snarl, half-irony; -"that's good! In one's own house too!" - -"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Millie again blushing. "I didn't know. -I've only been here an hour. I'm Miss Platt's new secretary." - -"Oh, you are, are you? Well, I'm Miss Platt's old sister, and when I -said it was my house I made of course the greatest possible mistake, -because it isn't _my_ house and never will be. You can call me a guest -or a companion or even a prisoner if you like. Anything that it pleases -you." - -This was said with such extreme bitterness that Millie thought that the -sooner she returned to her work at the roll-top desk the better. - -"You're Miss Ellen Platt?" she asked. - -"I am. And what's your name?" - -"Millicent Trenchard." - -"What on earth have you taken up this kind of work for?" - -"Why shouldn't I?" asked Millie with spirit. - -"Well, you're pretty and you're young and your clothes don't look -exactly as though you're hard up. However if you want to be imprisoned -before your time there's no reason why I should prevent you!" - -"I want to work!" said Millie, then, laughing, she added: "And there -seems to be plenty for me to do here!" - -Ellen Platt seemed to be suddenly arrested by her laugh. She stared -even more closely than she had done before. "Yes, there's plenty of -work," she said. "If Victoria will let you do it. If you last out a -month here you'll do well." - -"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Millie. - -"You can't be very observant if it isn't enough for you to cast a -glance around this room and tell yourself what's the matter. But I'll -leave you to make your own discoveries. Six years ago we hadn't a penny -to bless ourselves with and thought ourselves ill-used. Now we have -more money than we know what to do with--or at least Victoria has--and -we're worse off than we were before." - -She said those words "Or at least Victoria has" with such concentrated -anger and bitterness that Millie turned her head away. - -"Yes I expect having a lot of money suddenly is a trouble," she said. -"I must be getting on with my work." - -She moved into the little room; Ellen Platt followed her as though -determined to fire her last shot at close quarters. - -"Victoria's had five secretaries in the last month," she said. "And -they've none of them been able to stand it a week, and they were older -women than you," then she went out, banging the door behind her. - -"What an unpleasant woman," thought Millie, then buried herself again -in her work. - -Her other interruption came half an hour later. The door opened and -there came in a man of medium height, bald and with a bushy moustache -so striking that it seemed as though he should have either more hair on -his head or less over his mouth. He had twinkling eyes and was dressed -in grey. He came across the room without seeing Millie, then started -with surprise. - -"Good heavens!" he said. "A girl!" - -"I'm Miss Platt's new secretary," she said. - -"And I'm Miss Platt's family physician," he said through his moustache. -"My name's Brooker." He added smiling, "You seem in a bit of a mess -there." - -She must have looked in a mess, the papers lying in tangled heaps on -every side of her; to herself she seemed at last to be evoking order. - -"I'm not in so much of a mess as I was an hour ago," she said. - -"No, I daresay." He nodded his head. "You look more efficient than the -last secretary who cried so often that all Miss Platt's correspondence -looked as though it had been out in the rain." - -"What did she cry about?" asked Millie. - -"Homesickness and indigestion and general confusion," he answered. "You -don't look as though you'll cry." - -"I'm much more likely to smash Eve," said Millie. "Don't you think I -might ask Miss Platt to have her moved back a little this afternoon? -It's so awful feeling that she's watching everything you do." - -"There's nowhere very much to have her moved back to," said the Doctor. -"She's back as far as she will go now. You're very young," he added -quite irrelevantly. - -"I'm not," said Millie. "I'm twenty-five." - -"You don't look that. I don't want to be inquisitive, but--did you know -anything about these people before you came here?" - -"No," said Millie. "No more than one knows from a first impression. -Why? You look concerned about me. Have I made a mistake?" - -The doctor laughed. "Not if you have a sense of humour and plenty of -determination. The last four ladies lacked both those qualities. Mind -you, I'm devoted to the family. Their father, poor old Joe, was one of -my greatest friends." - -"Why do you pity him?" asked Millie quickly. - -"Because he was one of those most unfortunate of human beings--a -man who had one great ambition in life, worked for it all his days, -realized it before he died and found it dust in the mouth. The one -thing he wanted from life was money. He was a poor man all his days -until the War--then he made a corner in rum and made so much money he -didn't know what to do with himself. The confusion and excitement of it -all was too much for him and he died of apoplexy. - -"Only the day before he died he said to me: 'Tom, I've put my money on -the wrong horse. I've been a fool all my life.'" - -"And he left his money to his daughters?" asked Millie. - -"To Victoria, always his favourite. And he left it to her to do just as -she liked with and to behave as she pleased to her sisters." - -He had never cared about Clarice and Ellen. He was disappointed because -they weren't boys. - -"So Victoria's King of the Castle and knows she is, too, for all that -she's a good, kind-hearted woman. Are you interested in human beings, -Miss----?" - -"Trenchard," said Millie. "I am." - -"Well if you really are you've come to the right place. You won't -find anything more interesting in the whole of London. Here you -have right in front of your nose that curious specimen of the human -family, the New Rich, and you have it in its most touching and moving -aspect--frightened, baffled, confused, bewildered and plundered. - -"Plundered! My God! you'll have plenty of opportunity of discovering -the Plunderers in the next few weeks if you stay. There are some -prime specimens here. If you're a good girl--and you don't look a bad -one--you'll have a chance of saving Victoria. Another year like the one -she's just gone through and I think she'll be in an asylum!" - -"Oh, poor thing!" cried Millie. "Indeed I'm going to do my very best." - -"Mind you," he went on, "she's foolish--there never was a more foolish -woman. And she can be a tyrant too. Clarice and Ellen have a hard -time of it. But they take her the wrong way. They resent it that she -should hold the purse and they show her that they resent it. You can do -anything you like with her if you make her fond of you. There never -was a warmer-hearted woman." - -He went over to Millie's desk and stood close to her. "I'm telling you -all this, Miss Trenchard," he said, "because I like the look of you. -I believe you're just what's needed in this house. You've got all the -enchantment of youth and health and beauty if you'll forgive my saying -so. The Enchanted Age doesn't last very long, but those who are in it -can do so much for those who are outside, and generally they are so -taken up with their own excitement that they've no time to think of -those others. You'll never regret it all your life if you do something -for this household before you leave it." - -Millie was deeply touched. "Of course I will," she said, "if I can. And -you really think I can? I'm terribly ignorant and inexperienced." - -"You're not so inexperienced as they are." He held out his hand. "Come -to me if you're disheartened or bewildered. There'll be times when you -will be. I've known these women since they were babies so I can help -you." - -They shook hands on it. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -HENRY'S FIRST DAY - - -Meanwhile Henry's plunge into a cold and hostile world was of quite -another kind. - -One of the deep differences between brother and sister was that while -Millie was realistic Henry was romantic. He could not help but see -things in a coloured light, and now when he started out for his first -morning with his Baronet London was all lit up like a birthday cake. -He had fallen during the last year under the spell of the very newest -of the _Vers Librists_, and it had become a passion with him to find -fantastic images for everything that he saw. Moreover, the ease of -it all fascinated him. He was, God knows, no poet, but quite simply, -without any trouble at all, lines came tumbling into his head: - - The chimneys, like crimson cockatoos, - Fling their grey feathers - Wildly. - -or - - The washing - Billowing-- - Frozen egg-shells - Crimson pantaloons - Skyline - Flutter. - -or - - The omnibuses herd together - In the dirty autumn weather - Elephants in jungle town - Monkey-nuts come pattering down. - -and so on and so on. . . . - -He got deep pleasure from these inspirations; he had sent three to an -annual anthology _Hoops_, and one of them, "Railway-Lines--Bucket-shop," -was to appear in the 1920 volume. - -But the trouble with Henry was that cheek by jowl with this modern -up-to-date impulse ran a streak of real old-fashioned, entirely -out-of-date Romance. It was true, as Millie had informed Miss Platt, -that he had written ten chapters of a story, _The House in the Lonely -Wood_. - -How desperately was he ashamed of his impulse to write this romance and -yet how at the same time he loved doing it! Was ever young literary -genius in a more shameful plight! A true case of double personality! -With the day he pursued the path of all the young 1920 Realists, -believing that nothing matters but "the Truth, the calm, cold, -unaffected Truth," thrilling to the voices of the Three Graces, loving -the company of the somewhat youthful editor of _Hoops_, reading every -word that fell from the pen of the younger realistic critics. - -And then at night out came the other personality and Henry, hair on -end, the penny bottle of ink in front of him, pursued, alas happily -and with the divine shining behind his eyelids, the simple path of -unadulterated, unashamed Romance! - -What would the Three Graces say, how would the editor of _Hoops_ regard -him, did they know what he did night after night in the secrecy of his -own chamber, or rather of Mr. King's chamber? Perhaps they would not -greatly care--they did not in any case consider him as of any very real -importance. Nevertheless he could not but feel that he was treating -them to double-dealing. - -And then his trouble was suddenly healed by the amazing, overwhelming -adventure of Piccadilly Circus. As he had discovered at the Hunters' -party, nothing now mattered but the outcome of that adventure. He -worked at his Romance with redoubled vigour; it did not seem to him -any longer a shameful affair, simply because he had now in his own -experience a Romance greater and wilder than any fancy could give him. -Also images and similes occurred to him more swiftly than ever, and -they were no longer modern, no longer had any connection with _Hoops_ -or the new critics, but were simply the attempts that his own soul -was making to clothe Her and everything about Her, even Her horrible -mother, with all the beauty and colour that his genius could provide. -(Henry did not really, at this time, doubt that he had genius--the -doubting time was later.) - -It will be seen then that he started for Sir Charles Duncombe's house -in a very romantic spirit. - -The address was No. 13 Hill Street, Berkeley Square, so that Henry had -a very little way to go from his Panton Street room. Hill Street is a -bright, cheerful place enough with a sense of dignity and age about it -and a consciousness that it knows only the very best people. Even the -pillar-boxes and the lamp-posts call for decorum and are accustomed, -you can see, to butlers, footmen and very superior ladies'-maids. -But it cannot be denied that many of the Hill Street houses are dark -inside and No. 13 is no exception to that rule. Unlike most of the -Hill Street houses which all often change masters, No. 13 had been in -the possession of the Duncombe family for a great many years, ever -since the days of Queen Anne, in fact, the days of the famous Richard -Duncombe who, being both the most desperate gambler and the astutest -brain for a bargain in all London, made and lost fortunes with the -greatest frequency. - -Henry on this first morning knew nothing about the family history of -the Duncombes, but if he had known he might have readily believed that -so far as the hall and the butler went no change whatever had been made -since those elegant polished Queen Anne days. The hall was so dark and -the butler so old that Henry dared neither to move, lest he should -fall over something, nor to speak lest it should seem irreverent. He -stood, therefore, rooted to the stone floor and muttered something so -inaudibly that the old man courteously waiting could not hear at all. - -"Henry Trenchard," he said at last, looking wildly about him. How the -cold seemed to strike up through the stone flags into his very marrow! - -"Quite so, sir," said the old man. "Sir Charles is expecting you." - -Up an enormous stone staircase they went, Henry's boots making a great -clatter, his teeth against his will chattering. Portraits looked down -upon him, but so dark it was that you could only catch a glimmer of -their old gold frames. - -To Henry, modern though he might endeavour to be, there would recur -persistently that picture--the most romantic picture perhaps in all -his childish picture-gallery--of Alan Fairford, sick and ill, dragged -by Nanty Ewart through the dying avenues of Fairladies, having at long -last that interview with the imperious Father Bonaventure in the long -gallery of the crumbling house--the interview, the secret letter, the -mysterious lady "whose step was that of a queen." "Whose neck and bosom -were admirably formed, and of a dazzling whiteness"--the words still -echoed in Henry's heart calling from that far day when a tiny boy in -his attic at Garth he read by the light of a dipping candle the history -of _Redgauntlet_ from a yellowing closely-printed page. - -Here, in the very heart of London was Fairladies once again and who -could tell? . . . Might not the spring in the wall be touched, a -bookcase step aside and a lady, "her neck and bosom of a startling -whiteness," appear? For shame! He had now his own lady. The time had -gone by for dreams. He came to reality with a start, finding himself in -a long dusky library so thickly embedded with old books that the air -was scented with the crushed aroma of old leather bindings. A long oak -table confronted him and behind the table, busily engaged with writing, -was his new master. - -The old man muttered something and was gone. Sir Charles did not -look up and Henry, his heart beating fast, was able to study his -surroundings. The library was all that the most romantic soul could -have wished it. The ceiling was high and stamped with a gold pattern. -A gallery about seven feet from the ground ran round the room, and a -little stairway climbed up to this; except for their high diamond-paned -windows on one side of the room the bookcases completely covered the -walls; thousands upon thousands of old books glimmered behind their -gold tooling, the gold running like a thin mist from wall to wall. - -Above the wide stone fireplace there was a bust of a sharp-nosed -gentleman in whig and stock, very supercilious and a little dusty. - -With all this Henry also took surreptitious peeps at Sir Charles, and -what he saw did not greatly reassure him. He was a very thin man, -dressed in deep black and a high white collar that would in other days -have been called Gladstonian, bald, tight-lipped and with the same -peaked bird-like nose as the gentleman above the fireplace. He gave an -impression of perfect cleanness, neatness and order. Everything on the -table, letter-weight, reference-books, paper knife, silver ink-bottle, -pens and sealing-wax, was arranged so definitely that these things -might have been stuck on to the table with glue. Sir Charles's hands -were long, thin and bird-shaped like his nose. Henry, as he snatched -glimpses of this awe-inspiring figure, was acutely conscious of his own -deficiencies; he felt tumbled, rumpled, and crumpled. Whereas, only a -quarter of an hour ago walking down Hill Street, he had felt debonair, -smart and fashionable (far of course from what he really was), so -unhappily impressionable was he. - -Suddenly the hand was raised, the pen laid carefully down, the nose -shot out across the table. - -"You are Mr. Trenchard?" asked a voice that made Henry feel as though -he were a stiff sheet of paper being slowly cut by a very sharp knife. - -"Yes, sir," he said. - -"Very well. . . . We have only corresponded hitherto. Mr. Mark is your -cousin, I think?" - -"My brother-in-law, sir." - -"Quite. A very able fellow. He should go far." - -Henry had never cared for Philip who, in his own private opinion, -should have never gone any distance at all, but on the present occasion -he could only offer up a very ineffective "Yes." - -"Very well. You have never been anybody's secretary before?" - -"No, sir." - -"And you understand that I am giving you a month's trial entirely on -your brother-in-law's recommendation?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"And what"--here the nose shot out and forward in most alarming -fashion--"do you understand a secretary's duties to be?" - -Henry smiled rather to give himself confidence than for any other -very definite reason. "Well, sir, I should say that you would want to -me to write letters to your dictation and keep your papers in order -and, perhaps, to interview people whom you don't wish to see yourself -and--and,--possibly to entrust me with missions of importance." - -"Hum. . . . Quite. . . . I understand that you can typewrite and that -you know shorthand?" - -"Well, sir"--here Henry smiled again--"I think I had better be frank -with you from the beginning. I don't typewrite very well. I told Philip -not to lay much emphasis on that. And my shorthand is pretty quick, but -I can't generally read it afterwards." - -"Indeed! And would you mind telling me why, with these deficiencies, -you fancied that you would make me a good secretary?" - -Henry's heart sank. He saw himself within the next five minutes -politely ushered down the stone staircase, through the front door and -so out into Hill Street. - -"I don't think," he said, "that I will make you a very good secretary, -not in the accepted sense. I know that I shall make mistakes and be -clumsy and forgetful, but I will do my very best and you can trust me, -and--I am really not such a fool as I often look." - -These were the very last words that Henry had intended to say. It was -as though some one else had spoken them for him. Now he had ruined his -chances. There was nothing for it but to accept his dismissal and go. - -However, Sir Charles seemed to take it all as the most natural thing in -the world. - -"Quite," he said. "Your brother-in-law tells me that you are an author." - -"I'm not exactly one yet," said Henry. "I hope to be one soon, but of -course the war threw me back." - -"And what kind of an author do you intend to be?" - -"I mean to be a novelist," said Henry, feeling quite sure that this was -the very last thing that Sir Charles would ever consider any one ought -to be. - -"Exactly. And you will I suppose be doing your own work when you ought -to be doing mine?" - -"No, I won't," said Henry eagerly. "I can't pretend that I won't -sometimes be thinking of it. It's very hard to keep it out of one's -head sometimes. But I'll do my best not to." - -"Quite. . . . Won't you sit down?" Henry sat down on a stiff-backed -chair. - -"If you will kindly listen I will explain to you what I shall wish -you to do for me. As you have truly suggested I shall need some help -with my letters; some typing also will be necessary. But the main -work I have in hand for you is another matter. My grandfather, Ronald -Duncombe, was a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh during the first -thirty years of the nineteenth century. He was a great letter-writer, -and knew all the most interesting personalities of his time. You, -doubtless, like all the new generation, despise your parents and laugh -at your grandparents." Sir Charles paused here as though he expected an -answer to a question. - -"Oh no," said Henry hurriedly. "My grandfather's dead--he died a few -years ago--but he was a very fine old man indeed. We all thought a -great deal of him." - -"I'm glad to hear it. That will make you perhaps the more sympathetic -to this work that I have for you. There are several black boxes in the -cupboard over there filled with letters. Walter Scott was an intimate -friend of his--of course, you despise Walter Scott?" - -"Oh, no," said Henry fervently, "I don't, I assure you." - -"Hum. Quite. When one of you young men writes something better than he -did I'll begin to read you. Not before." - -"No," said Henry, who nevertheless longed to ask Sir Charles how he -knew that the young men of to-day did not write better seeing that he -never read them. - -"In those boxes there are letters from Byron and Wordsworth and Crabbe -and Hogg and many other great men of the time. There are also many -letters of no importance. I intend to edit my grandfather's letters and -I wish you to prepare them for me." - -"Yes," said Henry. - -"I wish you to be here punctually at nine every morning. I may say that -I consider punctuality of great importance. You will help me with my -own correspondence until ten-thirty; from ten-thirty until one you -will be engaged on my grandfather's letters. My sister will be very -glad that you should have luncheon with us whenever you care to. I -shall not generally require you in the afternoon, but sometimes I shall -expect you to remain here all day. I shall wish you always to be free -to do so when I need you." - -"Yes, sir," said Henry. - -"Sometimes I shall be at Duncombe Hall in Wiltshire and shall want -you to stay with me there at certain periods. I hope that you will -not ask more questions than are absolutely necessary as I dislike -being disturbed. You are of course at liberty to use any books in this -library that you please, but I hope that you will always put them back -in their right places. I dislike very much seeing books bent back or -laid face downwards." - -"Yes," said Henry. "So do I." - -"Quite. . . . And now, are there any questions that you will like to -ask?" - -"No," said Henry. "If there are any questions that I want to ask would -you prefer that I asked them when I thought of them or kept them until -the end of the morning and asked them all together?" - -"That had better depend on your own judgment." - -There was a pause. - -"That table over there," said Sir Charles, pointing to one near the -window, "is a good one for you to work at. I should suggest that -you begin this morning with the box labelled 1816-1820. That is the -cupboard to your right. It is not locked." - -The first movement across the floor to the cupboard was an agonizing -one. Henry felt as though everything in the room were listening to him, -as though the gentleman with the nose on the mantelpiece was saying -to him: "You'll never do here. Look at the noise your boots make. Of -course you won't do." - -However he got safely across, opened the cupboard which creaked -viciously, found the black boxes and the one that he needed. It was -very heavy, but he brought it to the table without much noise. Down -he sat, carefully opened it and looked inside. Pile upon pile of -old yellow letters lay there, packet after packet of them tied with -faded red tape. Something within him thrilled to their age, to their -pathos, to their humility, to the sense that they carried up to him -of the swift passing of time, the touching childishness of human -hopes, despair and ambitions. He felt suddenly like an ant crawling -laboriously over a gleaming and slippery globe of incredible vastness. -The letters seemed to rebuke him as though he had been boasting of his -pride and youth and his confidence in his own security. He took out the -first bundle, reverently undid the tape and began to read. . . . - -Soon he was absorbed even as his sister Millicent, at that same moment -in the Cromwell Road, was absorbed in a very different collection -of letters, on this her second Platt morning. The library with its -thousands of books enfolded Henry as though now it approved of him and -might love him did he stay reverently in its midst caring for the old -things and the old people--the old things that pass, the old people who -seem to die but do not. At first every letter thrilled him. The merest -note: - - 15 CASTLE ST., EDINBURGH, - _June 4, 1816_. - MY DEAR RONALD--What about coming in to see us? All - at Hartley well and easy--Mamma has been in Edinburgh after a - cook--no joking matter--and to see Benjie who was but indifferent, - but has recovered. . . . I will write a long letter soon, but my - back and eyes ache with these three pages. . . . - -Then a note about a dinner-party, then about a parcel of books, then -a letter from Italy full of the glories of Florence; then (how Henry -shivered with pleasure as he saw it!) the hand and sign of the Magician -himself! - - DEAR SIR RONALD DUNCOMBE--I am coming to town I trust - within the fortnight, but my trees are holding me here for the - moment. I have been saddened lately by the death of my poor - brother, Major John Scott, who was called home after a long - illness. All here wish to be remembered to you.--Most truly yours, - - WALTER SCOTT. - -A terrible temptation came to Henry--so swift that it seemed to be -suggested by some one sitting beside him--to slip the letter into his -pocket. This was the first time in all his days that he had had such -a letter in his hand, because, although his father had been for many -years a writer of books on this very period, his material had been -second-hand, even third-hand material. Henry felt a slight contempt for -his father as he sat there. - -Then, as the minutes swung past, he was aware that he should be doing -something more than merely looking at the old letters and complimenting -them on their age and pretty pathos. He should be arranging them. Yes, -arranging them, but how? He began helplessly to pick them up, look at -them and lay them on the table again. Many of them had no dates at -all, many were signed only with Christian names, some were not signed -at all. And how was he to decide on the important ones? How did he -know that he would not pass, through ignorance and inexperience, some -signature of world-significance? The letters began to look at him with -less approval, even with a certain cynical malevolence. They all looked -the same with their faded yellow paper and their confusing handwriting. -He had many of them on the table, unbound from their red tape, lying -loosely about him and yet the box seemed as full as ever. And there -were many more boxes! . . . Suddenly, from the very bowels of the -house, a gong sounded. - -"You can wash your hands in that little room to the right," said Sir -Charles, whose personality suddenly returned as though Henry had -pressed a button. "Luncheon will be waiting for us." - -And this was the conclusion of Henry's first appearance as a private -secretary. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE THREE FRIENDS - - -Upon the afternoon of that same day at five of the clock they were -gathered together in Mr. King's friendly attic--Henry, Millicent and -Westcott. Because there was so little room Henry and Millie sat on the -bed, Peter Westcott having the honour of the cane-bottomed chair, which -looked small enough under his large square body. - -The attic window was open and the spring afternoon sun came in, -bringing with it, so Henry romantically fancied, a whiff from the -flower-baskets in Piccadilly and the bursting buds of the St. James's -Church trees--also petrol from the garage next door and, as Peter -asserted, patchouli and orange-peel from the Comedy Theatre. - -At first, as is often the case with tea-parties, there was a little -stiffness. It was absurd that on this occasion it should be so; -nevertheless the honest fact was that Millie did not care very greatly -for Peter and that Henry knew this. She did not care for him, Henry -contended, because she did not know him, and this might be because -in all their lives they had only met once or twice, Millie generally -making some excuse when she knew that Peter would be present. - -Was this jealousy? Indignantly she would have denied it. Rather she -would have said that it was because she did not think that he made a -very good friend for her dear Henry. He was, in her eyes, a rather -battered, grumpy, sulky, middle-aged man who was here married and -there not married at all, distinctly a failure, immoral probably and -certainly a cynic. None of these things would she mind for herself of -course, but Henry was so much younger than she, so much more innocent, -she happily fancied, about the wicked ways of the world. Westcott would -spoil him, take the bloom off him, make him old before his time--that -is what she liked to tell him. And perhaps if they had not met on this -special afternoon that little barrier would never have been leaped, but -to-day they had so much to tell and to hear that restraint was soon -impossible, and Henry himself had so romantic a glow in his eyes, and -his very hair, that it made at once the whole meeting exceptional. This -glow was indeed the very first thing that Millie noticed. - -"Why, Henry," she said as soon as she sat down on the bed, "what _has_ -happened to you?" - -He was swinging on the bed, hugging his knees. - -"There's nothing the matter," he said. "I'm awfully happy, that's all." - -"Happy because of the Baronet?" - -"No, not so much the Baronet although he's all right, and it's awfully -interesting if I can only do the work. No, it's something else. I'll -tell you all about it when we've had tea. I say, Millie, how stunning -you look in that orange jumper. You ought always to wear orange. -Oughtn't she, Peter?" - -"Yes," said Peter, his eyes fixed gravely upon her. - -Millie flushed a little. She didn't want Westcott's approval. A -nuisance that he was here at all! It would be so much easier to discuss -everything with Henry were he not here. - -Mr. King arrived, very solemn, very superior, very dead. - -He put down the tray upon the rather rickety little table. They all -watched him in silence. When he had gone Henry chuckled. - -"He thinks I'm awful," Henry said. "Too awful for anything. I don't -suppose he's ever despised any one before as he despises me, and it -makes him happy. He loves to have some one who's awful. And now about -Miss Platt--every bit about Miss Platt from her top to her toe!" - -He went to the tea-table and began to pour out the tea, wishing that -Millie and Peter would like one another better and not look so cross. - -Millie began. She had come that afternoon burning to tell everything -about the Platt household, and then when she saw Westcott there she was -closed like an oyster. However, for Henry's sake she must do something, -so she began because in her own way she was as truly creative as Henry -was in his. She found that she was enjoying herself and it grew -under her hand, the Platt house, the Platt rooms, the Platt family, -Victoria and Ellen and Clarice, and the little doctor and Beppo and the -housekeeper and the statue of Eve and all the letters. . . . - -They began to laugh; she was laughing so that she could not speak and -Henry was laughing so that the two brazen and unsympathetic muffins -which Mr. King had provided fell on to the carpet, and then Peter -laughed and laughed more than that, and more again, and any ice that -there had ever been was cracked, riven, utterly smashed! - -They all fell into the Pond together and found it so warm and -comfortable that they decided to stay there for the rest of the -afternoon. - -"Of course," said Millie, "it entirely remains to be seen whether I'm -up to the job. I'm not even sure that I can manage the correspondence, -I'm almost certain that I can't manage the servants. The housekeeper -hates me already--and then there are the sisters." - -"Ellen and Clarice." - -Millie nodded her head. "They _are_ queer. But then the situation's -queer. Victoria's got all the money and likes the power. They have to -do what she says or leave the house and start all alone in a cold and -unsympathetic world. They couldn't do that, they couldn't earn their -livings for five minutes. Clarice thinks she can sing and act. You -should hear her! Ellen does little but sulk. Victoria gives them fine -big allowances, but she likes to feel they are her slaves. They'd give -anything for their freedom, marry anybody anywhere--but they _won't_ -plunge! How can they? They'd starve in a week." - -"And would their sister let them?" asked Peter. - -"No, I don't think she would," said Millie. "But she'd have them back -and they'd be no better off than before. She's a kind-hearted creature, -but just loves the power her money gives her--and hasn't the least idea -what to do with it! She's as bewildered as though, after being in a -dark room all her life, she were suddenly flung into the dancing-hall -in Hampstead. . . . Oh, it's a queer time!" - -Millie sprang up from the bed. - -"Every one's bewildered, the ones that have money and didn't have it, -the ones that haven't money and used to have it, the ones with ideas -and the ones without, the ones with standards and the ones without, -the cliché ones and the old-fashioned ones, the ones that want fun -and the ones that want to pray, the ugly ones and the pretty ones, -the bold ones and the frightened ones. . . . Everything's breaking up -and everything's turning into new shapes and new colours. And I love -it! I love it! I love it! I oughtn't to, it's wrong to, I can't help -it! . . . . It's enchanting!" - -As she stood there, the sun streaming in upon her from the little -window and illuminating her gay colours and her youth and health and -beauty she seemed to Peter Westcott a sudden flame and fire burning -there, in that little attic to show to the world that youth never -dies, that life is eternal, that hope and love and beauty are stronger -than governments and wars and the changing of forms and boundaries. -It was an unforgettable moment to him, and even though it emphasized -all the more his own loneliness it seemed to whisper to him that that -loneliness would not be for ever. - -"Hold on!" said Henry. "Look out, Millie! The table's very shaky and if -the plates are broken King will make me pay at least twice what they're -worth. You know it's a funny thing, but I'm seeing just the other side -of the picture. Your people have just got all their money, my people -have just lost all theirs. Before the war, so far as I can make out, -Duncombe was quite well off. Most of it came from land, and that's gone -down and the Income Tax has come up, and there's hardly anything left. -They think they'll have to sell Duncombe Hall which has been in the -family for centuries, and that will pretty well break their hearts I -fancy." - -"They? Who's they?" asked Millie. - -"There's a sister," said Henry. "Lady Bell-Hall--Margaret She's the -funniest little woman you ever saw. She's a widow. Her husband died -in the war--of general shock I should fancy--air-raids and money and -impertinence from the lower classes. The widow nearly died from the -same thing. She always wears black and a bonnet, and jumps if any one -makes the least sound. At the same time she's as proud as Lucifer and -good too. She's just bewildered. She can't understand things at all. -The word written on her heart when she comes to die will be Bolshevist. -She talks all the time and it's from her I know all this!" - -"And Duncombe himself? What's he like?" asked Millie. - -"Oh, he's queer! I like him but I can't make out what he thinks. He -never shows any sign. He will, I suppose, before long. I shall make so -many muddles and mistakes that I shall just be shown the door at the -end of the month. However, he can't say I didn't warn him. I told him -from the beginning just what I was. I know I'm going to have an awful -time with those letters. They all look so exactly alike, and many of -them haven't got any dates at all, and then I go off dreaming. It's -almost impossible not to in that library. It's full of ghosts, and the -letters are full of ghosts as well. And I'm sorry for those two. It -must be awful, everything that you believe in going, the only world -you've ever known coming to an end before your eyes, every one denying -all the things you've believed in and laughing at them. He's brave, old -Duncombe. He'll go down fighting." - -"And what's the other thing?" said Millie, sitting down on the bed -again, "that you were going to tell me?" - -Henry told his adventure. He did not look at Millie as he told it; he -did not want to see whether she approved or disapproved; he was afraid -that she would laugh. She laughed at so many things, and most of all he -was afraid lest she should say something about the girl. If she did say -anything he would have to stand it. - -After all Millie had not seen her. . . . So he talked, staring at -the little pink clouds that were now forming beyond the window just -over the "Comedy" roof--they were like lumps of coral against the -sky--three, four, five . . . then they merged into two billowing -pillows of colour, slowly fading into a deep crimson, then breaking -into long strips of orange lazily forming against a blue that grew -paler and paler and at last, as he ended, was white like water under -glass. - -He stopped. - -"How long ago was all this?" Millie asked at last. - -"Two days back." - -"Have you seen her since?" - -"No. I've been round that street several times. I know it by heart. I -haven't dared go up--not so soon again." - -"I wish I'd seen her," Millie said slowly. Then she added, "Anyway you -must go on with it, Henry. You've promised to help her and so of course -you must. If she's taking you in it will do you good to be taken in. It -will teach you not to be such an ass another time. If she's not taking -you in----" - -"Of course she's not taking me in," Henry answered hotly. "I know that -you and Peter think me a baby and that I haven't any idea of things. -You've always thought that, Millie, but I'm sure I don't know what you -base it on. I'm hardly ever wrong. Wasn't I right about Philip? Isn't -he just the prig I always thought him, and didn't he take Katherine -away from us and break us all up just as I said he would? - -"And as to girls you both look so learned as though you knew such a -lot, but when have I ever been foolish about girls? I've never cared -the least bit about them until now. I've been waiting, I think, until -she came along. Because I'm not always tidy and break things, you both -think I'm an ass. But I'm not an ass, as I'll show you." - -Millie went across to him and kissed him on the forehead. - -"Of course I don't think you an ass. But you are easily taken in by -people--you always believe what they say." - -Henry nodded his head. "Perhaps I don't so much as I mean to. But it's -the best thing to try to. You get far more that way." - -The three sat there in silence. At last Millicent said: - -"Isn't it queer? Here's the world on the very edge of every sort of -adventure, and here are we on the very edge too? I feel in my bones -that we shall go through great things this year--all of us. Unpleasant -and pleasant--all sorts. I don't believe that there's ever been in all -history such a time for adventure as now." - -Henry jumped up from behind the table. - -"That's true!" he cried. "And whatever happens we three will stick -together. Nothing shall separate us--nothing; and nobody. You and I and -Peter. We'll never let anybody come between us. We'll be the three -best friends the world has ever seen!" - -He caught Millie's hand. She looked up at him, smiling. He came across -and caught Peter's also. Suddenly Millicent put out hers and took -Peter's free one. - -"You're a sentimental donkey, Henry," she said. "But there's something -in what you say." - -Peter flushed. "I'm older than both of you," he said, "and I'm dull and -slow but I'll do what I can." - -There was a knock on the door and they sprang apart. It was Mr. King to -take away the tea. - - - -BOOK II - -HIGH SUMMER - - - -CHAPTER I - -SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE - - -Now might young Henry be considered by any observer of average -intelligence to be fairly launched into the world--he is in love, he -is confidential secretary to a gentleman of importance, he has written -ten chapters of a romantic novel and he is living in chambers all on -his own. It has been asserted again and again that the Great War of -1914 turned many thousands of boys into old men long before their time. -The exact contrary may also be proved to be true--namely that the -War caught many boys in their teens, held them in a sort of vise for -five years, keeping them from life as it is usually lived, teaching -them nothing but war and then suddenly flinging them out into a Peace -about which they were as ignorant as blind puppies. Boys of eighteen -chronologically supposed to be twenty-four and superficially disguised -as men of forty and disillusioned cynical men at that, those were to be -found in their thousands in that curious tangled year of 1920. Henry -thought he was a man; he was much less a man than he would have been -had no war broken out at all. - -On the afternoon following the tea party just now described he left -Hill Street about four o'clock, his head up and his chest out, a very -fine figure indeed had it not been that, unknown to himself, his tie -had stepped up to the top of his collar at the back of his neck and -there was a small smudge of ink just in the right corner of his nose. -He had had a very happy day, very quiet, very peaceful, and he was -encouraged to believe that he had been a great success. It was true -that Sir Charles had addressed very few words to himself and that Lady -Bell-Hall had addressed so many during luncheon that he had felt like -a canary peppered with bird-seed, but he did not expect Sir Charles -to speak very often, nor did he mind how frequently the funny little -woman in the bonnet spoke, so long as she liked him. It had all been -very easy, and the letters had been entrancing, so entrancing that -Berkeley Square seemed to be Princes Street, and he could see through -the open door Sir Walter's hall and Maria Edgeworth announced and the -host's cheery welcome and glorious smile, and the laughter of the -children, and Maria dragged into the circle and forced to sing the -Highland song with the rest of them, and Honest John hurrying down -Castle Street wrapped up against the cold, and the high frosty sky and -the Castle frowning over all. - -He had been there--surely he had been there in an earlier incarnation, -and now this. . . . He was pulled up by a taxi ringing at him fiercely, -and by the press of carriages at the Piccadilly turning. - -He was swung suddenly on to the business of the moment, namely that he -was going to make his first serious attempt at breaking through into -the mysteries of Peter Street, then definitely to do or die--although -as a matter of honest fact he had no intention whatever of dying just -yet. He was borne into Shaftesbury Avenue before he knew where he -was, borne by the tide of people, men and women happy in the bright -purple-hued spring afternoon, happy in spite of the hard times and -the uncertain future, borne along, too, by the cries and sounds, the -roll of the omnibuses, the screams of the taxis, the shouting of -the newsboys, the murmur of countless voices, the restless rhythm -of the unceasing life beneath the brick and mortar, the life of the -primeval forests, the ghosts of the serpents and the lions waiting with -confident patience for the earth to return to them once more. - -He slipped into Peter Street as into a country marked off from the -rest of the world and known to him by heart. This afternoon the -barrows and stalls were away; no one was there, not even the familiar -policeman. It was like a back-water hidden from the main river, and its -traffic by the thick barrier of the forest trees, gleaming in its own -sunlight, happy in its solitude. He found the door-bell, listened to -it go tinkling into the depths of the house, and after its cessation -heard only the thumping of his own heart and the shattered beat of the -unresting town. - -He waited, it seemed, an unconscionable time; then slowly the door -opened, revealing to his astonished gaze the girl herself. So staggered -was he by her appearance that for the moment he could only stare. The -passage behind her was dark in spite of the strong afternoon sun. - -"Oh!" he said at last. "I came. . . . I came. . . ." - -She looked at him. - -"Have you come to see my mother?" The tiny slur of the foreign accent -excited him as it had done before. It seemed suddenly that he had known -her for ever. - -"Because if you have," she went on. "Mother's out." - -"No," he said boldly, "I've come to see you." - -She looked back to the stairs as though she were afraid that some one -were lurking there and would overhear them. She dropped her voice a -little. - -"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Mother." Then hurriedly, "Come up. Come -up. I don't like being alone and that's the truth. If mother's angry -when she comes in I don't care. Anything's better." - -She turned and led the way. He followed her, smelling the stuffiness -that was like dirty blankets pressed against the nose. There was -no window to the stairs, and at the corner it was so dark that he -stumbled. He heard her laugh in the distance, then an opened door threw -light down. He was in the room where he had been before, enwrapped -still in its heavy curtains, and lit even on this lovely day with -electric light heavily clouded under the pink silk shades. She was -still laughing, standing at the other side of the table. - -He stood awkwardly fingering his hat. He had nothing to say, and they -were both silent a long time. Then simply because he was expecting the -hated woman's arrival at any moment he began: - -"I've been wanting to come all these three days. I've thought of -nothing else, of how you said I could help you--and--get you out of -this. I will. I will--I'll do anything. You can come now if you like, -and I'll take you to my sister's--she's very nice and you'll like -her--and they can do anything they like, but they shan't take you -away. . . ." - -He was quite breathless with excitement. She stared at him gravely as -though not understanding what he said. When he saw the puzzle in her -eyes his eloquence was suddenly exhausted and he could only stammer out: - -"That's--that's what you said the other day--that you wanted to escape." - -"To escape?" she repeated. - -"You said that." - -She moved her hands impatiently, and her voice dropped until it was -almost a whisper. - -"When you came the other day I was foolish because mother had just been -angry. I was excited because she had been angry before that horrid fat -woman--you remember? I hate her to be angry when she's there because -she likes it. She hates me because I'm young and she's old. . . . Of -course I can't get away--and how could I go with you? I don't know you. -Why, you're only a boy!" Then she added reflectively, as though she -were giving the final conclusive argument, "and you've got ink on your -nose." - -Henry committed then what is always a foolish seeming act at the very -best, he took out a not very clean handkerchief, licked a corner of it -with his tongue and rubbed his nose. - -"It's on the right side in the corner," she said, regarding him. - -"Is it off now?" he asked her. - -"Yes." - -Henry then pulled himself together and behaved like a man. - -"I don't know what you mean now," he said, "about not wanting me to -help you, but you did say that the other day and you must take the -consequences. I don't want to help you in any way, of course, that you -don't want to be helped, but I am sure there is something I can do for -you. And in any case I'm going on coming to see you until I'm stopped -by physical force--even then I'm going on coming." - -"I'll tell you this," she said suddenly. "I don't want you to come -because mother wants you to, and every one whom mother wants me to like -is horrid. Why does _she_ want you to come?" - -"I'm sure I don't know," said Henry, surprised. "She can't know -anything about me at all." - -"She does. She's found out in these two days. She said yesterday -afternoon she wondered you hadn't come, and then this morning again." - -Henry said: "Won't you take me as I am? Your mother doesn't know me. I -want to be _your_ friend. I've wanted to from the first moment I saw -you in Piccadilly Circus." - -"In Piccadilly Circus?" - -"Yes. That's where I first saw you the other afternoon and I followed -you here." - -That seemed to her of no importance. "Friend?" she said frowning and -staring in front of her. "I don't like that word. Two or three have -wanted to be friends. I won't have friends. I won't have anybody. I'd -rather be alone." - -"I can't hurt you," said Henry very simply. "Why every one laughs at -me, even my sister who's very fond of me. They won't laugh, one day, -of course, but you see how it is. There's always ink on my nose, or I -tumble down when I want to do something important. You'd have thought -the army would have changed that, but it didn't." - -She smiled then. "No, you don't look as though you'd hurt anybody. But -I don't want to trust people. It only means you're disappointed again." - -"You can't be disappointed in me," Henry said earnestly. "Because I'm -just what you see. Please let me come and see you. I want it more than -I've ever wanted anything in my life." - -They both heard then steps on the stair. They stopped and listened. The -room was at once ominous, alarmed. - -Henry felt danger approaching, as though he could see beyond the door -with his eyes and found on the stair some dark shape, undefined and -threatening. The steps came nearer and ceased. Two were there listening -on the other side of the door as two were listening within the room. - -He felt the girl's fear and that suddenly stiffened his own courage. It -was almost ludicrous then when the door opened and revealed the stout -Mrs. Tenssen, clothed now in light orange and with her an old man. - -Henry saw at once that however eagerly she had hitherto expected him -she was not easy at his presence just now. His further glance at the -old man showed him at once an enemy for life. In any case he did not -like old men. The War had carried him with the rest upon the swing of -that popular cry "Every one over seventy to the lethal chamber." - -Moreover, he personally knew no old men, which made the cry much -simpler. This old man was not over seventy, he might indeed be still -under sixty, but his small peak of a white beard, his immaculate -clothing and his elegantly pointed patent leather shoes were sufficient -for Henry. Immaculate old men! How dared they wear anything but -sackcloth and ashes? - -Mrs. Tenssen, whose orange garments shone with ill-temper, shook hands -with Henry as though she expected him instantly to say: "Well, I must -be going now," but he found himself with an admirable pugnacity and -defiant resolve. - -"I called as I said I would," he observed pleasantly. "And I came in by -the door and not by the window," he added, laughing. - -She murmured something, but did not attempt to introduce him to her -companion. - -He meanwhile had advanced with rather mincing steps to the girl, was -bowing over her hand and then to Henry's infinite disgust was kissing -it. Then Henry forgot all else in his adoration of the girl. He will -never forget, to the end of whatever life that may be granted him, -the picture that she made at that moment, standing in the garish, -overlighted room, like a queen in her aloofness from them all, from -everything that life could offer if that room, that old man, that -woman were truly typical of its gifts. "It wasn't only," Henry said -afterwards to Peter, "that she was beautiful. Millie's beautiful--more -beautiful I suppose than Christina. But Millie is flesh and blood. -You can believe that she has toothache. But it was like a spell, a -witchery. The beastly old man himself felt it. As though he had tried -to step on to sacred ground and was thrown back on to common earth -again. By gad, Peter, you don't know how stupid he suddenly looked--and -how beastly! She's remote, a vision--not perhaps for any one to -touch--ever . . .!" - -"That," said Peter, "is because you're in love with her--and Millie's -your sister." - -"No, there's more than that. It may be partly because she's a -foreigner--but you'd feel the same if you saw her. Her remoteness, as -though the farther towards her you moved the farther away she'd be. -Always in the distance and knowing that you can come no nearer. And yet -if she knew that really she wouldn't be so frightened as she is. . . ." - -"It's all because you're so young, Henry," Peter ended up. - -But young or no Henry just then wasn't very happy. The old man with -his shrill voice and his ironic, almost cynical determination to be -pleased with everything that any one did or said (it came, maybe, -from a colossal and patronizing arrogance)--reminded Henry of the old -"nicky-nacky" Senator in Otway's _Venice Preserved_ which he had once -seen performed by some amateur society. He remained entirely unclouded -by Mrs. Tenssen's obvious boredom and ill-temper, moods so blatantly -displayed that Henry in spite of himself was crushed. - -The girl showed no signs of any further interest in the company. - -Mrs. Tenssen sat at the table, picking her teeth with a toothpick and -saying, "Indeed!" or "Well I never!" in an abstracted fashion when -the old man's pauses seemed to demand something. Her bold eyes moved -restlessly round the room, pausing upon things as though she hated -them and sometimes upon Henry who was standing, indeterminately, first -on one foot and then on another. Something the old man said seemed -suddenly to rouse her: - -"Well, that's not fair, Mr. Leishman--it's not indeed. That's as good -as saying that you think I'm mean--it is indeed. Oh, yes, it is. You -can accuse me of many things--I'm not perfect--but meanness! Well you -ask my friends. You ask my friend Mrs. Armstrong who's known me as -long as any one has--almost from the cradle you might say. Mean! You -ask her. Why, only the other day, the day Mr. Prothero was here and -that young nephew of his, she said, 'Of all the generous souls on this -earth, for real generosity and no half-and-half about it, you give me -Katie Tenssen.' Of course, she's a friend as you might say and partial -perhaps--but still that's what she said and----" - -The old man had been trying again and again to interrupt this flood. At -last, because Mrs. Tenssen was forced to take a breath, he broke in: - -"No. No. Indeed not. Dear, dear, what a mistake! The last thing I was -suggesting." - -"Well, I hope so, I'm sure." The outburst over, Mrs. Tenssen relapsed -into teeth-picking again. - -Henry saw that there was nothing more to be got from the situation just -then. - -"I must be going," he said. "Important engagement." - -Mrs. Tenssen shook him by the hand. She regarded him with a wider -amiability now that he was departing. - -"Come and see us again," she said. "Any afternoon almost." - -By the door he turned, and suddenly the girl, from the far end of the -room, smiled. It was a smile of friendship, of reassurance and, best of -all, of intimacy. - -Under the splendour of it he felt the blood rush to his head, his eyes -were dimmed, he stumbled down the stairs, the happiest creature in -London. - - * * * * * - -The smile accompanied him for the rest of that day, through the night, -and into the Duncombe library next morning. That morning was not an -easy one for Henry. He arrived with the stern determination to work -his very hardest and before the luncheon bell sounded to reduce at -least some of the letters to discipline and sobriety. Extraordinary the -personal life that those letters seemed to possess! You would suppose -that they did not wish to be made into a book, or at any rate, if that -had to be, that they did not wish the compiler of the work to be Henry. -They slipped from under his fingers, hid themselves, deprived him of -dates just when he most urgently needed them, gave him Christian names -when he must have surnames, and were sometimes so old and faded and -yellow that it was impossible to make anything out of them at all. - -Sir Charles had as yet shown no sign. Of what he was thinking it was -impossible to guess. He had not yet given Henry any private letters -to write, and the first experiment on the typewriter was still to be -made. One day soon he would spring, and with his long nose hanging -over the little tattered, disordered piles on Henry's table would peer -and finger and examine: Henry knew that that moment was approaching -and that he must have something ready, but this morning he _could_ not -concentrate. The plunge into life had been too sudden. The girl was -with him in the room, standing just a little way from him smiling at -him. . . . - -And behind her again there were Millie and the Platts, and Peter -and the three Graces, and the Romantic Novel and even Mr. King--and -behind these again all London with its banging, clattering, booming -excitement, the omnibuses running, the flags flying, the Bolshevists -with their plots, and the shops with their jewels and flowers, the -actors and actresses rehearsing in the theatres, the messenger boys -running with messages, the policemen standing with hands outstretched, -the newspapers announcing the births and the deaths and the marriages, -D'Annunzio in Fiume, the Poles in Warsaw fighting for their lives, the -Americans in New York drinking secretly in little back bedrooms and the -sun rising and setting all over the place at an incredible speed. - -It was of no use to say that Henry had nothing to do with any of these -things. He might have something to do with any one of them at any -moment. Stop for an instant to see whether the ground is going to open -in Piccadilly Circus and you are lost!--or found!--at any rate, you -are taken, neck and crop, and flung into life whether you wish it or -no. And Henry did wish it! He loved this nearness and closeness, this -sense of being both one of the audience and the actors at one and the -same time! Meanwhile the letters, with their gentle slightly scornful -evocation of another world, only a little behind this one, and in its -own opinion at any rate, infinitely superior to it, were waiting for -his concentration. - -Then the Duncombe family itself was beginning to absorb him, with its -own dramatic possibilities. At luncheon that day he was made forcibly -aware of that drama. - -Lady Bell-Hall had from the first stirred his eager sympathies. He was -so very sorry for the poor little woman. He did so eagerly wish that he -could persuade her to be a little less frightened at the changes that -were going on around her. After all, if Duncombe Hall _had_ to be sold -and if she _were_ forced to live in a little flat and have only one -servant, did it matter so terribly? Even though Soviets were set up in -London and strange men with red handkerchiefs and long black beards -did sit at Westminster there would still be many delightful things -left to enjoy! Her health was good, her appetite quite admirable and -the Young Women's Christian Association and Society for the Comfort of -Domestic Servants and the League of Pity for Aged Widowers (some among -many of Lady Bell-Hall's interests) would in all probability survive -many Revolutions or, at least, even though they changed their names, -would turn into something equally useful and desirous of help. He -longed to say some of these things to her. - -His opportunity suddenly and rather uncomfortably arrived. - -Lady Bell-Hall in appearance resembled a pretty little pig--that -is, she had the features of a pig, a very young pig before time has -enveloped it in fat. And so soft and pink were her cheeks, so round her -little arms, of so delicate a white her little nose, so beseechingly -grey her eyes that you realised very forcibly how charming and -attractive sucklings might easily be. She sat at the end of the round -mahogany table in the long dark dining-room, talked to her unresponsive -brother and sometimes to Henry in a soft gentle voice with a little -plaint in it, infinitely touching and pathetic, hoping against hope for -the best. - -To-day there came to the luncheon an old friend of the family, whose -name Henry had once or twice heard, a Mr. Light-Johnson. - -Mr. Light-Johnson was a long, thin, cadaverous-looking man with black -sleek hair and a voice like a murmuring brook. He paid no attention to -Henry and very little to Duncombe, but he sat next to Lady Bell-Hall -and leaned towards her and stared into her face with large wondering -eyes that seemed always to be brimming with unshed tears. - -There are pessimists and pessimists, and it seems to be one of the -assured rules of life that however the world may turn, whatever -unexpected joys may flash upon the horizon, however many terrible -disasters may be averted from mankind, pessimists will remain -pessimists to the end. And such a pessimist as this Henry had never -before seen. - -He had an irritating, tantalizing habit of lifting a spoonful of soup -to his lips and then putting it down again because of his interest in -what he was saying. - -"What I feared last Wednesday," he said, "has already come true." - -"Oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "What is that?" - -"The Red Flag is flying in East Croydon. The Workers' Industrial Union -have commandeered the Y.M.C.A reading-room and have issued a manifesto -to the Croydon Parish Council." - -"Dear, dear! Dear, dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. - -"It is a melancholy satisfaction," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "to think -how right one was last Wednesday. I hardly expected that my words would -be justified so quickly." - -"And do you think," said Lady Bell-Hall, "that the movement--taking -Y.M.C.A. reading-rooms I mean--will spread quickly over London?" - -"Dear Lady," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "I can't disguise from you that I -fear the worst. It would be foolish to do any other. I have a cousin, -Major Merriward--you've heard me speak of him--whose wife is a niece of -one of Winston Churchill's secretaries. He told me last night at the -Club that Churchill's levity!--well, it's scandalous--Nero fiddling -while Rome burns isn't in it at all! I must tell you frankly that I -expect complete Bolshevist rule in London within the next three months." - -"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "Do have a little of that -turbot, Mr. Johnson. You're eating nothing. I'm only too afraid you're -right. The banks will close and we shall all starve." - -"For the upper classes," said Mr. Johnson, "the consequences will be -truly terrible. In Petrograd to-day Dukes and Duchesses are acting as -scavengers in the streets. What else can we expect? I heard from a man -in the Club yesterday, whose son was in the Archangel forces that it is -Lenin's intention to move to London and to make it the centre of his -world rule. I leave it to you to imagine, Lady Bell-Hall, how safe any -of us will be when we are in the power of Chinese and Mongols." - -"Chinese!" cried Lady Bell-Hall. "Chinese!" - -"Undoubtedly. They will police London or what is left of it, because -there will of course be severe fighting first, and nowadays, with -aerial warfare what it is, a few days' conflict will reduce London to a -heap of ruins." - -"And what about the country?" asked Lady Bell-Hall. "I'm sure the -villagers at Duncombe are very friendly. And so they ought to be -considering the way that Charles has always treated them." - -"It's from the peasantry that I fear the worst," said Mr. -Light-Johnson. "After all it has always been so. Think of La Vendée, -think of the Russian peasantry in this last Revolution. No, there is -small comfort there, I'm afraid." - -Throughout this little conversation Duncombe had kept silent. Now he -broke in with a little ironic chuckle; this was the first time that -Henry had heard him laugh. - -"Just think, Margaret," he said, "of Spiders. Spiders is our gardener, -Light-Johnson, a stout cheery fellow. He will probably be local -executioner." - -Light-Johnson turned and looked at his host with reproachful eyes. - -"Many a true word before now has been spoken in jest, Duncombe," -he said. "You will at any rate not deny that this coming winter is -going to be an appalling one--what with strikes, unemployment and the -price of food for ever going up--all this with the most incompetent -Government that any country has ever had in the world's history. -I don't think that even you, Duncombe, can call the outlook very -cheerful." - -"Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," said -Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-Johnson. Perhaps this -is the end of the world. Who knows? And what does it matter if it is?" - -"Really, Charles!" Lady Bell-Hall was eating her cutlet with great -rapidity, as though she expected a naked Chinaman to jump in through -the window at any moment and snatch it from her. "But seriously, Mr. -Light-Johnson, do you see no hope anywhere?" - -"Frankly none at all. I don't think any one could call me a pessimist. -I simply look at things as they are--the true duty of every man." - -"And what do you think one ought to do?" - -"For myself," said Light-Johnson, helping himself to another cutlet, -"I shall spend the coming winter on the Riviera--Mentone, I think. The -Income Tax is so scandalous that I shall probably live in the south of -France during the next year or two." - -"And so shoulder your responsibilities like a true British citizen," -said Duncombe. "I'm sure you're right. You're lucky to be able to get -away so easily." - -Light-Johnson's sallow cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Of course, if -I felt that I could do any good I would remain," he said. "I'm not the -sort of man to desert a sinking ship, I hope. Sinking it is, I fear. -The great days of England are over. We must not be sentimentalists nor -stick our heads, ostrich-wise, in the sand. We must face facts." - -It was here that Henry made his great interruption, an interruption -that was, had he only known it, to change the whole of his future -career. He had realized thoroughly at first that it was his place to be -seen and not heard. Young secretaries were not expected to talk unless -they were definitely needed to make a party "go." But as Light-Johnson -had continued his own indignation had grown. His eyes, again and again, -in spite of himself, sought Lady Bell-Hall's face. He simply could not -bear to see the little lady tortured--for tortured she evidently was. -Her little features were all puckered with distress. Her eyes had the -wide staring expression of a child seeing a witch for the first time. -Every word that Light-Johnson uttered seemed to stab her like a knife. -To Henry this was awful. - -"They are not facts. They are not facts!" he cried. "After every war -there are years when people are confused. Of course there are. It can't -be otherwise. We shall never have Bolshevism here. Russian conditions -are different from everywhere else. They are all ignorant in Russia. -Millions of ignorant peasants. While prices are high of course people -are discontented and say they're going to do dreadful things. When -everybody's working again prices will go down and then you see how much -any one thinks about Russia! England isn't going to the dogs, and it -never will!" - -The effect of this outburst was astonishing. Light-Johnson turned round -and stared at Henry as though he were a small Pom that had hitherto -reposed peacefully under the table but had suddenly woken up and -bitten his leg. He smiled, his first smile of the day. - -"Quite so," he said indulgently. "Of course. One can't expect every one -to have the same views on these matters." - -But Lady Bell-Hall was astonishing. To Henry's amazement she was -angry, indignant. She stared at him as though he had offered a deadly -insult. Why, she wanted to be made miserable! She liked Mr. Johnson's -pessimism! She wished to be tortured! She preferred it! She hugged her -wound and begged for another turn on the wheel! - -"Really, Mr. Trenchard," she said, "I don't think you can know very -much about it. As Mr. Light-Johnson says, we should face facts." She -ended her sentence with a hint of indulgence as though she would say: -"He's very, very young. We must excuse him on the score of his youth." - -The rest of the meal was most uncomfortable. Light-Johnson would speak -no more. Henry was miserable and indignant. He had made a fool of -himself, but he was glad that he had spoken! Lady Bell-Hall would hate -him always now and would prejudice her brother against him--but he was -glad that he had spoken! Nevertheless his cheese choked him, and in -embarrassed despair he took a pear that he did not want, and because no -one else had fruit ate it in an overwhelming silence. - -Then in the library he had his reward. Light-Johnson had departed. - -"I shan't want you this afternoon, Trenchard," Duncombe said. Then he -added: "You spoke up well. That man's an ass." - -"I shouldn't," he stammered, "have said anything. I don't know enough. -I only----" - -"Nonsense. You know more than Light-Johnson. Speak up whenever you have -a mind to. It does my sister good." - -And this was the beginning of an alliance between the two. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MILLIE AND PETER - - -And here are some extracts from a diary that Millicent kept at this -time. - -_April 14._--Just a week since I started with the Platts and I feel -as though I'd been there all my life. And yet I haven't got the thing -going at all. I'm in nearly the same mess as I was the first morning. -I'm not proud of myself, but at the same time it isn't my fault. Look -at the Interruptions alone! (I've put a capital because really they -are at the heart of all my trouble.) Victoria herself doesn't begin -to know what letting any one alone is. I seem at present to have an -irresistible fascination for her. She sits and stares at me until I -feel as though I were some strange animal expected to change into -something stranger. - -And she doesn't know what silence means. She says: "I mustn't interrupt -your work, my Millie" (I do wish she wouldn't call me "my Millie"), and -then begins at once to chatter. All the same one can't help being fond -of her--at least at present. I expect I shall get very impatient soon -and then I'll be rude and then there'll be a scene and then I shall -leave. But she really is so helpless and so full of alarms and terrors. -Never again will I envy any one with money! I expect before the War she -was quite a happy woman with a small allowance from her father, living -in Streatham and giving little tea-parties. Now what with Income Tax, -servants, motor-cars, begging friends, begging enemies, New Art and her -sisters she doesn't know where to turn. Of course Clarice and Ellen -are her principal worries. I've really no patience with Clarice. I -hate her silly fat face, pink blanc-mange with its silly fluffy yellow -hair. I hate the way she dresses, always too young for her years and -always with bits stuck on to her clothes as though she picked pieces -of velvet and lace up from the floor and pinned them on just anywhere. - -I hate her silly laugh and her vanity and the way that she will recite -a poem about a horse (I think it is called something like "Lascar") -on the smallest opportunity. I suppose I can't bear seeing any one -make a fool of herself or himself and all the people who come to the -Platts' house laugh at her. All the same, she's the happiest of the -three women; that's because she's more truly conceited than the others. -It's funny to see how she prides herself on having learned how to -manage Victoria. She's especially sweet to her when she wants anything -and you can see it coming on hours beforehand. Victoria is a fool in -many things but she isn't such a fool as all that. I call Clarice the -Ostrich. - -Ellen is quite another matter. By far the most interesting of them. -I think she would do something remarkable if she'd only break away -from the family and get outside it. Part of her unhappiness comes, -I'm sure, from her not being able to make up her mind to do this. She -despises herself. And she despises everybody else too. Men especially, -she detests men, although she dresses rather like them. Victoria and -Clarice are both afraid of her because of the bitter things she says. -She glares at the people who come to lunch and tea as though she would -like to call fire down and burn them all. It's amusing to see one of -the new artists (I beg their pardon--New Artists) trying to approach -her, attempting flattery and then falling back aware that he has made -one enemy in the house at any rate. The funny thing is that she rather -likes me, and that is all the stranger because I understand from -Brooker, the little doctor, that she always disliked the secretaries. -And I haven't been especially sweet to her. Just my ordinary which Mary -says is less than civility. . . . - -_April 16._--Ephraim Block and his friend Adam P. Quinzey (that isn't -his real name but it's something like that) to luncheon. I couldn't -help asking him whether he didn't think the "Eve" rather too large. -And didn't he despise me for asking! He told me that when he gets a -commission for sculpting in an open space, the tree that goes with -the "Eve" will be large enough to shelter all the school children of -Europe. - -Although he's absurd I can't help being sorry for him. He is so -terribly hungry and eats Victoria's food as though he were never going -to see another meal again. Ellen tells me that he's got a woman who -lives with him by whom he's had about eight children. Poor little -things! And I think Victoria's beginning to get tired of him. She's -irritated because he wants her to pay for the tree and the serpent -as well as Eve herself. He says it isn't _his_ fault that Victoria's -house isn't large enough and _she_ says that he hasn't even begun the -Tree yet and when he's finished it it will be time enough to talk. -Then there are the Balaclavas (the nearest I can get to their names). -She's a Russian dancer, very thin and tall and covered with chains and -beads, and he's very fat with a dead white face and long black hair. -They talk the strangest broken English and are very depressed about -life in general--as well they may be, poor things. He thinks Pavlowa -and Karsavina simply aren't in it with her as artists and I daresay -they're not, but one never has a chance of judging because she never -gets an engagement anywhere. So meanwhile they eat Victoria's food and -try to borrow money off any one in the house who happens to be handy. -You can't help liking them, they're so helpless. Of course I know that -Block and the Balaclavas and Clarice's friends are all tenth-rate as -artists. I've seen enough of Henry's world to see that. They are simply -plundering Victoria as Brooker says, but I'm rather glad all the same -that for a time at any rate they've found a place with food in it. - -I shan't be glad soon. I'm beginning to realize in myself a growing -quite insane desire to get this house straight--insane because I -don't even see how to begin. And Victoria's very difficult! She loves -Power and if you suggest anything and she thinks you're getting too -authoritative she at once vetoes it whatever it may be. On the other -hand she's truly warm-hearted and kind. If I can keep my temper and -stay on perhaps I shall manage it. . . . - -_April 17._--I've had thorough "glooms" to-day. I'm writing this in bed -whither I went as early as nine o'clock, Mary being out at a party and -the sitting-room looking grizzly. I feel better already. But a visit -to mother always sends me into the depths. It is terrible to me to see -her lying there like a dead woman, staring in front of her, unable to -speak, unable to move. Extraordinary woman that she is! Even now she -won't see Katherine although Katherine tries again and again. - -And I think that she hates me too. That nurse (whom I can't abide) has -tremendous power over her. I detest the house now. It's so gloomy and -still and corpse-like. When you think of all the people it used to have -in it--so many that nobody would believe it when we told them. What fun -we used to have at Christmas time and on birthdays, and down at Garth -too. Philip finished all that--not that he meant to, poor dear. - -After seeing mother I had tea with father down in the study. He's jolly -when I'm there, but honestly, I think he forgets my very existence when -I'm not. He never asked a single question about Henry. Just goes from -his study to his club and back again. He says that his book _Haslitt -and His Contemporaries_ is coming out in the Autumn. I wonder who cares? - -It makes me very lonely if one thinks about it. Of course there's dear -Henry--and after him Katherine and Mary. But Henry's got this young -woman he picked up in Piccadilly Circus and Katherine's got her babies -and Mary her medicine. And I've got the Platts I suppose. . . . - -All the same sometimes it isn't much fun being a modern girl. I daresay -liberty and going about like a man's a fine thing, but sometimes I'd -like to have some one pet me and make a fuss over me and care whether -I'm alive or not. - -On the impulse of this mood, I've asked Peter Westcott to come and -have tea with me. He seems lonely too and was really nice at Henry's -the other day. Now I shall go to sleep and dream about Victoria's -correspondence. - -_April 18._--A young man to luncheon to-day very different from the -others. Humphrey Baxter by name; none of the aesthete about _him_! -Clean, straight-back, decently dressed, cheerful young man. Item, dark -with large brown eyes. At first it puzzled me as to how he got into -this crowd at all, then I discovered that he's rehearsing in a play -that Clarice is getting up, _The Importance of Being Earnest_. He plays -Bunbury or has something to do with a man called Bunbury--anyway they -all call him Bunny. He's vastly amused by the aesthetes and laughs at -them all the time, the odd thing is that they don't mind. He also -knows exactly how to treat Victoria, taking her troubles seriously, -although his eyes twinkle, and being really very courteous to her. - -The only one of the family who hates him is Ellen. She can't abide him -and told him so to-day, when he challenged her. He asked her why she -hated him. She said, "You're useless, vain and empty-headed." He said, -"Vain and empty-headed I may be, but useless no. I oil the wheels." -She said hers didn't need oiling and he said that if ever they did -need it she was to send for him. This little sparring match was very -light-hearted on his side, deadly earnest on hers. The only other -person who isn't sure of him is Brooker--I don't know why. - -Of course _I_ like him--Bunny I mean. What it is to have some one gay -and sensible in this household. He likes me too. Ellen says he goes -after every girl he sees. - -I don't care if he does. I can look after myself. _She's_ a queer one. -She's always looking at me as though she wanted to speak to me. And -yesterday a strange thing happened. I was going upstairs and she was -going down. We met at the corner and she suddenly bent forward and -kissed me on the cheek. Then she ran on upstairs as though the police -were after her. I don't very much like being kissed by other women I -must confess; however, if it gives her pleasure, poor thing, I'm glad. -She's so unhappy and so cross with herself and every one else. - -_April 20._--Bunny comes every day now. He says he wants to tell me -about his life--a very interesting one he says. He complains that he -never finds me alone. I tell him I have my work to do. - -_April 21._--Bunny wants me to act in Clarice's play. I said I wouldn't -for a million pounds. Clarice is furious with me and says I'm flirting -with him. - -_April 22._--Bunny and I are going to a matinee of _Chu Chin Chow_. He -says he's been forty-four times and I haven't been once. He likes to -talk to me about his mother. He wants me to meet her. - -_April 24._--Clarice won't speak to me. I don't care. Why shouldn't I -have a little fun? And Bunny is a good sort. He certainly isn't very -clever, but he says his strong line is motor-cars, about which I know -nothing. After all, if some one's clever in one thing that's enough. -I'm not clever in anything.... - -_April 25._--Sunday, I went over to luncheon to see whether I could do -anything for Victoria and had an extraordinary conversation with Ellen. -She insisted on my going up to her bedroom with her after luncheon. A -miserable looking room, with one large photograph over the bed of a -girl, rather pretty. Mary Pickford prettiness--and nothing else at all. - -She began at once, a tremendous tirade, striding about the room, her -hands behind her back. Words poured forth like bath-water out of a -pipe. She said that I hated her and that every one hated her. That -she had always been hated and she didn't care, but liked it. That she -hoped that more people would hate her; that it was an honour to be -hated by most people. But that she didn't want _me_ to hate her and -that she couldn't think why I did. Unless of course I'd listened to -what other people said of her--that I'd probably done that as every -one did it. But she had hoped that I was wiser. _And_ kinder. _And_ -more generous. . . . Here she paused for breath and I was able to get -in a word saying that I didn't hate her, that nobody had said anything -against her, that in fact I liked her---- Oh no, I didn't. Ellen burst -in. No, _no_, I didn't. Any one could see that. I was the only person -she'd ever wanted to like her and she wasn't allowed to have even that. -I assured her that I did like her and considered her my friend and that -we'd always be friends. Upon that she burst into tears, looking too -strange, sitting in an old rocking-chair and rocking herself up and -down. I can't bear to see any one cry; it doesn't stir my pity as it -ought to do. It only makes me irritated. So I just sat on her bed and -waited. At last she stopped and sniffing a good deal, got up and came -over. She sat down on the bed and suddenly put her arms round me and -stroked my hair. I _can't_ bear to have my hair stroked by anybody--or -at least by almost anybody. However, I sat there and let her do it, -because she seemed so terribly unhappy. - -I suppose she felt I wasn't very responsive because suddenly she got -up very coldly and with great haughtiness as though she were a queen -dismissing an audience. "Well, now you'd better go. I've made a -sufficient fool of myself for one day." So I got up too and laughed -because it seemed the easiest thing and said that I was her friend and -always would be and would help her anyway I could but that I wasn't -very sentimental and couldn't help it if I wasn't. And she said still -very haughtily that I didn't understand her but that that wasn't very -strange because after all no one else did, and would I go because she -had a headache and wanted to lie down. So I went. - -Wasn't I glad after this to find Bunny downstairs. He suggested a walk -and as Victoria was sleeping on the Sunday beef upstairs I agreed and -we went along all through the Park and up to the Marble Arch, and -the sun was so bright that it made the sheep look blue and the buds -were waxy and there were lots of dogs and housemaids being happy with -soldiers and babies in prams and all the atheists and Bolsheviks as -cheery as anything on their tubs. Bunny really is a darling. He sees -all the funny things, just as I do; I don't believe a word that Ellen -says about him. He assures me that he's only loved one girl in his -life and that he gave her up because she said that she wouldn't have -babies. He was quite right I think. He says that he's just falling in -love again with some one else now. Of course he may mean me and he -certainly looked as though he did. I don't care. I want to be happy and -people to like me and every one to love everybody. Why shouldn't they? -Not uncomfortably, making scenes like Ellen, but just happily with a -sense of humour and not expecting miracles. I said this to Bunny and he -agreed. - -We had tea in a café in Oxford Street. He wanted to take me to a Cinema -after that but I wouldn't. I went home and read _Lord Jim_ until Mary -came in. That's the book Henry used to be crazy about. I think Bunny is -rather like Jim although, of course, Bunny isn't a coward. . . . - - * * * * * - -Now Millie was seized with a strange and unaccountable -happiness--unaccountable to her because she did not try to account for -it. Simply, everything was lovely--the weather, the shops, the people -in the streets, Mary, Henry, the Platts (although Clarice pouted at her -and Ellen was sulky). Everything was lovely. She danced, she sang, she -laughed. Nothing and nobody could offend her. . . . - -In the middle of this happiness Peter Westcott came to tea. She had -asked him because she was sorry for him and because she felt that she -had not been quite fair to him in the past. Nevertheless as she waited -for him in her little sitting-room there was a little patronage and -contempt for him still in her heart. She had always thought of him -as old and gloomy and solemn. He seemed to her to be that to-day as -he came in, stayed awkwardly for a moment by the door and then came -forward with heavy rather lumbering steps towards her. But his hand was -warm and strong--a clean good grip that she liked. He sat down, making -her wicker chair creak--then there was an untidy pause. She gave him -his tea and something to eat and talked about the weather. - -At another time, it might be, the ice would never have been broken and -he would have gone away, leaving them no closer than they had been -before. But to-day her happiness was too much for her; she could not -see him without wanting to make him laugh. - -"Have you seen Henry?" she asked. It was so difficult to speak much -about Henry without smiling. - -"Not for a week," he answered, "he's very busy with his Baronet and his -strange young woman." Then he smiled. He looked straight across at her, -into her eyes. - -"Why did you ask me to come to tea?" - -"Why?" - -"Yes, because you don't like me. You think me a tiresome middle-aged -bore and a bad influence for Henry." His eyes drew her own. Suddenly -she liked his face, his clear honest gaze, his strong mouth and -something there that spoke unmistakably of loyalty and courage. - -"Well, I didn't like you," she said after a moment's pause. "That's -quite true. I liked you for the first time at Henry's the other day. -You see I've had no chance of knowing you, have I? And I decided that -we ought to know one another--because of Henry." - -"Do you really want to know me better?" he asked. - -"Yes, I really want to," she answered. - -"Well, then, I must tell you something--something about myself. I -never speak about the past to anybody. Of what importance can it be to -anybody but myself? But if we are going to be friends you ought to know -something of it--and I'm going to tell you." - -She saw that he had, before he came, made up his mind as to exactly the -things that he would tell her, that without realizing it he intended it -as an honour that he should want to tell her. Then, too, her feminine -curiosity stirred in her. Henry had told her a little, a very little, -about him; she knew that he had had a bad time, that he was married, -but that his wife had been seen by no one for many years, that he had -written some books now forgotten, that he had done well in the War--and -that was all. - -"Tell me everything you like," she said. "I'm proud that you should -want to." - -"I was born," Peter began, "in a little town called Treliss on the -borders of Cornwall and Glebeshire in '84. I had a very rotten -childhood. I won't bore you with all that, but my mother was frightened -into her grave by my father who hated me and everybody else. He sent me -to a bad school, and at last I ran away up to London. I had one friend, -a Treliss fisherman, who was the best human being I've ever known, and -he came up to London with me. Things went from bad to worse the first -years, but looking back on it I can only see everything that happened -in the most ridiculously romantic light--absurd things that I'd like -to tell you more about in detail some time. They were _so_ absurd; you -simply wouldn't believe me if I told you. I was mixed up for instance -with melodramatic theatrical anarchists who tried to blow up poor old -Victoria when she was out riding. Looking back now I can't be sure that -those things ever really happened at all. - -"I never seem to meet such people now or to see such things. Was it -only my youth perhaps that made me fancy it all like that? You and -Henry, may be, are imagining things in just that way now. Stephen, -for instance, my fisherman friend. I've never met any one like him -since--so good, so simple, so direct, so childlike. I knew magnificent -men in the War as direct and simple as Stephen, but they didn't affect -me in the way he did--that may have been my youth again. - -"Whatever it was we went lower and lower. We couldn't get any work -and we were just about starving, when I got ill, so ill that I should -have died if the luck hadn't suddenly turned, an old school friend of -mine appeared and carried me off to his home. Yes, luck turned with a -vengeance then. I had written a story and it was published and it had a -little success. One thinks you know that that little success is a very -big one the first time it comes--that every one is talking about one -and reading one when really it is a few thousand people at the most. - -"Anyway that first success put me on my feet. It was during those years -after the Boer War when I think literary success was easier to get -than it is now--more attention was paid to writing because the world -was quieter and had leisure to think about the arts and money to pay -for them. I don't mean that genius, real genius, wouldn't find it just -as easy now as then to come along and establish itself, but I wasn't -a genius, of course, nor anything like one. Well, I had friends and a -home and work and everything should have been well, but I always felt -that something was working against me, some bad influence, some ill -omen--I've felt it all my life, I feel it now, I shall feel it till I -die. Lucky, healthy people can laugh at those things, but when you feel -them you don't laugh. You know better. Then I married--the daughter of -people who lived near by in Chelsea; I was terribly in love; although -I felt there was something working against us, yet I couldn't see -how now it could touch us. I was sure that she loved me--I knew that -I loved her. She was such a child that I thought that I could guide -her and form her and make her what I wanted. From the first there was -something wrong; I can see that now looking back. She had been spoilt -because she was an only child and had a stupid silly mother, and she -was afraid of everything--of being ill, of being hurt, of being poor. -She was conventional too, and only liked the people from the class she -knew, people who did all the same things, spoke the same way, ate the -same way, dressed the same way. I remember that some of my Glebeshire -friends came to see me one day and frightened her out of her life. -Poor Clare! I should understand her now I think, but I don't know. One -has things put into one and things left out of one before one's born -and you can't alter them, you can only restrain them, keep them in -check. I had something fundamentally wild in me, she something tame -in her. If we had both been older and wiser we might have compromised -as all married people have to, I suppose, but we were both so young -that we expected perfection, nay, we demanded it. Perfection! Lord, -what youth! . . . Then a baby was born, a boy--I let myself go over -that boy!" . . . Peter paused. . . . "I can't talk much about that even -now. He died. Then everything went wrong. Clare said she'd never have -another child. And she was tired of me and frightened of me too. I can -see now that she had much justice there. I must have been a dull dog -after the boy died, and when I'm dull I _am_ dull. I get so easily -convinced that I'm meant to fail, that I've no right in the world at -all. Clare wanted fun and gaiety. - -"We hadn't the means for it anyway. I was writing badly. I couldn't -keep my work clear of my troubles; I couldn't get right at it as one -must if one's going to get it on to paper with any conviction. My books -failed one after another and with justice. - -"People spoke of me as a failure, and that Clare couldn't endure. She -hadn't ever cared very much for my writing, only for the success that -it brought. Well, you can see the likely end of it all. She ran off to -Paris with my best friend, a man who'd been at school with me, whom I'd -worshipped." - -"Oh," Millie said, "I'm sorry." - -"I only got what I deserved. Another man would have managed Clare all -right--made a success out of the whole thing. There's something in -me--a kind of blindness or obstinacy or pride--that sends people away -from me. You know it yourself. You recognized it in me from the first. -Henry didn't, simply because he's so ingenuous and so warm-hearted. He -forgets himself entirely; you and I think of ourselves a good deal. I -went back to Treliss. I had a friend there, a woman, who showed me a -little how things were. I wanted to give everything up and just booze -my time away and sink into a worthless loafer as my father had done. -She prevented me, and I had, too, a strange revelation one night out on -the hills beyond Treliss when I saw things clearly for an hour or two. - -"I determined to come back and fight it out. I could show pluck even -though I couldn't show anything else. Now I can see that there was -something false in that as there was in so many of the crises of my -life, because I was thinking only of myself set up against all the -world and the devil and all the furies, making a fine figure while the -armies of God stood by admiring and whispering one to another, 'He's a -fine fighter--there's something in that fellow.' - -"It was in just that mood that I came back to London. I went over to -Paris and searched for Clare, couldn't hear anything of her, then came -back and buried myself. - -"I was full of this idea of courage, my back to the wall and -fighting the universe. So I just shut myself up, got a little -journalism--sporting journalism it was, football matches and boxing -and cricket--and grouched along. The other men on the sporting paper -thought me too conceited for words and left me alone. I drank a bit -too, the worst kind of drinking, alone in one's room. - -"Then the War came, thank God. I won't bother you with that, but it -kept me occupied until the Armistice, then suddenly I was flung back -again with all my old troubles thick upon me once more. I remember -one day I had been seeing a rich successful novelist. He talked to me -about his successes until I was sick. Then in the evening I went and -saw the other end of the business, the young unpopular geniuses who -are going to change the world. Both seemed to me equally futile, and -once again I was tempted to end it all and just let myself go when I -suddenly, standing there in Piccadilly Circus, saw myself just as I -had years before at Treliss and my pretentiousness and lack of humour -and proportion. And I saw how small we were, and what children, and -how short life was, and then and there I swore I'd never take myself -so seriously again as to talk about 'going to the dogs,' or 'fighting -fate,' or 'being a success,' or 'destiny being against me.' I cheered -up a lot after that. That was my second turning-point. You and Henry -have made the third." - -"Me and Henry?" said Millie, regardless of grammar. - -"That's why I've burdened you with this lengthy discourse. I haven't -spoken of myself for years to a soul. But I want your friendship. I -want it terribly and I'll tell you why. - -"You and Henry are young. I see now that it's only the young who matter -any more. If you take the present state of the world from the point of -view of the middle-aged or old, it's all utterly hopeless. We may as -well make a bonfire of London and go up in the sparks. There's nothing -to be said. It's as bad as it can be. There simply isn't time for even -the young middle-aged to set things right. But for the young, for every -one under thirty it's grand. There's a new city to be built, all the -pieces of the old one lying around to teach you lessons--the greatest -time to be born into in the world's history. - -"And what the middle-aged and old have to do is to feed the young, -to encourage them, laugh at them, give them health and strength and -brains, such as they are, to stiffen them, to be patient with them, -and for them, not to lie down and let the young trample, but to work -with them, behind them, around them--above all, to love them, to clear -the ground for them, to sympathize and understand them, and to tell -them, if they shouldn't see it, that they have such a chance, such an -opportunity, as has never before been given to the son of man. - -"For myself what is there? The world that was mine is gone, is burnt -up, destroyed. But for you, for you and Henry and the great company -with you. Golly! What a time!" - -He mopped his brow. He looked at Millie and laughed. - -"Please forgive me," he said. "I haven't let myself go like this for -years!" - -Millie's sympathy was, for the moment, stronger than her vocabulary, -her sympathy, that is, for the earlier part of his declaration. As he -recounted to her his own story she had been readily, eagerly carried -away, feeling the absolute truth of everything that he said, responding -to all his trouble and his loneliness. When he had spoken of his boy -she had almost loved him, the maternal in her coming out so that she -longed to put her arms round him and comfort him. He seemed, as every -man seems to every woman, at such a time, himself a child younger than -she, more helpless than any woman. But at the end he had swung her on -to another mood. She did not know that she liked being addressed as -The Young. She felt in this, as she had always before felt with him, -that there was something a little priggish, a little laughable in -his earnestness. She did not see herself in any group with thousands -of other young men and young women. She was not sure that she felt -young at all--and in any case she was simply Millicent Trenchard with -Millicent Trenchard's body, ambitions and purposes. She had also -instinctively the Trenchard distrust of all naked emotions nakedly -displayed. This she was happily to conquer--but not yet. - -She felt finally as though she were a specimen in a glass jar, set up -on the laboratory table, and that the professor was beginning: - -"You will now notice that we have an excellent specimen of The -Young. . . ." - -Then she looked at him and saw how deeply in earnest he was, and that -he himself was feeling true British embarrassment at his unforeseen -demonstration. This called forth her maternal emotions again. He was a -dear old thing--a little childish, a little old and odd, but he needed -her help and her sympathy. - -"I'll tell you," she said, "I don't think it's very much good putting -us all into lumps like that. For instance, you couldn't place Mary Cass -and myself in the same division, however hard you tried. If you are -going simply by years, then that's absurd, because Mary is years older -than I am in some things and years younger in others. One's just as -old as one feels," she added with deep profundity, as though she were -stating something quite new and fresh that had never been said before. - -He smiled, looking at her with great affection. - -"I don't want you to look upon yourself as anything in particular," -he said. "Heaven forbid. That would be much too self-conscious. What -I said was from my point of view--the point of view of those who were -young before the War--really young, with all their lives and their -ambitions before them--and can never be young again in quite that way. -I only wanted to show you that knowing you and Henry has given me a new -reason for living and for enjoying life and a better reason than I've -ever had before. I know you distrusted me and I want you to get over -that distrust." - -"If that's what you want," Millie cried, jumping up and smiling, "you -can have it. I feel you're a real friend, both to Henry and me, and we -_want_ a friend. Of course we're young and just beginning. We shall -make all kinds of mistakes, I expect, and I'd rather you told us about -them than any one else." - -"Would you really?" He flushed slowly with pleasure. "And will you tell -me about mine too? Is that a bargain?" - -"Well, I don't know about telling you of yours," she answered. "I've -noticed that that's a very dangerous thing. People ask you to tell -them and say they can stand anything, and then when the moment comes -they are hurt for evermore. Nor do they believe that those _are_ their -mistakes--anything else but not those. However, we'll try. Here's my -hand on it." - -He took her hand. She was so beautiful, with her colour a little -heightened by the excitement and amusement of their talk, her slim -straight figure, the honesty and nobility of her eyes as they rested -on his face, that, in spite of himself, his hand trembled in hers. She -felt that and was herself suddenly confused. She withdrew her hand -abruptly, and at that moment, to her relief, Mary Cass came in. - -She introduced them and they stood talking for a little, talking about -anything, hospitals, Ireland, the weather. Then he went away. - -"Who's that?" said Mary when he was gone. - -"A man called Westcott, a friend of Henry's." - -"I like him. What's he do?" - -"He's a writer----" - -"Oh, Lord!" Mary threw herself into a chair. "What a pity. He looks as -though he were better than that." - -"He's a dear old thing," said Millie. "Just a hundred and fifty years -old." - -"Which means," said Mary, "that he's been telling you how young you -are." - -"Aren't you clever?" said Millie admiringly. - -"Whether I'm clever or no," said Mary, "I'm tired. This chemistry----" - -And with that we leave them. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE LETTERS - - -Henry was not such a fool as he looked. You, gentle reader, have -certainly by now remarked that you cannot believe that all those years -in the Army would have failed to make him a trifle smarter and neater -and better disciplined than he appears to be. To which I would reply, -having learnt the fact through very bitter personal experience, that -it is one of the most astonishing facts in life that you do not change -with anything like the ease that you ought to. - -That is of course only half the truth, but half the truth it is, and -if smuts choose your nose to settle on when you're in your cradle, the -probability is that they'll still be settling there when you're in your -second childhood. - -Henry _was_ changing underneath, as will very shortly, I hope, be made -plain, but the hard ugly truth that I am now compelled to declare is -that by the early days of June he had got his Baronet's letters into -such a devil of a mess that he did not know where he was nor how he -was ever going to get straight again. Nevertheless, I must repeat once -more--he was not such a fool as he looked. - -During all these weeks his lord and master had not glanced at them once. - -He had indeed paid very little attention to Henry, giving him no -typewriting and only occasionally dictating to him very slowly a letter -or two. He had been away in the country once for a week and had not -taken Henry with him. - -He had attempted no further personal advances, had been always kindly -but nevertheless aloof. Henry had, on his side, made very few fresh -discoveries. - -He had met once or twice a brother, Tom Duncombe, a large, fat, -red-faced man with a loud laugh, carroty hair, a smell of whisky and a -handsome appetite. Friends had come to luncheon and Mr. Light-Johnson -had been as constant and pessimistic as ever, but Henry had not trusted -himself to a second outburst. Of his own private love-affair there is -more to be said, but of that presently. - -The salient fact in the situation was that until now Duncombe had not -mentioned the letters, had not looked at them, had not apparently -considered them. Every morning Henry, with beating heart, expected -those dread words: "Well now, let's see what you've done"--and every -day passed without those words being said. - -Every night in his bed in Panton Street he told himself that to-morrow -he would force some order into the horrible things, and every day he -was once again defeated by them. He was now quite certain that they -led a life of their own, that they deliberately skipped, when he was -not looking, out of one pile into another, that they changed the dates -on their pages and counterfeited handwritings, and were altogether -taunting him and teasing him to the full strength of their yellow -crooked little souls. And yet behind the physical exterior of these -letters he knew that he was gaining a feeling for and a knowledge of -the period with which they dealt that was invaluable. He had burrowed -in the library and discovered a host of interesting details--books like -Hogg's _Reminiscences_ and Gibson's _Recollections_, and Washington -Irving's _Abbotsford_ and Lang's _Lockhart_, and the Ballantyne -_Protests_ and the _Life of Archibald Constable_--them and many, many -others--he had devoured with the greed of a shipwrecked mariner on a -desert island. He could tell you everything now about the Edinburgh -of that day--the streets, the fashions, the clothes, the politics. It -seemed that he must, in an earlier incarnation, have lived there with -them all, possibly, he liked to fancy, as a second-hand bookseller -hidden somewhere in the intricacies of the Old Town. He seemed to feel -yet beating through his arteries the thrill and happy pride when Sir -Walter himself with his cheery laugh, his joke and his kindly grip of -the hand stood among the dusky overhanging shelves and gossiped and -yarned and climbed the rickety ladder searching for some ballad or -romance, while Henry, his eyes aflame with hero-worship, held that -same ladder and gazed upwards to that broad-shouldered form. - -Yes--but the letters were in the devil of a mess! - -And then suddenly the blow fell. One beautiful June morning, when the -sun, refusing to be beaten by the thick glare of the windows, was -transforming the old books and sending mists of gold and purple from -ceiling to floor, Henry, his head bent over files of the recalcitrant -letters, heard the very words that for weeks he had been expecting. - -"Now then--it's about time I had a look at those letters of yours." - -It is no exaggeration at all to say that young Henry's heart stood -absolutely still, his feet were suddenly like dead fish in his boots -and his hands weak as water. This, then, was The End! Oh, how he wished -that it had occurred weeks ago! He had by now become devotedly attached -to the library, loved the books like friends, was happier when hidden -in the depths of the little gallery nosing after Bage and Maturin and -Clara Reeve than he had been in all his life before. Moreover, he -realized in this agonizing moment how deeply attached he had grown -during these weeks to his angular master. Few though the words between -them had been, there seemed to him to have developed mysteriously and -subterraneously as it were an unusual sympathy and warmth of feeling. -That may have been simply his affectionate nature and innocence of -soul. Nevertheless, there it was. He made a last frantic effort towards -a last discipline, juggling the letters together and trying to put the -more plainly dated next to one another on the top of the little untidy -heaps. - -He realized that there was nothing to be done. He sat there waiting for -sentence to be pronounced. - -Duncombe came over to the table and rested one hand on Henry's shoulder. - -"Now, let's see," he said. "You've had more than a month--I expect to -find great progress. How many boxes have you done?" - -"I'm still at the first," said Henry, his voice low and gentle. - -"Still at the first? Ah, well, I expect there are more than one knew. -What's your system? First in months and then in years, I suppose?" - -"The trouble is," said Henry, the words choking in his throat, "that so -many of them aren't dated at all." - -"Yes--that would be so. Well, here we have April, 1816. What I should -do, I think, is to make them into six-monthly packets--otherwise -the--Hullo, here's 1818!" - -"They move about so," said Henry feebly. - -"Move about? Nobody can move them if you don't--March 7, 1818; March -12, 1818; April 3--Why, here we are back in '16 again!" - -There followed then the most dreadful pause. It seemed to the agonized -Henry to last positively for centuries. He grew an old, old man with -a long, white, sweeping beard, he looked back over a vast, misspent -lifetime, his hearing was gone, his vision was dulled, he was tired, -deadly tired, and longed only for the gentle peace of the kindly grave. -Not a word was said. Duncombe's long white fingers moved with a deadly -and practised skill from packet to packet, taking up one, looking at -it, laying it down again, taking up another, holding it for an eternity -in his hand then carefully replacing it. The clock wheezed and gurgled -and chattered, the sunlight danced on the bookshelves, Henry was in -his grave, dead, buried, a vague pathetic memory to those who once had -loved him. - -"Why!" a voice came from vast distances; "these letters aren't arranged -at all!" The worst was over, the doom had fallen; nothing more terrible -could occur. - -Henry said nothing. - -"They simply aren't arranged at all!" came the voice more sharply. - -Still Henry said nothing. - -Duncombe moved back into the room. Henry felt his eyes burrowing into a -hole, red-hot, in the middle of his back. He did not move. - -"Would you mind telling me what you have been doing all these weeks?" - -Henry turned round. The terrible thing was that tears were not far -away. He was twenty-six years of age, he had fought in the Great War -and been wounded, he had written ten chapters of a romantic novel, he -was living a life of independent ease as a bachelor gentleman in Panton -Street--nevertheless tears were not far away. - -"I warned you," he said. "I told you at the very beginning that I was -a perfect fool. You can't say I didn't warn you. I've meant to do my -very best. I've never before wanted to do my best so badly--I mean so -well--I mean----" he broke off. "I've tried," he ended. - -"But would you mind telling me _what_ you've tried?" asked Duncombe. -"The state the letters were in when they were in this box was beautiful -order compared with the state they're in now! Why, you've had six weeks -at them! What _have_ you been doing?" - -"I think they move in the night," said Henry, tears bubbling in his -voice do what he could to prevent them. "I know that must sound silly -to you, or to any sensible person, but I swear to you that I've had -dozens of them in the right order when I've gone away one day and found -them in every kind of mess when I've got back next morning." - -Duncombe said nothing. - -"Then," Henry went on, gathering a stronger control of himself, "they -really are confusing. Any one would find them so. The writing's often -so faded and the signatures sometimes so illegible. And at first--when -I started--I knew so little about the period. I didn't know who any of -the people were. I've been reading a lot lately and although it looks -so hopeless, I--" Then he broke off. "But it's no good," he muttered, -turning his back. "I haven't got a well-ordered mind. I never could do -mathematics at school. I ought to have told you, the second day I tried -to tell you, but I've liked it so, I've enjoyed it. I----" - -"I daresay you have enjoyed it," said Duncombe. "I can well believe -it. You must have had the happiest six weeks of your life. Isn't it -aggravating? Here are six weeks entirely wasted." - -"Please take back your money and let me go," said Henry. "I can't pay -you everything at once because, to tell you the truth, I've spent it, -but if you'll wait a little----" - -"Money!" cried Duncombe wrathfully. "Who's talking of money? It's the -wasted time I mind. We're not an inch further on." - -"We are," cried Henry excitedly. "I've been taking notes--lots of them. -I've got them in a book here. And whoever goes on with this next can -have them. He'll learn a lot from them, he will really." - -"Let's see your notes," said Duncombe. - -Henry produced a red-bound exercise book. It was nearly filled with his -childish and sprawling hand. There were also many blots, and even some -farcical drawings in the margin. - -Duncombe took the book and went back with it to his desk. There -followed a lengthy pause, while Henry stood in front of his table -staring at the window. - -At last Duncombe said, "You certainly seem to have scribbled a lot -here. Yes . . . I take back what I said about your being idle. I'm glad -you're not that. And you seem interested; you must be interested to -have done all this." - -"I am interested," said Henry. - -"Well, then, I don't understand it. If you are interested why couldn't -you get something more out of the letters? A child of eight could have -done them better than you have." - -"It's the kind of brain I have," said Henry. "It's always been the -same. I never could do examinations. I have an untidy brain. I could -always remember things about books but never anything else. It was just -the same in the War. I always gave the wrong orders to the men. I never -remembered what I ought to say. But when they put me into Intelligence -and I could use my imagination a little, I wasn't so bad. I can see -Scott and Hogg and the others moving about, and I can see Edinburgh and -the way the shops go and everything, but I _can't_ do the mechanical -part. I _knew_ I couldn't at the very beginning." - -"You'd better go on working for a bit while I think about it," said -Duncombe. - -Henry went back to the letters, a sick heavy weight of disappointment -in his heart. He could have no doubt concerning the final judgment. How -could it be otherwise? Well, at the most he had had a beautiful six -weeks. He had learnt some very interesting things that he would never -forget and that he could not have learnt in any other way. But how -disappointing to lose his first job so quickly! How sad Millie would -be and how sarcastic his father! And then the girl! How could he now -entertain any hopes of doing anything for her when he had no job, no -money, no prospects! . . . - -A huge fat tear welled into his eye, he tried to gulp it back; he was -too late. It plopped down on one of the letters. Another followed it. -He sniffed and sniffed again. He took out his handkerchief and blew his -nose. He fought for self-control and, after a hard sharp battle, gained -the victory. The other tears were defeated and reluctantly went back to -the place whence they had come. - -The clock struck one; in five minutes' time the gong would sound for -luncheon. He heard Duncombe get up, cross the floor; once again he felt -his hand on his shoulder. - -"You certainly have shown imagination here," he said. "There are some -remarkable things in this book. Not all of it authentic, I fancy." -The hand pressed into his shoulder with a kindly emphasis. "It's a -pity that order isn't your strong point. Never mind. We must make the -best of it. We'll get one of those dried-up young clerks at so much an -hour to do this part of it. You shall do the rest. I think you'll make -rather a remarkable book of it." - -"You're going to keep me?" Henry gulped. - -"I'm going to keep you." Duncombe moved back to his desk. "Now it's -luncheon-time. I suggest that you wash your hands--_and_ your face." - -Henry stood for a moment irresolute. - -"I don't know what to say--I--to thank----" - -"Well, don't," said Duncombe. "I hate being thanked. Besides, there's -no call for it." - -The gong sounded. - - * * * * * - -This was an adventurous day for Henry; he discovered in the first place -that Duncombe would not himself be in to luncheon, and he descended -the cold stone stairs with the anticipatory shiver that he always -felt when his master deserted him. Lady Bell-Hall neither liked nor -trusted him, and showed her disapproval by showering little glances -upon him, with looks of the kind that anxious hostesses bestow upon -nervous parlour-maids when the potatoes are going the wrong way round -or the sherry has been forgotten. Henry knew what these glances said. -They said: "Oh, young man, I cannot conceive why my brother has chosen -you for his secretary. You are entirely unsuited for a secretary. You -are rash, ignorant, bad-mannered and impetuous. If there is one thing -in life that I detest it is having some one near me whose words and -actions are for ever uncertain and not to be calculated beforehand. I -am never certain of you from one minute to another. I do wish you would -go away and take a post elsewhere." - -Because Henry knew that Lady Bell-Hall was thinking this of him he was -always in her presence twice as awkward as he need have been, spilt -his soup, crumbled his bread and made strange sudden noises that were -by himself entirely unexpected. To-day, however, he was spared his -worst trouble, Mr. Light-Johnson. The only guests were Tom Duncombe -and a certain Lady Alicia Penrose, who exercised over Lady Bell-Hall -exactly the fascinated influence that a boa-constrictor has for a -rabbit. Alicia Penrose certainly resembled a boa-constrictor, being -tall, swollen and writhing, bound, moreover, so tightly about with -brilliant clothing fitting her like a sheath that it was always a -miracle to Henry that she could move at all. She must have been a lady -of some fifty summers, but her skirts were very short, coming only just -below her knees. She was a jolly and hearty woman, living entirely for -Bridge and food, and not pretending to do otherwise. Henry could not -understand why she should come so often to luncheon as she did. He -supposed that she enjoyed startling Lady Bell-Hall with peeps into her -pleasure-loving life, not that in her chatter she ever paused to listen -to her hostess's terrified little "Really, Alicia!" or "You can't mean -it, Alicia!" or "I never heard such a thing--never!" - -After a while Henry arrived nearer the truth when he supposed that she -came in order to obtain a free meal, she being in a state of chronic -poverty and living in a small series of attics over a mews. - -She was, it seemed, related to every person of importance and alluded -to them all in a series of little nicknames that fell like meteors -about table. "Podgy," "Old Cuddles," "Dusty Parker," "Fifi Bones," -"Larry," "Bronx," "Traddles"--these were her familiar friends. When she -was alone with Henry, Duncombe and his sister she was comparatively -quiet, paying eager attention to her food (which was not very good) -and sometimes including Henry in the conversation. But the presence of -an outsider excited her terribly. She was, outwardly at any rate, as -warmly excited about the domestic and political situation as was Lady -Bell-Hall, but it did not seem to Henry that it went very deep. So -long as her Bridge was uninterfered with everything else might go. She -talked in short staccato sentences like a female Mr. Tingle. - -To-day she was stirred by Tom Duncombe, not that she did not know him -well enough, he being very much more in her set than were either his -brother or sister. Henry had not liked Tom Duncombe from the first and -to-day he positively loathed him. This was for a very simple human -reason, namely, that he talked as though he, Henry, did not exist, -looking over his head, and once, when Henry volunteered a comment on -the weather, not answering him at all. - -And then when the meal was nearly over Henry most unfortunately fell -yet again into Lady Bell-Hall's bad graces. - -"Servants," Lady Alicia was saying. "Servants. Been in a Registry -Office all the morning. For father. He wants a footman and doesn't -want to pay much for him; you know all about father, Tommy." (The Earl -of Water-Somerset was notoriously mean). "Offering sixty--sixty for a -footman. Did you hear anything like it? Couldn't hear of a soul. All -too damned superior. Saw one or two--never saw such men. All covered -with tattoo marks and war-ribbons--extraordinary times we live in. -Extraordinary. Puffy Clerk told me yesterday--remarkable thing. Down at -the Withers on Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Short of a fourth. Found the -second footman played. Had him in. Perfect gentleman. Son of a butcher -but had been a Colonel in the War. Broke off to fetch in the tea--then -sat down again afterwards. Best of the joke won twenty quid off Addy -Blake and next morning asked to have his wages raised. Said if he was -going to be asked to play bridge with the family must have higher -wages. And Addy gave them him." - -Tom Duncombe guffawed. - -"Dam funny. Dam funny," he said. Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "A -friend of mine, a Mr. Light-Johnson--I think you've met him here, -Alicia--told me the other day he's got a man now who plays on the piano -beautifully and reads Spanish. He says that we shall all be soon either -killed in our beds or working for the Bolsheviks. What the servants are -coming----" - -As the old butler brought in the coffee at this moment she stopped -and began hurriedly to talk about Conan Doyle's séances which seemed -to her very peculiar--the pity of it was that we couldn't really tell -if it had happened just as he said. "Of course he's been writing -stories for years," she said. "He's the author of those detectives -stories, Alicia--and writing stories for a long time must make one very -regardless of the truth." - -Then as the butler had retired they were able to continue. "I don't -know what servants are coming to," she said. "They never want to go to -church now as they used to." - -It was then that Henry made his plunge, as unfortunate in its -impetuosity and tactlessness as had been his earlier one, it was -perhaps the red supercilious countenance of Tom Duncombe that drove him -forward. - -"I'm glad servants are going to have a better time now," he said, -leaning forward and staring at Alicia Penrose as though fascinated by -her bright colours. "I can't think how they endured it in the old days -before the War, in those awful attics people used to put them into, the -bad food they got and having no time off and----" - -"Why, you're a regular young Bolshevik!" Alicia Penrose cried, -laughing. "Margaret, Charles got a Bolshevik for a secretary. Who'd -have thought it?" - -"I'm not a Bolshevik," said Henry very red. "I want everything to be -fair for everybody all the way round. The Bolsheviks aren't fair any -more than the--than the--other people used to be before the War, but it -seems to me----" - -"Seen the Bradleys lately, Alicia?" said Tom Duncombe, speaking exactly -as though Henry existed less than his sister's dog, Pretty One, a -nondescript mongrel asleep in a basket near the window. - -"No," said Alicia. "But that reminds me. Benjy Porker owes me five quid -off a game a fortnight ago at Addy Blake's. Glad you've reminded me, -Thomas. That young man wants watching. Plays badly too--why in that -very game he had four hearts----" - -Henry's cup was full. Why, again, had he spoken? _When_ would he learn -the right words on the right occasion? Why had he painted himself even -blacker than before in Lady Bell-Hall's sight? - -He went up to the library hating Tom Duncombe, but hating himself even -more. - -He sat down at his table determining to put in an hour at such -slave-driving over the letters as they had never known in all their -little lives. At four o'clock punctually he intended to present himself -in Mrs. Tenssen's sitting-room. - -When he had been stirring the letters about for some ten minutes or -so the quiet and peace of the library once again settled beautifully -around him. It seemed to enfold him as though it loved him and wished -him to know it. Once again the strange hallucination stole into his -soul that the past was the present and the present the past, that there -was no time nor place and that only thinking made it so, and that the -only reality, the only faith, the only purpose in this life or in any -other was love--love of beauty, of character, of truth, love above all -of one human being for another. He was touched to an almost emotional -softness by Duncombe's action that morning. Touched, too, to the very -soul by his own love affair, and touched finally to-day by the sense -that he had that old books in the library, and the times and the places -and the people that they stood for, were stretching out hands to him, -trying to make him hear their voices. - -"Only love us enough and we shall live. Everything lives by love. Touch -us with some of your own enchantment. You are calling us back to life -by caring for us. . . ." He stopped, his head up, his pen arrested, -listening--as though he did in very truth hear voices coming to him -from different parts of the room. - -What he did hear, however, was the opening of the library door, and -what he beheld was Tom Duncombe's bulky figure standing for a moment -hesitating in the doorway. He came forward but did not see Henry -immediately. He stood again, listening, one finger to his lip like a -schoolboy about to steal jam. Henry bent his head over his letters, but -with one eye watched. All thoughts of love and tenderness were gone -with that entrance. He hated Tom Duncombe and hated him for reasons -more conclusive than personal, wounded vanity. Duncombe took some -further steps and then suddenly saw Henry. He stopped dead, staring, -then as Henry did not turn, but stayed with head bent forward, he moved -on again still cautiously and with the clumsy hesitating, step that was -especially his. - -He arrived at his brother's table and stopped there. Henry, looking -sideways, could see half Duncombe's heavy body, the red cheek, the -thick arm and large, ill-shaped fingers. Those same fingers, he -perceived, were taking up letters and papers from the table and putting -them down again. - -Then, like a sudden blow on the heart, certain words of Sir Charles's -spoken a week or two before came back to Henry. "By the way, -Trenchard," he had said, "if I'm out and you're ever alone in the -library here I want you to be especially careful to allow no one -to touch the papers on my table, nor to permit any one to open a -drawer--any one, mind you, not even my brother, unless I've told you -first that he may. I leave you in charge--you or old Moffatt (the -ancient butler), and if you are going, and I'm not yet back, lock the -library and give the keys to Moffatt." - -He had promised that at the time, feeling rather proud that he should -have been charged with so confidential an office. Now the time had come -for him to keep his word, and the most difficult crisis of his life was -suddenly upon him. There had been difficult moments in the War--Henry -alone knew how difficult moments of physical challenge, moments of -moral challenge too--but then in that desolate-hell-delivered country -thousands of others had been challenged at the same time, and some -especial courage seemed to have been given one with special occasion. -Here he was alone, and alone in an especially arduous way. He did -not know how much authority he really had, he did not know whether -Sir Charles had in truth meant all that he had said, he did not know -whether Tom Duncombe had not after all some right to be there. - -Above all he was young, very young, for his age, doubtful of himself, -fearing that he always struck a silly figure in any crisis that he had -to face. On the other hand, he was helped by his real hatred of the -red-flushed man at the table, unlike his brother-in-law Philip in that, -namely, that he did not want every one to like him and, indeed, rather -preferred to be hated by the people whom he himself disliked. - -Tom Duncombe was now pulling at one of the drawers of the table. Henry -stood up, feeling that the whole room was singing about his ears. - -"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling feebly, and knowing that his -voice was a ridiculous one. "But would you mind waiting until Sir -Charles comes in? I know he won't be long--he said he'd be back by -three." - -Duncombe moved away from the drawer and stared. - -"Here," he said. "Do you know where my brother keeps the key of this -drawer? If so, hand it over." - -"Yes, I do know," said Henry. (It was sufficiently obvious, as the -key was hanging on a string at the far corner of the table.) "But I'm -afraid I can't give it you. Sir Charles told me that no one was to have -it while he was away." - -Duncombe took in this piece of intelligence very slowly. He stared at -Henry as though he were some curious and noxious kind of animal that -had just crawled in from under the window. A purple flush suffused his -forehead and nose. - -"Good God!" he said. "The infernal cheek!" - -They stood silently staring at one another for a moment, then Duncombe -said: - -"None of your lip, young man. I don't know who the devil you think you -are--anyway hand over the key." - -"No," said Henry paling, "I can't." - -"You can't? What the devil do you mean?" - -"Simply I can't. I was told not to--I'm your brother's secretary and -have to do what he says--not what you say!" - -Henry felt himself growing more happily defiant. - -"Do you want to get the damnedest hiding you've ever had in your young -life?" - -"I don't care what you do." - -"Don't care what I do? Well, you soon will. Are you going to give me -that key?" (All this time he was pulling at the drawers with angry -jerks, pausing to stare at Henry, then pulling again.) - -"No." - -"You're not? You know I can get my brother to kick you out?" - -"I don't care. I'm going to do what he said." - -"You bloody young fool, he never said you weren't to let me have it." - -"I may have misunderstood him. If I did, he'll put it right when he -comes back." - -"Yes, and a nice story I'll tell him of your damned impertinence. Give -me that key." - -"Sorry I can't." - -"I'll break your bloody neck." - -"That won't help you to find the key." Henry was feeling quite cheerful -now. - -"Christ! . . . You shall get it for that!" - -He made two steps to come round the table to get at Henry--and saw the -key. At the same instant Henry saw that he saw it. He ran forward to -secure it, and in a second they were struggling together like two small -boys in a manner unlovely, unscientific, even ludicrous. Ludicrous--had -there been an observer, but for the fighters themselves it was one of -those uncomfortable struggles when there are no rules of the game and -anything may happen at any moment. Duncombe was large but fat and in -the worst possible condition, with a large luncheon still unsettled and -in a roving state. Moreover he had never been a fighter. Henry was not -a fighter either and was handicapped at once because at the first onset -his pince-nez were knocked on to the carpet. He fought then blindly -in a blind world. He knew that Duncombe was kicking, and struggling -to strike at him with his fists. Himself seemed strangely involved in -Duncombe's chest, at which he tore with his hands, while he bent his -head to avoid the blows. He was breathing desperately, while there was -such anger seething in his breast as he had never felt for anything -human or inhuman in all his life. He felt Duncombe's waistcoat tear, -plunged at the shirt, and at once his fingers felt the bare flesh, the -soft fat of Duncombe's well-tended body. He was also conscious that he -was muttering "You beast, you beast, you beast!" that his left leg was -aching terribly and that Duncombe had his hand now firmly fixed in his -hair and was pulling with all his strength. - -Henry was going. . . . He was being pushed backwards. He caught a large -fold of Duncombe's fat between his fingers and pinched. Then he was -conscious that in another moment he would be over; he was falling, the -ceiling, far away, beat down toward him, his left arm shot out and his -fingers fastened themselves into Duncombe's posterior, which was large -and soft, then, with a cry he fell, Duncombe on top of him. - -Henry, half-stunned, lay, his leg crushed under him, his eyes closed, -and waited for the end. Duncombe now could do what he liked to him, -and what he liked would be something horrible. But Duncombe also, it -seemed, could not stir, but lay there all over Henry, heaving up and -down, the sweat from his cheek and forehead trickling into Henry's -eyes, his breath coming in great desperate pants. - -Then from a long way off came a voice: - -"Tom--Trenchard. What the devil!" That voice seemed to electrify -Duncombe. Henry felt the whole body quiver, stiffen for a moment, then -slowly, very slowly raise itself. - -Henry stumbled up and saw Sir Charles, not regarding him at all, but -fixing his eyes only upon his brother, who stood, his hair on end, his -shirt torn and exposing a red, hairy chest, wrath in his eyes, his -mouth trembling with anger and also with some other emotion. - -"What have you been doing, Tom?" - -"This damned----" then to Henry's immense surprise he broke off and -left the room almost at a run. - -Sir Charles went straight to his table, looked at the papers, glanced -at the drawers, then finally at the key, which was still on the hook. - -His voice, when he spoke, was that of the saddest, loneliest, most -miserable of men. - -"You'd better go and clean up, Henry," he said, pointing to the farther -room. - -He had never called him Henry before. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE CAULDRON - - -But the day had not finished with Henry yet. - -When he had washed and tidied himself he discovered to his great relief -that his pince-nez were not broken, and that only one button (and -that an unimportant one) was torn from his trousers, and he departed. -Sir Charles asked him no questions, but only sat there at his table, -staring at his paper with a fixed look of melancholy absorption that -Henry dared not break. As no questions were asked Henry offered no -explanations. He was very glad that he had not to offer any. He simply -said, "Good afternoon, sir," and went. He was half expecting that Tom -Duncombe would be hiding behind some pillar in the hall, and would -spring out upon him as he passed, but there was no sign of anybody. The -house was as silent and dead as the Nether Tomb. - -He walked through the crowded ways to Peter Street in a fine turmoil of -excitement and agitation. The physical side of the struggle was not yet -forgotten; his shins, where Tom Duncombe had kicked him, were very sore -indeed, and his leg would suddenly tremble for no particular reason. - -His chest was sore and his head ached, from his enemy's vigorous -hair-pulling. He was very thankful that his face was not marked. That -was because he had held his head down. But the physical consequences -were lost in consideration of the deeper, more important spiritual -and material issues. What had Tom Duncombe really been after? Plainly -enough something that he had been after before. One could tell that -from his brother's silence. What revenge would Tom now try to take upon -Henry? Perhaps he would bribe Mr. King to murder him in his sleep, -or would send Henry poison in a box of chocolates, or would distil -fly-paper into his coffee as Seddon had done to poor Miss Barrow? -Perhaps he would have him assassinated by some Bolshevik agent, in -the middle of Piccadilly? No, all these things, delightful though -they sounded, were not likely--Tom Duncombe was obviously lacking in -imagination. - -A beautiful _vers libre_ flew like a coloured dove into Henry's brain -just as he crossed the Circus: - - Red-chested Minotaur - Thrust - Blow on Blow. - Golden apples showering - From Autumn trees - In wolf-haunted - Forest-- - -Had he not been sworn at by the driver of a swiftly advancing taxi-cab -he might have thought of a second verse equally good. - -Arriving at his destination, he found Mrs. Tenssen all alone seated -at the table playing Patience, with a pack of very greasy cards. One -useful lesson at least Henry was to learn from this eventful year, a -lesson that would do him splendid service throughout his life--namely, -that there is nothing more difficult than to discover a human being, -man or woman, who is really wicked all the way round and the whole -way through. People who _seem_ to be thoroughly wicked, whom one -passionately desires to be thoroughly wicked, will suddenly betray -kindnesses, softnesses, amiabilities, imbecilities that simply do not -go with the rest of their terrible character. This is very sad and -makes life much more difficult than it ought to be. - -It is indeed to be doubted whether a completely wicked human being has -ever appeared on this planet. - -It had already puzzled Henry on several occasions that Mrs. Tenssen, -who as nearly resembled a completely wicked person as he had ever -beheld, should care so passionately for the simple game of Patience, -and should take flowers, as he discovered that she did, once a week to -the Children's Hospital in Cleseden Street. - -He would so greatly have preferred that she should not do these -things. She did them, it might be, as a blind, a concealment, an alibi, -even as Count Fosco had his white mice and Uncle Silas played the -flute, but they did not _appear_ to be a disguise; she seemed to enjoy -doing them. - -She greeted Henry with great affection. She had been very kind to him -of late. He did not like her any better than on his first vision of -her; he liked her indeed far less. He did not know any one, man or -woman, from whom sex so indecently protruded. It was always as though -she sat quite naked in front of him and that she liked it to be so. - -She had once made what even his innocent mind understood as improper -advances to him, and he had not now the very slightest doubt of the -reason why the various gentlemen, of all sizes and ages, came and had -tea with her. - -All this made him very sick and put him into an agony of desire to -seize Christina and deliver her from the horrible place, but until now -he had not thought of any plan, and one of his principal difficulties -was that he could never succeed in being with Christina alone. - -He realized that Mrs. Tenssen had not as yet sufficiently made up her -wicked mind about him. She was hesitating, he perceived, as to whether -he was worth her while or no. He had no doubt but that she had been -making inquiries about him and his family. Was she speculating about -him as a husband for her daughter? Or had she some other plans in her -evil head? - -To-day the room was close and stuffy and dingy in spite of the pink -silk. There was a smell of cooking that writhed in and out of the -furniture, some evil, but savoury mess that was onions and yet not -onions at all, here black pudding, and there stewing eels, once ducks' -eggs and then again sheeps' brains--just such a savoury mess as any -witch would have stewing in her cauldron. - -Mrs. Tenssen, on this afternoon, proceeded to deliver herself of some -of her thoughts, her large face crimson above her purple dress, her -rings flashing over the shabby dog-eared cards. Henry sat there, his -eyes on the door, listening, listening for the step that he would give -all the world to hear. - -"You know," she said, cursing through her teeth at the bad order of -the cards, "the matter with me is that I'm too good-natured. I've got a -kind heart--that's the matter with me. I'm sorry for it. I'm a fool to -let myself go as I do. And what have I ever got for my kindness--damn -that club. What but ingratitude and cheating. It's the way of the -world. You're young. You just remember that. Don't let your heart go. -Use your intelligence." - -"What," asked Henry who wished to discover from her something about -Christina's earlier life, "kind of a town is Copenhagen? How did you -like Denmark?" - -"Ugh!" said Mrs. Tenssen. "I'm an Englishwoman, I am--born in Bristol -and bred there, thank God. None of your bloody foreign countries for -me. Twenty years of my life wasted in that stinking hole. Not that my -husband was so bad--not as husbands go that is. He was a sailor and -away many a time, and a good thing too. Fine upstanding man he was with -yellow curls and a chest broad enough to put a table on. He'd smack my -ass and say, 'There's a woman for you!' and so I was and am still for -the matter of that." - -"Was Christina your only child," asked Henry. - -"Yes. What do you take me for? No more children for me after the first -one. 'No,' I said to David. 'Behave as you like,' I said, 'but no more -children for me.' Wouldn't have had that one if I hadn't been such a -blighted young fool. What's life for if you're lying up all the time? -But David was all right. Drowned at sea. I always told him he would be." - -"Well, then, why weren't you happy?" - -"Happy," she echoed. "I tell you Copenhagen's a stinking town. Dirty -little place. And his relations! There was a crew for you, especially -a damned brother of his with a long beard, like a goat who was always -round interfering. Didn't want me to have any gentlemen friends. 'Oh -you go to hell,' I said. 'I'll have what friends I damn well please.' -Wanted to take my girl away from me. There's a nice thing! When a -woman's a widow and all alone in the world and doing all she can for -her girl, for a bloody relation to come along and try to take her away." - -"What did he want to take her away for?" asked Henry. - -"How the hell should I know? That's what I asked him. 'What do you -want to take her away for?' I asked him. He called me dirty names, -then, so I just called dirty names back. Two can play at that game. -I hadn't been educated in Bristol for nothing. Then they went on -interfering, so I just brought her over here." - -Henry was longing to ask some more questions when the door opened and -Christina came in. - -"Well, deary," said her mother. "Here's Mr. Trenchard." Christina -smiled, then stood there uncertainly. - -"There's a man coming upstairs, mother, who said you'd asked him to -call. He wouldn't give his name." - -Steps were outside. There was a pause, a knock on the door. Mrs. -Tenssen looked at them both uncertainly. - -"What do you say to taking Christina out to tea, Mr. Trenchard? It -won't do her any harm?" - -Henry said he would be delighted, as for sure he would. - -"Well, then, suppose you do--some nice tea-shop. I know you'll look -after her." - -The girl moved to the door. Henry opened it for her. On the other side -was standing a large heavy man, some country-fellow he seemed, young, -brown-faced, in rough blue clothes. - -Christina slipped by, her head down. In the street Henry found her -crying. He didn't speak to her or ask her any questions. In silence -they went down Peter Street. - -When they were in Shaftesbury Avenue, Henry said, very gently: - -"Where would you like to have tea? I'd want to take you to the grandest -place there is if you'd care for that." - -She shook her head. "No no, nowhere grand. . . ." She paused, standing -still and looking about her as though she were utterly lost. Then he -saw her, with a great effort, drag herself together. "There's a little -place in Dean Street," she said. "A little Spanish restaurant--opposite -the theatre." - -He had been there several times to have a Spanish omelette which was -cheap and very good. The kind little manager was a friend of his. He -took her there wondering that he was not more triumphant on this, -the first occasion when he had been alone with her in the outside -world--but he could not be triumphant when she was so unhappy. - -He found, as he had hoped he would, a little deserted table in the -window shut off from the rest of the room by the door. It was very -private with the light evening sunlight beyond the glass and people -passing to and fro, and a little queue of men and women already -beginning to form outside the pit door of the Royalty Theatre. The -little manager brought them their tea and smiled and made little -chirping noises and left them to themselves. - -She was in great distress, not noticing her tea, staring in front of -her as Henry had often seen her unconsciously do before, rolling her -handkerchief between her hands into a little wet ball. - -"I wanted us to come. I'm glad we've had the chance. I've been wanting -for weeks to explain something to you." Henry poured her tea out for -her and mechanically, still staring beyond him, beyond the shop, beyond -London, she drank it. - -"You've been very good these months, very very good. I don't know why, -because you didn't know me before, nor anything about me. One day -I laughed at you and I'm sorry for that. You are not to be laughed -at--you have not that character--not at all--anywhere." - -She paused, and Henry, looking into her face, said: - -"I haven't been good to you. I'm ashamed because these weeks have all -gone by and I haven't helped you yet. But you needn't say why do I come -and why am I your friend. I love you. I loved you the first moment I -saw you in Piccadilly. I've never loved anybody before and I feel now -as though I shall never love anybody again. But I will do anything for -you, or go anywhere. You only have to say and I will try and do that." - -Her gaze came inwards, leaving those wide unscaleable horizons whither -she had gone and travelling back to the simple untidy face of Henry -whose eyes at any rate were good enough for you to be quite sure that -he meant honestly all that he said. "That's it," she said quickly. -"That's what I must try to explain to you. I've wanted to say to you -before that perhaps I have made you think what isn't true. I like you. -You're the only friend I've had since I came to England. But I can't -love you, you dear good boy, nor I can't love anybody. I will not -forget you if I can once get out of this horrible place, but I have no -thoughts of love--not for any one--until I can come home again. - -"You saw me crying just now. I should not cry; my father used to say, -'Christina, always be strong and not show them you're weak,' but I cry, -not from weakness, but from deep, deep shame at that woman and what you -see in her house." - -She suddenly took his hand. "You are not angry because I don't love -you? You see, I have only one thought--to get home, to get home, to get -home!" - -Henry choked in his throat and could only stare back at her and try to -smile. - -"Well, then," she said smiling. "Now I will try to tell you how I am. -That woman--that horrible woman--whom they call my mother, and I too, -to my shame, call her so--she was the wife of my father. From my birth -she was cruel to me, she always hated me. When my father was at home -she could not touch me--he would not allow her--but when he was at sea -then she could do what she wished. My father was a hero, he was the -finest of all Danish men, and when a Dane is fine no one in the world -is as fine as he. He loved me and I loved him. Every one must love him, -how he sang and danced and played like a child! After a time he hated -the woman he'd married, because she was cruel, and he would have taken -me away with him on his ship, but of course he could not. And then -father was drowned--one night I knew it. I saw him. He came to my bed -and smiled at me and he was all dripping with water. Then that woman -was terrible to me, and my two uncles, father's brothers, who were -almost as fine as he, tried to take me away, but she was too quick for -them. And when they quarrelled with her, she ran away in the night and -brought me over here." - -Henry sighed in sympathy with her. - -"Yes, and here it is terrible. I do not think I can endure it very much -more. My uncle wrote and said he would come for me, and that is why I -have been waiting, because I am sure that he will come. - -"But now I think that woman is planning something else. She wants to -sell me to some man so that she herself can be free. She is in doubt -about several. That old man you saw the other day is one. He is very -rich, and has a castle. Then she has been for some while in doubt about -whether perhaps you will do. I don't care for it when she beats me, and -when she says terrible things to me, but it is the fear of the future, -and she may do worse than she has ever done--she threatens . . . and -when I am alone at night--often all night--I am so afraid. . . ." - -"Alone?" said Henry. "Isn't she there?" - -"She has another place--somewhere in Victoria Street. Often she is away -all night." - -"Then," said Henry eagerly, "it's quite easy. We'll escape one night. I -can get enough money together and I will travel with you to Copenhagen -and give you to your uncle." - -She shook her head. "No. You are a sweet boy, but that is no good. She -has the place always watched. The police would stop us at once. She is -a very clever woman." - -"But then," pursued Henry, "if that house in Peter Street is a bad -house, and she is keeping you, that is against the law, and we can have -her arrested." - -Christina shook her head. - -"No. She is a very clever woman indeed. Nothing wrong goes on there. -Perhaps in Victoria Street. I don't know. I have never been there. But -I am sure if you tried to catch her in Victoria Street you would not be -able to. There is nothing to be done that way. But see . . ." - -She leant over towards Henry across the table, dropping her voice. - -"Next December I shall be twenty-one and shall be free. It is before -that that I am afraid. I know she is making some plan in her head. But -I feel that you are watching, then I shall be safer. She wants to get a -lot of money for me, and I think perhaps that old Mr. Leishman whom you -saw is arranging something with her. - -"What you want to do is to be friends with her so long as you can, -so that you may come to us freely. But one day she will have made up -her mind, and then there will be a scene, and she will forbid you the -house. After that watch every day in _The Times_ in the personal part. -I will let you know when it is serious. I will try to tell you where I -have gone. If I do that, it will mean that it is very anxious, and you -must help me any way you can. Will you promise me?" - -"I promise," said Henry. "Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, I will -come." - -"I have written to my uncle and I know he will come if he can. But he -travels very much abroad, and my other uncle is in Japan. If they do -not get any letter, I have no one--no one but you." - -She took Henry's hand again. "Since father died I can't love any one," -she said. "But I can be your friend and never forget you. I have been -so long frightened now, and I am so tired and so ashamed, that I think -all deeper feeling is dead. - -"I only want to get home. Do you understand, and not think me false?" - -Henry said, "I'm just as proud as I can be." - -Then, saying very little, he took her back to Peter Street. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -MILLIE IN LOVE - - -Meanwhile, as Henry was having his adventures, so, also was Millie -having hers, and having them, even as Henry did, in a sudden -climacteric moment after many weeks of ominous pause. - -She knew well enough that that pause was ominous. It would have been -difficult for her to avoid knowing it. The situation began to develop -directly after the amateur performance of _The Importance of Being -Earnest_. That same performance was a terrible and disgracefully public -failure. It had been arranged originally with the outward and visible -purpose of benefiting a Babies' Crèche that had its home somewhere -in Maida Vale, and had never yet apparently been seen by mortal man. -Clarice, however, cared little either for babies or the crèches that -contain them, but was quite simply and undisguisedly aching to prove -to the world in general that she was a better actress than Miss Irene -Vanbrugh, the creator of her part. - -The charity and kindliness of an audience at an amateur theatrical -performance are always called upon to cover a multitude of sins, but, -perhaps, never before in the history of amateur acting did quite so -many sins need covering as on this occasion--sins of omission, sins of -commission, and sins of bad temper and sulkiness. Clarice knew her part -only at happy intervals, but young Mr. Baxter knew his not at all, and -tried to conceal his ignorance with cheery smiles and impromptu remarks -about the weather, and little paradoxes that were in his own opinion -every bit as good as Oscar Wilde's, with the additional advantage -of novelty. Mr. Baxter was, indeed, at the end of the performance -thoroughly pleased with himself and the world in general, and was the -only actor in the cast who could boast of that happy condition. - -Next morning in the house of the Platts the storm broke, and Millie -found, to her bewildered amazement, that she was, in one way and -another, considered the villainness of the piece. That morning was -never to be forgotten by Millie. - -She was not altogether surprised that there should be a storm. For many -days past the situation had been extremely difficult; only four days -earlier, indeed, she had wondered whether she could possibly endure it -any longer, and might have gone straight to Victoria and resigned her -post had she not had five minutes' encouraging conversation with little -Doctor Brooker, who had persuaded her that she was doing valuable -work and must remain. There were troubles with Clarice, troubles with -Ellen (very curious ones), troubles with Victoria, troubles with the -housekeeper, even troubles with Beppo. All the attendant guests in -the house (except the poor Balaclavas) looked upon her with hatred -because they knew that she despised them for their sycophancy and that -they deserved her scorn. Her troubles with Victoria were the worst, -because after all did Victoria support her nothing else very seriously -mattered. But Victoria, like all weak characters determined upon power, -swayed like a tree in the wind, now hither now thither, according -to the emotions of the moment. She told Millie that she loved her -devotedly, then suddenly would her mild eyes narrow with suspicion when -she heard Millie commanding Beppo to bring up some more coal with what -seemed to her a voice of too incisive authority. She said to Millie -that the duty of the secretary was to control the servants, and then -when the housekeeper came with bitter tales of that same secretary's -autocracy she sided with the housekeeper. She thought Clarice a fool, -but listened with readiness to everything that Clarice had to say about -"upstart impertinence," "a spy in the house," and so on. She had by -this time conceived a hatred and a loathing for Mr. Block and longed -to transfer him to some very distant continent, but when he came to -her with tears in his eyes and said that he would never eat another -roll of bread in a house where he was so looked down upon by "the lady -secretary," she assured him that Millie was of no importance, and -begged him to continue to break bread with her so long as there was -bread in the house. - -She complained with bitterness of the confusion of her correspondence -and admired enthusiastically the order and discipline into which Millie -had brought it, and yet, from an apparently wilful perverseness, she -created further confusion whenever she could, tumbling letters and -bills and invitations together, and playing a kind of drawing-room -football with her papers as though Dr. Brooker had told her that this -was one of the ways of warding off stoutness. - -This question of her stoutness was one of Millie's most permanent -troubles. Victoria now had "Stoutness on the Brain," a disease that -never afflicted her at all in the old days when she was poor, partly -because she had too much work in those days to allow time for idle -thinking, and partly because she had no money to spend on cures. - -Now one cure followed upon another. She tried various systems of diet -but, being a greedy woman and loving sweet and greasy foods, a grilled -chop and an "asbestos" biscuit were real agony to her. Then, for a -time, she stripped to the skin twice a day and begged Millie to roll -her upon the floor, a performance that Millie positively detested. She -weighed herself solemnly every morning and evening and her temper was -spoilt for the day when she had not lost but had indeed gained. - -It must not be supposed, however, that she was always irritable and -in evil temper. Far from it; between her gusts of despair, anger and -assaulted pride she was very sweet indeed, assuring Millie that she was -a wicked woman and deserved no mercy from any one. - -"I cannot think how you can endure me, my Millie," she would say. "You -sweet creature! Wonderful girl! What I've done without you all these -years I cannot imagine. I mean well. I do indeed. I'm sure there isn't -a woman in the country who wants every one to be happy as I do. How -simple it seems! Happiness! What a lovely word and yet how difficult -of attainment! Life isn't nearly as simple as it was in the days when -dear Papa was alive. I'm sure when I had nothing at all in the bank and -didn't dare to face kind Mr. Miller for days together because I knew -that I had had more money out of his bank than I had ever put into it, -life was simplicity--but now--what do you think is the matter with me, -my Millie? Tell me truthfully, straight from your loyal heart." - -Millie longed to tell her that what was the matter could all be found -in that one word "Money!" but the time for direct and honest speech, -woman to woman, was not quite yet, although it was, most surely, close -at hand. - -With Ellen the trouble was more mysterious--Millie did not understand -that strange woman. After the scene in Ellen's room for many days -she held aloof, not speaking to Millie at all. Then gradually she -approached again, and one morning came into the room where Millie -was working, walked up to her desk, bent over her and kissed her -passionately and walked straight out of the room again without uttering -a word. A few days later she mysteriously pressed a note into her hand. -This was what it said: - - DARLING MILLIE--You must forgive any oddness of behaviour - that I have shown during these last weeks. I have had one headache - after another and have been very miserable too for other reasons - with which I need not bother you. I know you think me strange, but - indeed you have no more devoted friend than I if only you would - believe it. Some may seem friends to you but are not really. Do - not take every one at their face value. It is sweet of you to do - so but you run great risks. Could we not be a little more together - than we are? I should like it so much if we could one day have a - walk together. I feel that you do not understand me, and it is - true that I am not at my best in this unsympathetic household. I - feel that you shrink from me sometimes. If I occasionally appear - demonstrative it is because I have so much love in my nature that - has no outlet. I am a lonely woman, Millie. You have my heart in - your hands. Treat it gently!--Your loving friend, - - ELLEN PLATT. - -This letter irritated and annoyed Millie. Her hands were full enough -already without having Ellen's heart added to everything else. And -why need Ellen be so mysterious, warning her about people? That was -underhand. Did she suspect anybody she should speak out. Millie walked -about cautiously for the next few days lest she should find herself -alone with Ellen, when the woman looked so miserable that her heart was -touched, and one morning, meeting her in the hall, she said: - -"It was kind of you to write that note, Ellen. Of course we'll have a -walk one day." - -Ellen stared at her under furious eyebrows. "If that's all you can -say," she exclaimed, "thank you for nothing. Catch me giving myself -away again," and brushed angrily past her. . . . - -So on the morning after the theatricals down came the storm. It began -with the housekeeper, Mrs. Martin. Sitting under Eve Millie examined -the household books for the last fortnight. - -"The butcher's very large," she observed. - -"Honk!" Mrs. Martin remarked from some unprobed depths of an outraged -woman. She was a little creature with an upturned nose and a grey -complexion. - -"Well it really is too large this time," said Millie. "Twenty pounds -for a fortnight even in these days----" - -"Certingly," said Mrs. Martin, speaking very quickly and rising a -little on her toes. "Certingly if I'm charged with dishonesty, and it's -implied that I'm stealing the butcher's meat and deceiving my mistress, -who has always, so far as _I_ know, trusted me and found no fault at -all and has indeed commented not once nor twice on my being economical, -but if so, well my notice is the thing that's wanted, I suppose, -and----" - -"Not at all," said Millie, still very gently. "There's no question of -any one's dishonesty, Mrs. Martin. As you're housekeeper as well as -cook you must know better than any one else whether this is an unusual -amount or no. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps----" - -"I may have my faults," Mrs. Martin broke in, "there's few of us who -haven't, but dishonesty I've never before been accused of; although -the times are difficult and those who don't have to buy the things -themselves may imagine that meat costs nothing, and you can have a -joint every quarter of an hour without having to pay for it, still that -hasn't been my experience, and to be called a dishonest woman after all -my troubles and the things I've been through----" - -"I never did call you a dishonest woman," said Millie. "Never for a -moment. I only want you to examine this book with me and see whether we -can't bring it down a little----" - -"Dishonesty," pursued Mrs. Martin, rising still higher on her toes and -apparently addressing Eve, "is dishonesty and there's no way out of it, -either one's dishonest or one isn't and--if one is dishonest the sooner -one leaves and finds a place where one isn't the better for all parties -and the least said the sooner mended----" - -"_Would_ you mind," said Millie with an admirable patience, "just -casting your eye over this book and telling me what you think of it? -That's all I want really." - -"Then I hope, Miss," said Mrs. Martin, "that you'll take back your -accusation that I shouldn't like to go back to the kitchen suffering -under, because I never _have_ suffered patiently under such an -accusation and I never will." - -"I made no accusation," said Millie. "If I hurt your feelings I'm -sorry, but do please let us get to work and look at this book together. -Time's short and there's so much to be done." - -But Mrs. Martin was a woman of one idea at a time. "If you doubt my -character, Miss, please speak to Miss Platt about it, and if _she_ has -a complaint well and good and I'll take her word for it, she having -known me a good deal longer than many people and not one to rush to -conclusions as some are perhaps with justice and perhaps not." - -Upon this particular morning Millie was to lose her temper upon three -separate occasions. This was the first occasion. - -"That's enough, Mrs. Martin," she said sharply. "I did not call you -dishonest. I do not now. But as you seem incapable of looking at this -book I will show it to Miss Platt and she shall discuss it with you. -That's everything, thank you, good morning." - -"Honk!" said Mrs. Martin. "Then if that's the way I'm to be treated the -only thing that's left for me to do is hand in my notice which I do -with the greatest of pleasure, and until you came, Miss, I should never -have dreamt of such a thing, being well suited, but _such_ treatment no -human being can stand!" - -"Very well then," said Millie, cold with anger. "If you feel you must -go, you must. I'm sorry but you must act as you feel." - -Mrs. Martin turned round and marched towards the door muttering to -herself. Just before she reached it Victoria and Clarice entered. Mrs. -Martin looked at them, muttered something and departed banging the door -behind her. - -Millie could see that Victoria was already upset, her large fat face -puckered into the expression of a baby who is not sure whether it will -cry or no. Clarice, her yellow hair untidy and her pink gown trembling -with unexpected little pieces of lace and flesh, was quite plainly in a -very bad temper. - -"What's the matter with Mrs. Martin?" said Victoria, coming through -into the inner room. "She seems to be upset about something." - -"She is," said Millie. "She's just given notice." - -"Given notice!" cried Victoria. "Oh dear, oh dear! What shall we do? -Millie, how could you let her? She's been with us longer than any -servant we've had since father died and she cooks so well considering -everything. She knows our ways now and I've always been so careful to -give her everything she wanted. Oh Millie, how could you? You really -shouldn't have done it!" - -"I didn't do it," said Millie. "_She_ did it. I simply asked her to -look at the butcher's book for the last fortnight. It was disgracefully -large. She chose to be insulted and gave notice." - -"Isn't that vexing?" cried Victoria. "I do think you might have managed -better, Millie. She isn't a woman who easily takes offence either. -She's taken such a real interest in us all and nothing's been too much -trouble for her!" - -"Meanwhile," Millie said, "she's been robbing you right and left. You -know she has, Victoria. You as good as admitted it to me the other -day. Of course if you want to go on being plundered, Victoria, it's no -affair of mine. Only tell me so, and I shall know where I am." - -"I don't think you ought to speak to me like that," said Victoria. -"It's not kind of you. I didn't quite expect that of you, Millie. You -know the troubles I have and I hoped you were going to help me with -them and not give me new ones." - -"I'm not giving you new ones," Millie answered. "I'm trying to save -you. However----" - -It was at this point that Clarice interrupted. "Now I hope at last, -Victoria," she said, "that your eyes are opened. It only supports what -I was saying downstairs. Miss Trenchard (Clarice had been calling her -Miss Trenchard for the last fortnight) may be clever and attractive -and certainly young men seem to think her so, but suited to be your -secretary she is not." - -Millie got up from her seat. "Isn't this beginning to be rather -personal?" she said. "Hadn't we all better wait until we are a little -cooler?" - -"No we had not," said Clarice, trembling with anger. "I'm glad this -occasion has come at last. I've been waiting for it for weeks. I'm -not one to be underhand and to say things behind people's backs that -I would not dare to say to their faces; I say just what I think. I -know, Miss Trenchard, that you despise me and look down upon me. Of -that I have nothing to say. It may be deserved or it may not. I am -here, however, to protect my sister. There are things that she is too -warm-hearted and kind-natured to see although they do go on right under -her very nose. There have been occasions before when I've had to point -circumstances out to her. I've never hesitated at what was I thought my -duty. I do not hesitate now. I tell you frankly, Miss Trenchard, that I -think your conduct during these last weeks has been quite disgraceful. -You have alienated all Victoria's best friends, disturbed the servants -and flirted with every young man that has come into the house!" - -This was the second occasion on which Millie lost her temper that -morning. - -"Thank you," she said. "Now I know where I stand. But you'll apologize -please for that last insult before you leave this room." - -"I will not! I will not!" cried Clarice. - -"Oh dear, what shall I do?" interrupted Victoria. "I knew this was -going to be a terrible day the moment I got out of bed this morning. -Clarice, you really shouldn't say such things." - -"I should! I should!" cried Clarice, stamping her foot. "She's ruined -everything since she came into the house. No one knows how I worked -at that horrible play and Bunny Baxter was beginning to be so good, -most amusing and knowing his part perfectly until she came along. And -then she turned his head and he fancies he's in love with her and the -whole thing goes to pieces. And I always said, right away from the -beginning, that we oughtn't to have Cissie Marrow as prompter, she -always loses her head and turns over two pages at once--and now I've -gone and made myself the laughing-stock of London and shall never be -able to act in public again!" - -The sight of Clarice's despair touched Millie, and when the poor -woman turned from them and stood, facing the window, snuffling into a -handkerchief, her anger vanished as swiftly as it had come. - -Besides what _were_ they quarrelling about, three grown women? Here was -life passing and so much to be done and they could stand and scream at -one another like children in the nursery. Millie's subconscious self -seemed to be saying to her: "I stand outside you. I obscure you. This -is not real, but I am real and something behind life is real. Laugh at -this. It vanishes like smoke. _This_ is not life." She suddenly smiled; -laughter irradiated all her face, shining in her eyes, colouring her -cheek. - -"Clarice, I'm sorry. If I've been a pig to you all these weeks I surely -didn't mean to be. It hasn't been very easy--not through anybody's -fault but simply because I'm so inexperienced. I'm sure that I've been -very trying to all of you. But why should we squabble like this? I -don't know what's happened to all of us this year. We stood far worse -times during the War without losing our tempers, and we all of us put -up with one another. But now we all seem to get angry at the slightest -thing. I've noticed it everywhere. The little things now are much -harder to bear than the big things were in the War. Please be friends, -Clarice, and believe me that I didn't mean to hurt you." - -At this sudden softening Clarice burst into louder sobbing and nothing -was to be heard but "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" proceeding from the middle of -the handkerchief. - -All might now have been well had not Victoria most unfortunately -suddenly bethought herself of Mrs. Martin. - -"All the same, Millie," she said. "It wasn't quite kindly of you to -speak to Clarice like that when you knew that she must be tired after -all the trouble she had with her acting, and I'm sure I thought it went -very nicely indeed although there was a little confusion in the middle -which I'm certain nobody noticed half as much as Clarice thought they -did. And I do wish, Millie, that you hadn't spoken to Mrs. Martin like -that. I simply don't know what we shall do without her. We'll never get -any one else as good. I'm sure she never spoke to me rudely. She only -wants careful handling. I do so detest registry offices and seeing one -woman worse than another. I _do_ think you're to blame, Millie!" - -Whereupon Millie lost her temper for the third time that morning and on -this occasion very thoroughly indeed. - -"All right," she said, "that finishes it. You can have my month's -notice, Victoria, as well as Mrs. Martin's--I've endured it as well as -I could and as long as I could. I've been nearly giving you notice a -hundred times. And before I _do_ go let me just tell you that I think -you're the greatest coward, Victoria, that ever walked upon two feet. -How many secretaries have you had in the last two months? Dozens I -should fancy. And why? Because you never support them in anything. -You tell them to go and do a thing and then when they do it desert -them because some one else in the house disapproves. You gave me -authority over the servants, told me to dismiss them if they weren't -satisfactory, and then when at last I do dismiss one of them you tell -me I was wrong to do it. I try to bring this house into something like -order and then you upset me at every turn as though you didn't _want_ -there to be any order at all. You aren't loyal, Victoria, that's what's -the matter with you--and until you _are_ you'll never get any one to -stay with you. I'm going a month from to-day and I wish you luck with -your next selection." - -She had sufficient time to perceive with satisfaction Victoria's -terrified stare and to hear the startled arrest of Clarice's sobs. She -had marched to the door, she had looked back upon them both, had caught -Victoria's "Millie! you can't----" The door was closed behind her and -she was out upon the silent sunlit staircase. - -Breathless, agitated with a confusion of anger and penitence, -indignation and regret she ran downstairs and almost into the arms of -young Mr. Baxter. Oh! how glad she was to see him! Here at any rate -was a _man_--not one of these eternal women with their morbidities and -hysterias and scenes! His very smile, his engaging youth and his air -of humorous detachment were jewels beyond any price to Millie just then. - -"Why! What's the matter?" he cried. - -"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "I don't know whether I'm going to -laugh or cry or what I'm going to do! Oh, those women! Those _women_! -Bunny--take me somewhere. Do something with me. Out of this. I'm off my -head this morning." - -"Come in here!" he said, drawing her with him towards a little poky -room on the right of the hall-door that was used indifferently as a -box-room, a writing-room and a room for Beppo to retire into when -he was waiting to pounce out upon a ring at the door. It was dirty, -littered with hat-boxes and feminine paraphernalia. An odious room, -nevertheless this morning the sun was shining with delight and young -Baxter knew that his moment had come. - -He pushed Millie in before him, closed the door, flung his arms around -her and kissed her all over her face. She pulled herself away. - -"You . . . You . . . What is the matter with every one this morning?" - -He looked at her with eyes dancing with delight. - -"I'm sorry. I ought to have warned you. You looked so lovely I couldn't -help myself. Millie, I adore you. I have done so ever since I first met -you. I love you. I love you. You must marry me. We'll be happy for ever -and ever." - -There were so many things that Millie should have said. The simple -truth was that she had been in love with him for weeks and had no other -thought but that. - -"We can't marry," she said at last feebly. "We're both very young. -We've got no money." - -"Young!" said Bunny scornfully. "Why, I'm twenty-seven, and as to money -I'll soon make some. Millie, come here!" - -She who had but now scolded the Miss Platts as though they were school -children went to him. - -"See!" he put his hands on her shoulders staring into her eyes, "I -oughtn't to have kissed you like that just now. It wasn't right. I'm -going to begin properly now. Dear Millicent, will you marry me?" - -"What will your mother----?" - -"Dear Millicent, will you marry me?" - -"But if you haven't any money?" - -"Dear Millicent, will you marry me?" - -"Yes." - -She suddenly put her arms around him and hugged him as though he had -been a favourite puppy or an infant of very tender years. She felt -about him like that. Then they simply sat hand in hand on a pile of -packing-cases in the corner of the room. He suddenly put his hand up -and stroked her hair. - -"Funny!" she said. "Some one did that the other day and I hated it." - -"Who dared?" - -She laughed. "No one you need be jealous of." - -Poor Ellen! She felt now that she loved all the world, Clarice and Mrs. -Martin included. - -"You won't mind if you keep our engagement dark for a week or two?" he -asked. - -"Why?" She turned round and looked at him. - -"Oh! I don't know. It would be more fun I think." - -"I don't think it would. I hate concealing things." - -"Oh, darling Millie, please--only for a very little time--a week or -two. My mother's away in Scotland and I don't want to write it to her, -I want to tell her." - -"Very well." She would agree to anything that he wanted, but for a very -brief moment a little chill of apprehension, whence she knew not, had -fallen upon her heart. - -"Now I must go." She got up. They stood in a long wonderful embrace. He -would not let her go. She came back to him again and again; then she -broke away and, her heart beating with ecstasy and happiness, came out -into the hall that now seemed dark and misty. - -She stood for a moment trying to collect her thoughts. Suddenly -Victoria appeared out of nowhere as it seemed. She spoke breathlessly, -as though she had been running. - -"Millie . . . Millie . . . Oh, you're not going? You can't be. . . . -You can't mean what you said. You mustn't go. We'll never, never get -on without you. Clarice is terribly sorry she was rude, and I've given -Mrs. Martin notice. You're quite right. She ought to have gone long -ago. . . . You can't leave us. You can do just what you like, have what -you like. . . ." - -"Oh, you darling!" Millie flung her arms around her. "I'm sorry I was -cross. Of course I'll stay. I'll go and beg Clarice's pardon--anything -you like. I'll beg Mrs. Martin's if you want me to. Anything you like! -I'll even kiss Mr. Block if you like. . . . Do you mind? Bunny Baxter's -here. Can he stay to lunch?" - -"Oh, I'm so glad!" Victoria was tearfully wiping her eyes. "I thought -you might have gone already. We'll never have a word again, never. Of -course he can stay, for as long as he likes. Dear me, dear me, what a -morning!" - -The hoarse voice of Beppo was heard to announce that luncheon was ready. - - * * * * * - -These are some letters that Millicent and Henry wrote to one another at -this time: - - METROPOLITAN HOTEL, CLADGATE, - _July 17, 1920._ - DARLING HENRY--We got down here last night and now it's - ever so late--after twelve--and I'm writing in a bedroom all red - and yellow, with a large picture of the Relief of Ladysmith over - my bed, and it's the very first moment I've had for writing to - you. What a day and what a place to spend six weeks in! However, - Victoria seems happy and contented, which is the main thing. - - It appears that she stayed in this very hotel years ago with her - father when they were very poor, and they had two tiny rooms at - the very top of the hotel. He wanted her to see gay life, and at - great expense brought her here for a week. All the waiters were - sniffy and the chambermaid laughed at her and it has rankled ever - since. Isn't it pathetic? So she has come now for six solid weeks, - bringing her car and Mr. Andrew the new chauffeur and me with - her, and has taken the biggest suite in the hotel. Isn't _that_ - pathetic? Clarice and Ellen, thank God, are not here, and are to - arrive when they _do_ come one at a time. - - We had so short a meeting before I came away that there was no - time to tell one another anything, and I have such _lots_ to tell. - I didn't think you were looking very happy, Henry dear, _or_ very - well. Do look after yourself. I'm glad your Baronet is taking you - into the country very shortly. I'm sure you need it. But do you - get enough to eat with him? His sister sounds a mean old thing and - I'm sure she scrimps over the housekeeping. (Scrimps is my own - word--isn't it a good one?) Eat all you can when you're in the - country. Make love to the cook. Plunder the pantry. Make a store - in your attic as the burglar did in our beloved _Jim_. - - One of the things I hadn't time to tell you is that I had an - unholy row with every one before we came away. I told you - that a storm was blowing up. It burst all right, and first - the housekeeper told me what she thought and then I told the - housekeeper and then Clarice had _her_ turn and Victoria had - _hers_ and I had the last turn of all. I won a glorious victory - and Victoria has eaten out of my hand ever since, but I'm not sure - that I'm altogether glad. Since it happened Victoria's been half - afraid of me, and is always looking at me as though she expected - me to burst out again, and I don't like people being afraid of - me--it makes me feel small. - - However, there it is and I've got her alone here all to myself, - and I'll see that she isn't frightened long. Then there's - something else. Something---- No, I won't tell you yet. For one - thing I promised not to tell any one, and although you aren't any - one exactly still---- But I shan't be able to keep it from you - very long. I'll just tell you this, that it makes me very, very - happy. Happier than I dreamt any one could ever be. - - I shouldn't think Cladgate was calculated to make any one very - happy. However you never can tell. People like such odd things. - All I've seen of it so far is a long, oily-grey sea like a stretch - of linoleum, a pier with nobody on it, a bandstand with nobody in - it, a desert of a promenade, and the inside of this hotel which - is all lifts, palms, and messenger boys. But I've seen nothing - yet, because I've been all day in Victoria's rooms arranging them - for her. I really think I'm going to love her down here all by - myself. There's something awfully touching about her. She feels - all the time she isn't doing the right thing with her money. She - buys all the newspapers and gets shocks in every line. One moment - it's Ireland, another Poland, another the Germans, and then it's - the awful winter we're going to have and all the Unemployed there - are going to be. I try to read Tennis to her and all about the - wonderful Tilden, and what the fashions are at this moment in - Paris, and how cheerful Mr. Bottomley feels about everything, but - she only listens to what she _wants_ to hear. However, she really - is cheerful and contented for the moment. - - I had a letter from Katherine this morning. She says that mother - is worse and isn't expected to live very long. Aunt Aggie's come - up to see what she can do, and is fighting father and the nurse - all the time. For the first time in my life I'm on Aunt Aggie's - side. Any one who'll fight that nurse has me as a supporter. - Katherine's going to have another baby about November and says she - hopes it will be a girl. If it is it's to be called Millicent. - Poor lamb! Philip's gone in more and more for politics and says - it's everybody's duty to fight the Extremists. He's going to stand - for somewhere in the next Election. - - I _must_ go to bed. I'll write more in a day or two. Write to me - soon and tell me all about everything--and Cheer Up!--Your loving - MILLIE. - Have you seen Peter? - - PANTON ST., _July 21, '20_. - DEAR MILLIE--Thank you very much for your letter. - Cladgate sounds awful, but I daresay it will be better later on - when more people come. I'll make you an awful confession, which - is that there's nothing in the world I like so much as sitting - in a corner in the hall of one of those big seaside hotels and - watching the people. So long as I can sit there and don't have - to do anything and can just notice how silly we all look and how - little we mean any of the things we say, and how over-dressed we - all are and how conscious of ourselves and how bent on food, money - and love, I can stay entranced for hours. . . . However, this is - off the subject. What is your secret? You knowing how inquisitive - I am, are treating me badly. However, I see that you are going to - tell me all about it in another letter or two, so I can afford to - wait. How strangely do our young careers seem to go arm in arm - together at present. What I wanted to tell you the other day, only - I hadn't time, is that I also have been having a row in the house - of my employer--an actual fist-to-fist combat or rather in this - case a chest-to-chest, because we were too close to one another to - use our fists. "We" was not Sir Charles and myself, but his great - bullock of a brother. It was a degrading scene, and I won't go - into details. The bullock tried to poke his nose into what I was - told he wasn't to poke his nose into, and I tried to stop him, and - we fell to the ground with a crash just as Sir Charles came in. - It's ended all right for me, apparently--although I haven't seen - the bullock again since. - - Sir Charles is a brick, Millie; he really is. I'd do anything - for him. He's awfully unhappy and worried. It's hateful sitting - there and not being able to help him. He's had in a typist - fellow to arrange the letters, Herbert Spencer by name. I asked - him whether he were related to the great H. S. and he said no, - that his parents wanted him to be and that's why they called him - Herbert, but that wasn't enough. He has large spectacles and - long sticky fingers and is _very_ thin, but he's a nice fellow - with a splendid Cockney accent. I can now concentrate on the - "tiddley-bits" which are very jolly, and what I shan't know soon - about the Edinburgh of 1800-1840 won't be worth anybody's knowing. - Next week I go down with Duncombe to Duncombe Hall. Unfortunately - Lady Bell-Hall goes down too. I'm sorry, because when I'm with - some one who thinks poorly of me I always make a fool of myself, - which I hate doing. I've been over to the house every day and - enquired, but I haven't seen mother yet. Aunt Aggie is having a - great time. She has ordered the nurse to leave, and the nurse has - ordered her to leave; of course they'll both be there to the end. - Poor mother. . . . But why don't you and I feel it more? We're - not naturally hard or unfeeling. I suppose it's because we know - that mother doesn't care a damn whether we feel for her or no. - She put all her affection into Katherine years ago, and then when - Katherine disappointed her she just refused to give it to anybody. - I would like to see her for ten minutes and tell her I'm sorry - I've been a pig so often, but I don't think she knows any more - what's going on. - - The worst of it is that I _know_ that when she's dead I shall - hate myself for the unkind and selfish things I've done and only - remember her as she used to be years ago, when she took me to the - Army and Navy Stores to buy underclothes and gave me half-a-crown - after the dentist. - - I'm all right. Don't you worry about me. The girl I told you about - is in a terrible position, but I can't do anything at present. I - can only wait until there's a crisis--and I _detest_ waiting as - you know. Peter's all right. He's always asking about you. - - Norman and Forrest are going to reissue two of his early books, - _Reuben Hallard_ and _The Stone House_, and at last he's begun his - novel. He says he'll probably tear it up when he's done a little, - but I don't suppose he will. Do write to him. He thinks a most - awful lot of you. It's important with him when he likes anybody, - because he's shut up his feelings for so long that they mean a - lot when they _do_ come out. Write soon.--Your loving brother, - HENRY. - - - METROPOLITAN HOTEL, CLADGATE, - _July 26, '21._ - DEAREST HENRY--Thank you very much for your letters. I - always like your letters because they tell me just what I want - to know, which letters so seldom do do. Mary Cass, for instance, - tells me about her chemistry and sheep's hearts, and how her - second year is going to be even harder than her first, but never - anything serious. - - The first thing about all this since I wrote last is that it has - rained incessantly. I don't believe that there has ever been such - a wet month as this July since the Flood, and rain is especially - awful here because so many of the ceilings seem to have glassy - bits in them, and the rain makes a noise exactly like five hundred - thunderstorms, and you have to shriek to make yourself heard, and - I hate shrieking. Then it's very depressing, because all the palms - shiver in sympathy, and it's so dark that you have to turn on the - electric light which makes every one look hideous. But I don't - care, I don't care about anything! I'm so happy, Henry, that - I--There! I nearly let the secret out. I know that I shan't be - able to keep it for many more letters and I told him yesterday---- - No, I _won't_. I must keep my promise. - Here's Victoria,--I must write to you again to-morrow. - - - Telegram: - _July_ 27. - Who's Him? Let me know by return. - HENRY. - - CLADGATE, _July_ 28. - DEAREST HENRY--You're very imperative, aren't you? Fancy - wasting money on a telegram and your finances in the state they're - in. Well, I won't tantalize you any longer; indeed, I _can't_ keep - it from you, but remember that it's a secret to the whole world - for some time to come. - - Well. I am engaged to a man called Baxter, and I love him - terribly. He doesn't know how much I love him, nor is he going to - know--ever. That's the way to keep men in their places. Who is he - you say? Well, he's a young man who came to help Clarice with her - theatricals in London. I think I loved him the very first moment - I saw him--he was so young and simple and jolly and honest, and - _such_ a relief after all the tantrums going on elsewhere. He says - he loved me from the first moment, too, and I believe he did. His - people are all right. His father's dead, but his mother lives in - a lovely old house in Wiltshire, and wears a lace white cap. He's - the only child, and his mother (whom I haven't yet seen) adores - him. It's because of her that we're keeping things quiet for the - moment, because she's staying up in Scotland with some relatives, - and he wants to tell her all about it by word of mouth instead of - writing to her. I hate mysteries. I always did--but it seems a - small thing to grant him. He's working at the Bar, but as there - appears to be no chance of making a large income out of that for - some time, he thinks he'll help a man in some motor works--there's - nothing about motors that he doesn't know. Meanwhile, he's staying - here in rooms near the hotel. Of course, Victoria has been told - nothing, but I think she guesses a good deal. She'd be stupid if - she didn't. - - I've never been in love before. I had no conception of what it - means. I'm not going to rhapsodize--you needn't be afraid, but - in my secret self I've _longed_ for some one to love and look - after. Of course, I love you, Henry dear, and always will, and - certainly you need looking after, but that's different. I want to - do _every_thing for Ralph (that's the name his mother gave him, - but most people call him Bunny), mend his socks, cook his food, - comfort him in trouble, laugh with him when he's happy, be poor - with him, be rich with him, _anything, everything_. Of course I - mustn't show him I want to do all that, it wouldn't be good for - him, and we must both keep our independence, but I never knew - that love took you so entirely outside yourself, and threw you so - completely inside some one else. - - Now you're quite different; I don't mean that your way of being - in love isn't just as good as mine, but it's _different_. With - you it's all in the romantic idea. I believe you like it better - when she slips away from you, always just is beyond you, so that - you can keep your idea without tarnishing it by contact. You want - yours to be beautiful--I want mine to be real. And Bunny _is_ - real. There's no doubt about it at all. - - Oh! I do hope you'll like him. You're so funny about people. One - never knows what you're going to think. He's quite different from - Peter, of course--he's _much_ younger for one thing, and he isn't - _intellectually_ clever. Not that he's stupid, but he doesn't care - for your kind of books and music. I'm rather glad of that. I don't - want my husband to be cleverer than I am. I want him to respect me. - - I'm terribly anxious for you both to meet. Bunny says he'll be - afraid of you. You sound so clever. It's still raining, but of - course I don't care. Victoria is a sweet pet and will go to - Heaven.--Your loving sister, MILLICENT. - - _P.S._--Don't tell Peter. - - PANTON ST., _July 30._ - MY DEAR MILL--I don't quite know what to say. Of course, - I want you to be happy, and I'd do anything to make you so, but - somehow he doesn't sound quite the man I expected you to marry. - Are you _sure_, Millie dear, that he didn't seem nice just because - everybody at the Platts seemed horrid? However, whatever will make - you happy will please me. As soon as I come up from Duncombe I - must meet him, and give you both my grand-paternal blessing. We go - down to Duncombe to-morrow, and if it goes on raining like this, - it will be pretty damp, I expect. I won't pretend that I'm feeling - very cheerful. _My_ affair is in a horrid state. I can't bear to - leave her, and yet there's nothing else for me to do. However, I - shall be able to run up about once a week and see her. Her mother - is still friendly, but I expect a row at any moment. This news of - yours seems to have removed you suddenly miles away. It's selfish - of me to feel that, but it was all so grizzly at home yesterday - that for the moment I'm depressed. Oh, Millie, I do hope you'll be - happy. . . . You must be, you must!--Your loving brother, - HENRY. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -HENRY AT DUNCOMBE - - -In the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found himself -standing in the pouring rain on the little wind-driven platform of -Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe. - -He was trying to whistle as he stood under the eaves of the little -hideous roof, his hands deep in his waterproof, his eyes fixed sternly -upon a pile of luggage over which he was mounting guard. The car -ordered to meet them had not appeared, the ancient Moffatt was staring -down the wet road in search of it, Sir Charles was telephoning and -Lady Bell-Hall shivering over the simulacrum of a fire in the little -waiting-room. - -Henry did not feel very cheerful; this was not a happy prelude to a -month at Duncombe Hall, and the weather had been during the last few -weeks more than even England's reputation could tolerate. - -Henry was very susceptible to atmosphere, and now the cold and wet and -gathering dusk seem to have been sent towards him from Duncombe and to -speak ominously in his ear of what he would find there. - -He had seldom in all his young life felt so lonely, and he seemed to -be back in the War again waiting in a muddy trench for dawn to break -and . . . - -"I've succeeded in procuring something," wheezed Moffatt in his ear, -"if you'd kindly assist with the luggage, Mr. Blanchard." - -(It was one of Moffat's most trying peculiarities that he could not -master Henry's name.) - -"Why, it's a four-wheeler!" Henry heard Lady Bell-Hall miserably -exclaim. - -"It's all I could do, m'lady," creaked Moffatt. "Very difficult--'s -time of the evening. Did m' best, m'lady." - -They climbed inside and were soon rising and sinking in a grey dusk, -whilst boxes, bags and packages surged around them. There was complete -silence, and at last Lady Bell-Hall went to sleep on Henry's shoulder, -to his extreme physical pain, because a hatpin stuck sharply into his -shoulder, and spiritual alarm, because he knew how deeply she would -resent his support when she woke up. Strange thoughts flitted through -his head as he bumped and jolted to the rattle of the wheels. They -were dead, stumbling to the Styx, other coaches behind them; he could -fancy the white faces peering from the windows, the dark coachman and -yet other grey figures stealing from the dusky hedges and climbing in -to their fore-destined places. The Styx? It would be cold and windy -and the rain would hiss upon the sluggish waters. An exposed boat as -he had always understood, the dim figures huddled together, their eyes -straining to the farther shore. He nodded, nodded, nodded--Millie, -Christina . . . Mrs. Tenssen . . . a strange young man called Baxter -whom he hated at sight and tried to push from the Coach. The figure -changed to Tom Duncombe, swelling to an enormous size, swelling, -ever swelling, filling the coach so that they were breathless, -crushed . . . a sharp pricking awoke him to a consciousness of Lady -Bell-Hall's hatpin and then, quite suddenly, to something else. The -noise that he heard, not loud, but in some way penetrating beyond -the rattle and mumble of the cab, was terrifying. Some one in great -pain--grr--grr--grr--Ah! Ah!--grr--the noise compressed between the -teeth and coming in little gasps of agony. - -"What is it?" he said, in a whisper. "Is that you, sir?" He could -see very little, the afternoon light faint and green behind the -rain-blurred panes, but the black figure of Duncombe was hunched up -against the cab-corner. - -"What is it? Oh, sir, what is it?" - -Then very far away a voice came to him, the words faltering from -clenched teeth. - -"It's nothing. . . . Pain bad for a moment----" - -"Shall I stop the cab, sir?" - -"No, no. . . . Don't wake my--sister." - -The sound of agonizing pain behind the words was like something quite -inhuman, unearthly, coming from the ground beneath the cab. - -Henry, trembling with sympathy, and a blind eagerness to help, leant -forward. Could he change seats? He had wished to sit with his back to -the horses but Duncombe had insisted on his present place. - -"Please . . . can't I do something?" - -"No . . . nothing. It will pass in a moment." - -A hand, trembling, came out and touched his, then suddenly clutched -it, jumping from its weak quiver into a frantic grasp, almost crushing -Henry's. The hand was hot and damp. For the moment in the contact -with that trouble, the world seemed to stop--there was no sound, no -movement--even the rain had withered away. . . . Then the hand trembled -again, relaxed, withdrew. - -Henry said nothing. He was shaking from head to foot. - -Lady Bell-Hall awoke. "Oh, where am I? Who's that? Is that the -bell? . . ." Then very stiffly: "Oh, I'm very sorry, Mr. Trenchard. I'm -afraid I was dozing. Are we nearly there? Are you there, Charles?" - -Very faintly the voice came back. - -"Yes . . . another half-mile. We've passed Brantiscombe." - -"Really, this cab. I wonder what Mortimers were doing, not sending us a -taxi. On a day like this too." - -There was silence again. The cab bumped along. Henry could think of -nothing but that agonizing whisper. Only terrible suffering could -have produced that and from such a man as Duncombe. The affection and -devotion that had grown through these months was now redoubled. He -would do anything for him, anything. Had he known? Memories came back -to him of hours in the library when Sir Charles had sat there, his -face white, his eyes sternly staring. Perhaps then. . . . But surely -some one knew? He moved impatiently, longing for this horrible journey -to be ended. Then there were lights, a gate swung back, and they were -jolting down between an avenue of trees. Soon the cab stopped with a -jerk before a high grey stone building that stood in the half-light as -a veiling shadow for a high black doorway and broad sweeping steps. -Behind, in front and on every side they were surrounded, it seemed, by -dripping and sighing trees. Lady Bell-Hall climbed out with many little -tweaks of dismay and difficulty, then Henry. He turned and caught one -revealing vision of Sir Charles's face--white, drawn and most strangely -aged--as he stood under the yellow light from a hanging square lantern -before moving into the house. - -At once standing in the hall Henry loved the house. It seemed -immediately to come towards him with a gesture of friendliness and -sympathy. The hall was wide and high with a deep stone fireplace and -a dark oak staircase peering from the shadows. It was ill-lit; the -central lamp had been designed apparently to throw light only on the -portrait of a young man in the dress of the early eighteenth century -that hung over the fireplace. Under his portrait Henry read--"Charles -Forest Duncombe--October 13th, 1745." - -An elderly, grave-looking woman stood there and a young apple-cheeked -footman to whom Moffatt was "tee-heeing, tut-tutting" in a supercilious -whisper. Lady Bell-Hall recovered a little. "Ah, there you are, Morgan. -Quite well? That's right. And we'll have tea in the Blue Boom. It's -very late because Mortimer never sent the taxi, but we'll have tea -all the same. I must have tea. Take Pretty One, please, Morgan. Don't -drop her. Ickle-Ickle-Ickle. Was it cold because we were in a nasty -slow cab, was it then? There, then, darling. Morgan shall take her -then--kind Morgan. Yes, tea in the Blue Room, please." - -At last Henry was in his room, a place to which he had come, as it -seemed to him, through endless winding passages and up many corkscrew -stairs. It was a queer-shaped little room with stone walls, a stone -floor and very narrow high windows. There was, of course, no fire, -because in England we keep religiously to the seasons whatever the -weather may be. The rain was driving heavily upon the window-panes -and some branches drove with irregular monotony against the glass. -The furniture was of the simplest, and there was only one picture, -an oil-painting over the fireplace, of a thin-faced, dark-browed, -eighteenth-century priest, cadaverous, menacing, scornful. - -Henry seemed to be miles away from any human company. Not a sound came -to him save the rain and the driving branches. He washed his hands, -brushed his hair, and prepared to find his way downstairs, but beside -the door he paused. As he had fancied in the library in Hill Street, -so now again it seemed to him that something was whispering to him, -begging him for sympathy and understanding. He looked back to the -little chill room, then up to the portrait of the priest, then to the -window beyond which he could see the thin grey twilight changing to -the rainy dark. He stood listening, then with a little shiver, half of -pleasure, half of apprehension, he went out into the passage. - -His journey, then, was full of surprises. The house was deserted. The -passage in which he found himself was bordered with rooms, and after -passing two or three doors he timidly opened one and peered in. In -the dusk he could see but little, the air that met him was close and -heavy, dust blew into his nostrils, and he could just discern a high -four-poster bed. The floor was bare and chill. Another room into which -he looked was apparently quite empty. The passage was now very dark -and he had no candle; he stumbled along, knocking his elbow against -the wall. "They might have put me in a livelier part of the house," he -thought; and yet he was not displeased, carrying still with him the -sense that he was welcome here and not alone. In the dusk he nearly -pitched forward over a sudden staircase, but finding an oak banister he -felt his way cautiously downward. On the next floor he was faced with a -large oak door, which would lead, he fancied, to the other part of the -house. He pushed it slowly back and found himself in a chapel suffused -with a dark purple light that fell from the stained-glass window above -the altar. - -He could see only dimly, but above the oaken seats he fancied that some -tattered flags were hanging. Here the consciousness of sympathy that -had been with him from the beginning grew stronger. Something seemed to -be urging him to sit down there and wait. The air grew thicker and the -windows, seats and walls were veiled in purple smoky mist. He crept out -half-ashamedly as though he were deserting some one, found the stairs -again, and a moment later was in a well-lit carpeted passage. With a -sigh of relief he saw beyond him Moffatt and the footman carrying the -tea. - -He woke next day to an early morning flood of sunshine. His monastic -little room with its stone walls and narrow windows swam in the light -that sparkled, as though over water, above his faded blue carpet. -He went to his window and looked out on to a boxwood garden with a -bleached alley that led to a pond, a statue and a little green arbour. -Beyond the garden there were woods, pale green, purple, black against -the brightness of the early morning sky. Thousands of birds were -singing and the grass was intensely vivid after the rain of the day -before, running in the far distance around the arbour like a newly -painted green board. - -The impression that the next week made was all of colour, light and -sunshine. That strange melancholy that had seemed to him to pervade -everything on the night of his arrival was now altogether gone, -although a certain touching, intangible wistfulness was there in -everything that he saw and heard. - -The house was much smaller than he had at first supposed--compact, -square, resembling in many ways an old-fashioned doll's house. Duncombe -told him that small as it was they had closed some of the rooms, and -apologized to him for giving him a bedroom in the unfurnished portion. -"In reality," he explained, "that part of the house where you are is -the brightest and most cheerful side. Our mother, to whom my sister -was devotedly attached, died in the room next to yours, and my sister -cannot bear to cross those passages." - -The little chapel was especially enchanting to Henry; the stained glass -of the east window was most lovely, deep, rich, seeming to sink into -the inmost depths of colour; it gave out shadows of purple and red -and blue that he had never seen before. The three old flags that hung -over the little choir were tattered and torn, but proud. All the rooms -in the house were small, the ceilings low, the fireplaces deep and -draughty. - -Henry soon perceived that Duncombe loved this house with a passionate -devotion. He seemed to become another man as he moved about in it -busied continually with tiny details, touching this, shifting that, -having constant interviews with Spiders, the gardener, a large, -furry-faced man, and old Moffatt, and Simon, the apple-cheeked footman; -an identity suddenly in its right place, satisfying its soul, knowing -its true country as he had never seemed to do in London. - -Henry saw no recurrence of the crisis in the cab. Duncombe made no -allusion to it and gave no sign of pain--only Henry fancied that behind -Duncombe's eyes he saw a foreboding consciousness of some terror lying -in wait for him and ready to spring. - -The room in which he worked was a little library, diminutive in -comparison with the one in London, on the ground floor, looking out on -to the garden with the statue of Cupid and the pond--a dear little room -with old black-faced busts and high glass-fronted bookcases. He had -brought a number of books down with him, and soon he had settled into -the place as though he had been there all his life. - -The interval of that bright, sunny, bird-haunted week seemed, when -afterwards he looked back to it, like a pause given to him in which -to prepare for the events that were even then crowding, grey-shaped, -face-muffled, to his door. . . . - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -AND PETER IN LONDON - - -The Third of the Company meanwhile was feeling lonely and deserted in -London. London in August is really depressing in spite of its being the -conventional habit to say so. Around every worker's brain there is a -consciousness of the wires of captivity, and although the weather may -be, and indeed generally is, cold, wet and dark, nevertheless it is -hard to doubt but that it is bright and shining by the sea and on the -downs. - -Peter could have gone into the country--nothing really held him to -London--but he had in literal truth no one with whom to go. In the past -he had not grumbled at having no friends; that was after all his own -choice--no one was to blame save himself--but during these last months -something had happened to him. He was at length waking from a sleep -that seemed to him as he looked back to have lasted ever since that -terrible night that he had spent on the hill outside Tobias, the night -of the day that Norah Monogue had died. - -At last he was waking. What he had said to Millie was true--his -interest in herself and Henry was the force that had stirred him--and -stirred him now to what dangerous ends? - -One night early in August flung him suddenly at the truth. - -Two of the Three Graces--Grace Talbot and Jane Ross--were at home to -their friends in their upper part in Soho Square. Peter went because -he could not endure another lonely evening in his rooms--another hour -by himself and he would be forced to face the self-confession that now -at every cost he must avoid. So he went out and found himself in the -little low-ceilinged rooms, thick with smoke and loud with conversation. - -Grace Talbot was looking very faint and languid, buried in a large -armchair in the centre of the room with a number of men round her; Jane -Ross, plainer and more pasty than ever, was trying to be a genial -hostess, and discovering, not for the first time, that a caustic tongue -was more easily active than a kind heart. She wanted to be nice to -every one, but, really, people _were_ so absurd and so stupid _and_ so -slow. It wasn't her fault that she was so much cleverer than every one -else. She didn't _want_ to be. But there you were; one can't help one's -fate. - -Peter was greeted by one or two and settled down into a chair in a -corner near a nice, fat, red-faced man called Amos Campbell. Campbell -was a novelist who had once been of the Galleon school and full of -Galleonish subtleties, and now was popular and Trollopian. He was, -perhaps, a trifle over-pleased with himself and the world, a little too -prosperous and jolly and optimistic, and being in addition the son of -a Bishop, his voice at times rose to a pulpit ring, but he meant well, -was vigorous and bland and kindly. The Graces thoroughly despised him -and Peter was astonished to see him there. Perhaps Nister or Gale or -one of the other men had brought him. He would have received no mention -in this history had it not been for a conversation that had important -results both for Peter and Henry. - -Literary parties were curious affairs in 1920; they shared the strange -general character of that year in their confusion and formlessness. It -was a fact that at that time in London there was not a single critical -figure who commanded general respect. No school of criticism carried -any authority outside its immediate following--not one man nor woman -alive in Great Britain at that moment, not one literary journal, -weekly, monthly, or daily, carried enough weight behind its literary -judgments to shift for a moment the success or failure of a book or a -personality. Monteith, whose untidy black hair and pale face Peter saw -in the distance, had been expected to do great things, but as soon as -he had commanded a literary weekly he had shown that he had no more -breadth, nor wisdom, nor knowledge than the other men around him, -and he had fallen quickly into the hands of a small clique who wrote -for his papers in a happy spirit of mutual admiration. All this was -nobody's fault--it was the note of a period that was far stronger in -its character than any single human being in it. - -Everything was in the whirlpool of change, and that little room -to-night, with its smoke, furious conversation, aimless wandering of -dim figures moving in and out of the haze, formed a very good symbol of -the larger world outside. - -Peter exchanged a few sentences with Campbell then fell into silence. -Suddenly the restraint that he had been forcing upon himself for the -last two months was relaxed. He would think of her. Why should he not? -For five minutes. For five minutes. In that dim, smoke-obscured room -who would know, who could tell, who could see her save himself? - -She came towards him, smiling, laughing, suddenly springing up before -him, her arms outstretched, bright in her orange jumper as she had been -on that day in Henry's room; then her face changed, softened, gravity -came into it; she was leaning towards him, listening to his story, her -eyes were kindly, she stretched out her hand and touched his knee, he -held out his arms. . . . Oh God! but he must not. She was not for him, -she could not be. Even were he not already tied what could he offer her -with his solemnity and dreaminess? . . . He sprang up. - -"Going already?" said Campbell. "Had enough of it?" - -"No. I want to speak to Monteith. Hullo, there's Seymour. Keep him off, -Campbell. His self-satisfaction is more than I could endure just now." - -He sat down again and watched the figures, so curiously dim and unreal -that it might be a world of ghosts. - -"Ghosts? Perhaps we are. Anyway we soon will be." - -Jane Ross came stumping towards him. "Oh, Mr. Westcott! Come and make -yourself useful. There's Anna Makepeace over there, who wrote _Plum -Bun_. You ought to know her." - -"I'm very happy where I am." She stumped away, and, sitting back in his -chair, he was suddenly aware of Grace Talbot, who, although Monteith -had come up and was talking very seriously, was staring in front of -her, lost, many miles away, dreaming. - -She was suddenly human to him, she who had been for the most part the -drop of ink at the end of a cynical pen, the contemptuous flash of an -arrogant eye, the languorous irony of a dismissing hand. - -She was as unhappy as himself; perceiving it suddenly and her -essential loneliness he felt a warmth of feeling for her that intensely -surprised him. "What children we all are!" he said to himself: "the -Graces, Monteith, the great Mr. Winch, the Parisian Mrs. Wanda, and all -the rest of us! How little we know! What insecure, fumbling artists the -best of us--and the only two great writers of our time are the humblest -men amongst us. After all _our_ arrogance is necessary for us because -we have failed, written so badly, travelled such a tiny way." - -An urgent longing for humility, generosity, humour, kindliness of heart -swept over him. He felt that at that moment he could love any one, -however slow and conventional their brain were their heart honest, -generous and large. He and Monteith and Grace Talbot were leading -little hemmed-in lives, moving in little hemmed-in groups, talking in -little hemmed-in phrases. - -Like Henry a few months earlier a revelation seemed to come to him that -Life was the gate to Art, not Art to Life. He surely had been taught -that lesson again and again and yet he had not learnt it. - -He was pulled out into the centre of the room by a sudden silence and a -realization that every one was listening to a heated argument between -Monteith and Campbell. Grace Talbot was looking up from her chair at -the two men with her accustomed glance of lazy superiority. - -Westcott was surprised at Campbell, who was a comfortable man, eager -to be liked by every one, afraid therefore to risk controversy lest -some one should be displeased, practised in saying the thing that his -neighbour wished to hear. - -But something on this occasion had become too strong for him and -dragged him for once into a public declaration of faith, regardless -whether he offended or no. - -"You're all wrong, Monteith," he burst out. "You're all wrong. And -I'll tell you why. I'm ten years older than you are and ten years -ago I might have thought as you do. Now I know better. You're wrong -because you're arrogant, and you're arrogant because you're limited, -and you're limited because you've surrounded yourself with smaller -men who all think as you do. You've come to look on the world simply -as one big field especially manured by God for the sowing of your own -little particular seed. If other poor humans choose to beg for some of -your seed you'll let them have it and give them permission to sow, but -there's only one kind of seed, and you know what kind that is. - -"Well, you're wrong. You've got a decent little plant that was stronger -six years ago than it is now--but still not a bad little plant. You're -fluent and clever and modern; you're better than some of them, Grace -Talbot here, for instance, because you _do_ believe in the past and -believe that it has some kind of connection with the present, but -you've deliberately narrowed your talent _and_ your influence by your -arrogance. Arrogance, Arrogance, Arrogance--that's the matter with all -of you--and the matter with Literature and Art to-day, and politics -too. You all think you've got the only recipe and that you've nothing -to learn. You've _everything_ to learn. Any ploughman in Devonshire -to-day could teach you, only the trouble is that he's arrogant too now -and thinks he knows everything because his Labour leaders tell him so." - -Campbell paused and Monteith struck in. Monteith when he was studying -at Cambridge the Arts of being a Public Man had learnt that Rule No. 1 -was--Never lose your temper in public unless the crowd is with you. - -He remained therefore perfectly calm, simply scratching his hair and -rubbing his bristly chin. - -"Very good, Campbell. But aren't you being a little bit arrogant -yourself? And quite right, too. You ought to be arrogant and I ought -to be. We both imagine that we know something about literature. Well, -why shouldn't we say what we know? What's the good of the blind leading -the blind? Why should I pretend that I know as little as Mr. Snookes -and Mr. Jenks? I know more than they. Why should I pretend that every -halfpenny novelist who happens to be the fashion of the moment is worth -attention? Why shouldn't I select the good work and praise it and leave -the rest alone?" - -"Yes," said Campbell; "what's good work by your over-sophisticated, -over-read, over-intellectual standard? Well and good if you'll say I've -trained myself in such and such a way and my opinions are there. My -training, my surroundings, my own talent, my friends have all persuaded -me in this direction. There are other men, other works that may be good -or bad. I don't know. About contemporary Art one can only be personal, -never final. I have neither the universal temperament nor the universal -training to be Judge. I can be Advocate, Special Pleader. I can show -you something good that you haven't noticed before." - -"I am _not_ God Almighty, nor do I come straight from Olympus. I have -still a lot to learn." - -"If you'll forgive me saying so, Mr. Campbell," said Jane Ross, "you're -talking the most arrant nonsense. You're doing your best to break -down what a few of us are trying to restore--some kind of a literary -standard. At last there's an attempt being made to praise good work and -leave the fools alone." - -"And _I'm_ one of the fools," broke in Campbell. "Oh, I know. But -don't think there's personal feeling in this. There might have been -ten years ago. I worried then a terrible deal about whether I were an -artist or no; I cared what you people said, read your reviews and was -damnably puzzled by the different decisions you gave. And then suddenly -I said to myself: 'Why shouldn't I have some fun? Life's short. I'm -not a great artist, and never shall be. I'll write to please myself.' -And I did. And I've been happy ever since. You're just as divided -about me as you used to be. And just as divided about one another. The -only difference is that you still worry about one another and fight -and scratch, and I bow to your superior judgment--and enjoy myself. I -haven't much of an intellect, I'm not a good critic, but I'm nearer -real life than you are, any of you. What you people are doing is not -separating the sheep from the goats as you think you are--none of -you are decided as to who the sheep really are--but you are simply -separating Life from Art. We're not an artistic nation--nothing will -ever make us one. We've provided some of the greatest artists the world -has ever seen because of our vitality and our independence of cliques. -How much about Art did Richardson and Fielding, Scott and Jane Austen, -Thackeray and Dickens, Trollope and Hardy consciously know? When has -Hardy ever written one single statement about Art outside his own -prefaces, and in them he talks simply of his own books. But these men -knew about life. Fielding could tell you what the inside of a debtor's -prison is like, and Scott could plant trees, and Thackeray was no mean -judge of a shady crowd at a foreign watering-place, and Hardy knew -all about milking a cow. What do you people know about anything save -literary values and over them you squabble all the while. There aren't -any literary values until Time has spoken. But there is such a thing -as responding to the beauty in something that you've seen or read and -telling others that you've enjoyed it--and there are more things in -this world to enjoy--even in the mess that it's in at this moment--than -any of you people realize." - -Campbell stopped. Seymour, who was standing just behind him, saw fit to -remark: "How right you are, Campbell; Life's glorious it seems to me. -What was it Stevenson said: 'Life is so full of a number of things.'" - -Poor Campbell! Nothing more terrible than Seymour's appreciation was to -be found in the London of that period. - -"Oh, damn!" Campbell muttered. "I didn't see you were there, Seymour. -Just my luck." - -But Peter had been watching Grace Talbot's eyes. She had not listened -to a word of the little discussion. The cessation of voices pulled her -back. "You're a good fellow, Campbell," she said. "You've got a good -digestion, a gift for narrative, very little intellect, and at fifty -you'll be very fat and have purple veins in your nose. We all like you, -but you really must forgive us for not taking you seriously." - -Campbell laughed. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "But which is -better? To be a second-rate artist and free or to be a second-rate -artist and bound? Your little stories are very nice, Grace, but they -aren't as good as either Tchehov or Maupassant. Monteith's poetry is -clever, but it isn't as good as T. E. Brown on one side or Clough on -the other, and neither T. E. Brown or Clough were first-rate poets. So -can't we, all of us, second-raters as we are, afford to be generous to -one another and take everything a little less solemnly? Life's passing, -you know. Happiness and generosity are worth having." - -"We will now sing Hymn 313: 'Onward Christian Soldiers.'" said Jane -Ross, laughing. "Next Sunday being the Third after Trinity the sermon -at Evensong will be preached by the Rev. Amos Campbell, Rector of -Little Marrow Pumpernickel. He will take as his text 'Blessed are the -meek for they shall inherit the earth.' The Collection will be for -Church Expenses." - -Every one laughed but Grace Talbot moved restlessly in her chair. - -"All the same," she said, "Amos is right in a way. Why the devil -don't we write better? I wish--I wish----" But nobody knew what she -wished because the great Mr. Winch arrived at that moment and demanded -attention. - - * * * * * - -Peter walked home to his Marylebone rooms in a fine confusion of -thought and feeling. Campbell was a bit of a fool, too fat, too -prosperous, too anxious to be popular, but he was a happy man and a man -who was living his life at its very fullest. He was not a great artist, -of course--great artists are never happy--but he had a narrative -gift that it amused him to play every morning of his life from ten -to twelve, and he made money from that gift and could buy books and -pictures and occasionally do a friend a good turn. Monteith and Grace -Talbot and the others were more serious artists and were more seriously -considered, but their gifts came to mighty little in the end--thin, -little streams. As to Peter his gift came simply to nothing at all. And -yet he did not wish to be Campbell. Too much prosperity was bad and -Campbell in the "slippered and pantaloon" age, when it came to him, -would be unpleasant to behold. _His_ enchantment was very different -from Millie's and Henry's, bless them. At the thought of them there -came such a longing for them, for their physical presence, their cheery -voices, their laughter and noise, that he could scarcely endure his -loneliness. _Theirs_ was the Age. _Theirs_ the Kingdom, the Power and -the Glory. - -And why should he not long for Millie? For the second time that evening -he abandoned himself to the thought of her. As he walked down Oxford -Street, pearl-grey under sheeted stars, he conjured her to his side, -put his arm about her, bent down and raised her face to his, kissed -her. . . . Why should he not? He was married. But that was such years -ago. Was he to be cursed for ever because of that early mistake? - -Maybe Clare was dead. He would go off to France to-morrow and make -another search. Now when real love had come to him at last he would -not be cheated any more. Life was passing. In a few years it would be -too late. His agonized longing for Millie seized him so that he stood -for a moment outside the shuttered windows of Selfridge's, frozen into -immobility by the power of his desire. - -At least he could be her friend--her friend who would run to the -world's end for her if she wished it; to be her friend and to write as -Campbell had said simply for his own fun--after all, he was getting -something out of life in that; to go on and see this new world -developing in _her_ eyes, to help _her_ to get the best out of it, -to live for the young generation through _her_. . . . So strong was -his desire that he really believed for a moment that she was by his -side. . . . - -"Millie," he whispered. When in his rooms he switched on the light he -found on his table two letters; he saw at once that one was in Millie's -handwriting. Eagerly he tore it open. He read it: - - METROPOLITAN HOTEL, CLADGATE. - MY DEAR PETER--I feel that you must be the next human - being after Henry to hear a piece of news that has made me very - happy. I am engaged--to a man called Baxter. I met him first at - Miss Platt's and fell in love with him at first sight. I do hope - you'll like him. I'm sure you will. I've told him about you and he - says he's afraid of you because you sound so clever. He's clever - too in his own way, but it isn't books. I'm _so_ happy and it - does seem so selfish when the world is in such a mess and so many - people are hard up. But this only happens once! - - I do want you to meet Bunny (that's Baxter) as soon as ever you - can.--Your affectionate friend, - MILLICENT TRENCHARD. - -When Peter had finished the letter he switched off the light and sat -on, staring at the blue-faced window-pane. - - - -BOOK III - -FIRST BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY - - - -CHAPTER I - -ROMANCE AND CLADGATE - - -I - -"You ought to have told me about it before, dear," said Victoria. "You -knew how simply _thrilled_ I'd be." - -Millie and Victoria were sitting in low chairs near the band. In front -of them was the sea walk along whose grassy surface people passed and -repassed--beyond the grass a glittering, sparkling sea of blue and -gold: above their heads a sky of stainless colour. In rows to right -and left of them serried ranks of deck-chairs were packed together and -every chair contained a more-or-less human being. The band could be -heard now rising above the chatter, now falling out of sight altogether -as though the bandsmen were plunged two or three times a minute into a -deep pit, there to cool and reflect a little before swinging up again. - -It was so hot and glittering a day that every one was -happy--hysterically so, perhaps, because the rain was certain to -return, so that they were an army holding a fort that they knew they -were not strong enough to defend for long. There were boats like -butterflies on the sea, and every once and again an aeroplane throbbed -above the heads of the visitors and reminded them that they were living -in the twentieth century. - -Millie, who adored the sun and was in the nature of things almost -terribly happy, drew the eyes of every passer-by towards her. She was -conscious of this as she was conscious of her health, her happiness, -her supreme confidence in eternal benevolence, her charity to all the -world. Victoria had been, before Millie made her confession, in a state -of delight with her clothes, her hat, her parasol, her publicity and -her digestion. Millie's news threw her into an oddly confused state -of delight, trepidation and self-importance. She thrilled to the -knowledge that there was a wonderful romance going on at her very side, -but it would mean, perhaps, that she would lose Millie, and she thought -it, on the whole, rather impertinent of Mr. Baxter. It hurt her, too, -that this should have existed for weeks at her side and that she should -have noticed nothing of it. - -"Oh, my Millie, you should have told me!" she cried. - -"I would have told you at once," said Millie, "but Bunny wanted us to -be quiet about it for a week or two, until his mother returned from -Scotland." - -"But you could have told me," continued Victoria. "I'm so safe and -never tell _anything_. And why should Mr. Baxter keep it quiet as -though he were ashamed of it?" - -"I know," said Millie. "I didn't want him to. I hate secrecy and plots -and mysteries. And so I told him. But it was only for a week or two. -And his mother comes down from Scotland on Friday." - -"Well, I hope it will be a long engagement, darling, so that you may be -quite sure before you do it. I remember a cousin of ours meeting a girl -at tea in our house, proposing to her before he'd had his second cup, -marrying her next morning at a registry office and separating from her -a week later. He took to drink after that and married his cook, and now -he has ten children and not a penny." - -The music rose into a triumphant proclamation of Sir William Gilbert's -lyric concerning "Captain Sure," and Victoria discovered two friends -of hers from the hotel, sitting quite close to her and very friendly -indeed. - -Although they had been at Cladgate so short a time Victoria had -acquired a large and various circle of new acquaintances, a circle very -different indeed from the one that filled the house in Cromwell Road. -Millie was amused to see how swiftly Victoria's wealth enabled her to -change from one type of human to another. No New Art in Cladgate! No, -indeed. Mostly very charming, warm-hearted people with no nonsense -about them. Millie also perceived that so soon as any human creature -floated into the atmosphere of Victoria's money it changed like a -chameleon. However ungrasping and unacquisitive it may have hitherto -been, the consciousness that now with a little gush and patience it -might obtain something for nothing had an astonishing effect. - -All Victoria desired was to be loved, and by as many people as -possible. Within a week the whole of visiting Cladgate adored her. It -adored her so much that it was willing to eat her food, sit in her -car, allow itself to be taken to the theatre free of expense, and -make little suggestions about possible gifts that would be gratefully -received. - -All that was requested of it in return was that it should praise -Victoria to her face and allow her to exercise her power of command. - -Millie did not think the worse of human nature for this. She perceived -that in these strange times when prices were so high and incomes so -low any one would do anything for money. A certain Captain Blatt--a -cheerful gentleman of any age from thirty to fifty--was quite frank -with her about it. "I was quite a normal man before the war, Miss -Trenchard. I was, I assure you. Stockbroking in the City and making -enough to have a good time. Now I'm making nothing--and I would do -anything for money. _Anything._ Let some one offer me a thousand pounds -down and I will sell my soul for three months. One must exist, you -know." - -Victoria's happiness was touching to behold. The Blocks, the Balaclavas -and the rest were entirely forgotten. Millie had hoped, at first, -that she might do something towards stemming this new tide of hungry -ones. But after a warning or two she saw that she was powerless. "Why, -Millie," cried Victoria, "you're becoming a cynic. You suspect every -one. I'm sure Mrs. Norman is perfectly sweet and it's too adorable of -her to want me to be god-mother to her new darling baby. And poor Mr. -Hackett! With his brother consumptive at Davos and depending entirely -upon him and his old mother nearly ninety, and his business all gone to -pieces because of the War, of course I must help him. What's my money -for?" - -Meanwhile this same money poured forth like water. Would it one day be -exhausted? Millie wrote to Dr. Brooker and asked him to keep a watch. -"She's quite hopeless just now," she wrote, "but we're only here for -another three weeks. I suppose we must let her have her fun while she -can." - -Nevertheless it was upon this same beautiful afternoon that she -realized a more sinister and personally dangerous effect of Victoria's -generosity. She was sitting back in her chair, almost asleep. The world -came as a coloured murmur to her, the faint rhythm of the band, the -soft blue of sea and sky, the sharp note of Victoria's voice--"Oh, -really!" "Fancy indeed!" "Just think!" The warmth upon her body was -like an encircling arm caressing her very gently with the little breeze -that was its voice. She seemed to swing out to sea and back again, -lazily, lazily, too happy, too sleepy to think, fading into unreality, -into nothing but colour, soft blue swathes of colour wrapping her -round. . . . Then suddenly, with a sharp outline like a black pencil -drawing against a white background, she saw Bunny. - -Beautifully dressed in white flannels, a straw hat pushed back a little -from his forehead, he stood, some way down the green path, half-turned -in her direction, searching amongst the chairs. - -She noticed all the things about him that she loved--his neatness, his -slim body, his dark eyes, sunburnt forehead, black moustache, his mouth -even then unconsciously half-smiling, his breeding, his self-confidence. - -"Ah! how I love him!" and still swaying out to sea she, from that blue -distance, could adore him without fear that he would hold her cheap. - -"I love him, I love him----" Then from the very heart of the blue, -sharply like the burst of a cracker in her ear, a sound snapped--"Look -out! Look out! There's danger here!" - -The sound was so sharp that as one does after some terrifying nightmare -she awoke with a clap of consciousness, sitting up in her chair -bewildered. Had some one spoken? Had an aeroplane swooped suddenly -down? Had she really slept? Everything now was close upon her, pressing -her in--the metallic clash of the band, the voices, the brush of -incessant footsteps upon the grass, and Bunny was coming towards her -now, his eyes lit. . . . Had some one spoken? - -Greetings were exchanged. Victoria could not say very much. She could -only press his hand and murmur, "I'm so glad--Millie has told me. Bless -you both!" - -He smiled, was embarrassed, and carried Millie off for a walk. As soon -as they had gone a little way he burst out, "Oh, Mill, why _did_ you? I -asked you not to." - -"I couldn't help it. I warned you that I hate concealment. I'm very -sorry, Bunny, but I can't keep it secret any longer." - -She looked up and saw to her amazement that he was angry. His face was -puckered and he looked ten years older. - -"Have you told any one else?" - -"Only my mother and a great friend." - -"Friend? What friend?" - -"A great friend of Henry's--yes and of mine too," she burst out -laughing. "You needn't worry, Bunny. He's a dear old thing, but he's -well over forty and I've never been in the least in love with him." - -"He is with you, I suppose?" - -Strangely his words made her heart beat a little faster. Strange -because what did she care whether Peter were in love with her or no? -And yet--it was nice, even now when she was swallowed up by her love -for Bunny, it was pleasant to think that Peter did care--cared a little. - -"Oh, he looks on me and Henry as in the schoolroom still." - -"Then why did you tell him about us?" - -"I don't know. What does it matter?" - -"It matters just this much--that I asked you not to tell anybody and -you've told every one in sight." - -"Well, I'm like that. I did keep it for three or four weeks, but I hate -being deceitful. I'm proud of you and proud of your caring for me. I -want people to know. Of course if there were any _real_ reason for -keeping it secret----" - -"There _is_ a real reason. I told you. My mother----" - -"She's coming back on Friday, so it doesn't matter now, telling people." - -"But it _does_ matter. People talk so." - -"But why shouldn't they talk? There's nothing to be ashamed of in our -being engaged." - -He said nothing and they walked along in an uncomfortable silence. Then -she turned to him, putting her hand through his arm. - -"Now, look here, Bunny. We're not going to have a quarrel. And if we -_are_ going to have a quarrel, I must know what it's about. Everything -_must_ be straight between us, always. I can't _bear_ your not telling -me what you're thinking. I'm sensible, I can stand anything if you'll -only tell me. Is there any other reason besides your mother why you -don't want people to know that we're engaged?" - -"No, of course not--only. . . . Well, it looks so silly seeing that we -have no money and----" - -"What does it matter what people say? We know, you and I, that you're -going to have a job soon. We can manage on a very little at first----" - -"It isn't that----" He suddenly smiled, looking young and happy again. -He pressed her arm against his side. "Look here, Millie--as you've let -the cat out of the bag, the least you can do is to help about the money -side of things." - -"Help? Of course I will." - -"Well, then--why not work old Victoria for a trifle? She's rolling in -wealth and just chucks it round on all sorts of rotten people who don't -care about her a damn. She's devoted to you. I'm sure she'd settle -something on us if you asked her." - -Millie stared at him. - -"Live on Victoria! Ask her for money? Oh, Bunny! I couldn't----" - -"Why not? Everyone does--people who aren't half so fond of her as you -are." - -"Ask her to support us when we're young and--Bunny, what an awful idea. -Please----" - -"Rot! Sometimes I think, Millie, you've lived in a wood all your days. -Everyone does it these times. We're all pirates. She's got more than -she knows what to do with--we haven't any, She likes you better than -any one. You've been working for her like a slave." - -Millie moved away a little. - -"You can put that out of your head, Bunny--once and for all. I shall -never ask Victoria for a penny." - -"If you don't, I will." - -"If you do, I'll never speak to you again." - -"Very well, then, don't." Before she could answer he had turned and was -walking rapidly away, his head up, his shoulders set. - -Instantly misery swooped down upon her like an evil, monstrous bird -that covered the sky, blotting out the sun with its black wings. Misery -and incomprehension! So swiftly had the world changed that when the -familiar figures--the men and the women so casual and uncaring--came -back to her vision they had no reality to her, but were like fragments -of coloured glass shaking in and out of a kaleidoscope pattern. She was -soon sitting beside Victoria again. - -She said: "Why, dear, where is Mr. Baxter?" - -And Millie said: "He had to go back to the hotel for something." - -But Victoria just now was frying other fish. She had at her side Angela -Compton, her newest and greatest friend. She had known Angela for a -week and Angela had, she said, given a new impulse to her life. Miss -Compton was a slim woman with black hair, very black eyebrows and red -cheeks. Her features seemed to be painted on wood and her limbs too -moved jerkily to support the doll-like illusion. But she was not a -doll; oh dear, no, far from it! In their first half-hour together she -told Millie that what she lived for was adventure--"And I have them!" -she cried, her black eyes flashing. "I have them all the time. It is an -extraordinary thing that I can't move a yard without them." It was her -desire to be the centre of every party, and thoroughly to attain this -enviable position she was forced, so Millie very quickly suspected, to -invent tales and anecdotes when the naked truth failed her. She had -been to Cladgate on several other summers and was able, therefore, to -bristle with personal anecdotes. "Do you see that man over there?" -she would deliriously whisper. "The one with the high collar and the -side-whiskers. He looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, -but one evening last summer as I was coming in----" or "That girl! My -dear. . . . Drugs--oh! I know it for a fact. Terribly sad, isn't it? -But I happen to have seen----" - -All these tales she told with the most innocent intentions in the -world, being one, as she often assured her friends, who wouldn't hurt a -fly. Victoria believed every word that fell from her lips and adored to -believe. - -To-day she was the greatest comfort to Millie. She could sit there in -her misery and gather around her Angela's little scandals as protection. - -"Oh, but it can't be!" Victoria would cry, her eyes shining. - -"Oh, of course, if you don't want to believe me! I saw him staring at -me days before. At last he spoke to me. We were quite alone at the -moment, and I said: 'Really I'm very sorry, but I don't know you.' - -"'Give me just five minutes,' he begged, 'that's all I ask. If you knew -what it would mean to me.' And, I knowing all the time, my dear, about -the awful things he'd been doing to his wife--I let him go on for a -little while, and then very quietly I said----" - -Millie stared in front of her. The impulse that she was fighting was to -run after him, to find him anywhere, anywhere, to tell him that she was -sorry, that it had been her fault . . . just to have his hand in hers -again, to see his eyes kindly, affectionate, never, never again that -fierce hostility as though he hated her and were a stranger to her, -another man whom she did not know and had never seen before. - -"Of course I don't blame him for drinking. After all there have been -plenty of people before now who have found that too much for them, but -before everybody like that! All I know is that his brother-in-law came -up (mind you that is all in the strictest confidence, and--) and said -before every one----" - -But why should she go to him? He had been in the wrong. That _he_ -should be like the others and want to plunder Victoria, poor Victoria -whom she was always defending. . . . - -The band played "God Save the King." Slowly they all walked towards the -hotel. - -"Yes, that's the woman I mean," said Miss Compton. "Over there in the -toque. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? But I assure -you----" - -Millie crept like a wounded bird into the hotel. He was waiting for -her. He dragged her into a corner behind a palm. - -"Millie, I didn't mean it--I don't know what I was about. Forgive me, -darling. You must, you must. . . . I'm a brute, a cad. . . ." - -Forgive him? Happiness returned in warm floods of light and colour. -Happiness. But even as he kissed her it was not, she knew, happiness of -quite the old kind--no, not quite. - - -II - -Ellen was coming. Very soon. In two days. Millie did not know why -it was that she should tremble apprehensively. She was not one to -tremble before anything, but it was an honest fact that she was more -truly frightened of Ellen than of any one she had ever met. There was -something in Ellen that frightened her, something secret and hidden. - -Then of course Ellen would be nasty about Bunny. She had been already -nasty about him, but she had not been aware then of the engagement. And -in some strange way Millie was more afraid now of what Ellen would say -about Bunny than she had been before that little quarrel of a day or -two ago. - -Millie, in spite of herself, thought of that little quarrel. Of course -all lovers must have quarrels--quarrels were the means by which lovers -came to know one another better--but he should not have gone off like -that, should not have hurt her. . . . She could not as she would wish -declare it to have been all her own fault. Well, then, Bunny was not -perfect. Who had ever said that he was? Who _was_ perfect when you came -to that? Millie herself was far from perfect. But she wanted him to be -honest. At that stage in her development she rated honesty very highly -among the virtues--not unpleasant, stupid, so-called honesty, where -you told your friends frankly what you thought of them for your own -pleasure and certainly not theirs, but honesty among friends so that -you knew exactly where you were. It was not honest of Bunny to be nice -to Victoria in order to get money out of her--but Millie was beginning -to perceive that Victoria, good, kind and foolish as she was, was a -kind of plague-spot in the world, infecting everyone who came near her. -Even Millie herself . . . ? - -And with this half-formed criticism of Bunny there came most curiously -a more urgent physical longing for him. Before, when he had seemed so -utterly perfect, the holding of hands, kisses, embraces could wait. -Everything was so safe. But now _was_ everything so safe? If they could -quarrel like that at a moment's notice, and he could look suddenly as -though he hated her, were they so safe? Bunny himself was changing -a little. He was always wanting to kiss her, to lead her into dark -corners, to tell her over and over again that he adored her. Their love -in these last days had lost some fine quality of sobriety and restraint -that it had possessed at first. - -There was something in the air of Cladgate with its brass bands, its -over-dressed women, its bridge and its dancing. - -It is not to be supposed, however, that Millie worried herself very -much. Only dimly behind her the sky had changed, thickening ever so -slightly. Her sense of enchantment was not pierced. - -Ellen arrived and was too sweet for any words. - -In a letter to Henry, Millie wrote: - - . . . and do you ever feel, I wonder, that our paths are crossing - all the time? It is, I suppose, because we have always been - so much together and have done everything together. But I see - everything so vividly that it is exactly as though I had been - there--Duncombe and the thick woods and the little chapel and the - deserted rooms and the boxwood garden. All this here is the very - opposite, of course, and yet simply the other half of a necessary - whole perhaps. Aren't I getting philosophical? Only I should hate - to think that all that you are sharing in now is going out of the - world and all this ugliness of mine remains. But of course it - won't, and it's up to us, Henry, to see that it doesn't. - - Meanwhile, Ellen has arrived and is at present like one of those - sugar mice that you buy at the toy-shop--simply too sweet for - words. Poor thing, all she needs is for some one to love her - passionately and she'll never, never get it. She's quite ready to - love some one else passionately and to snatch what she can out of - that, but she isn't made for passion--she's so bony and angular - and suspicious, and is angry so easily. - - I begged Victoria not to say anything about the engagement at - present and she hasn't, although it hurts her terribly to keep it - in. _Is_'nt it silly to be afraid of Ellen? But I do so _hate_ - scenes. So many people seem to like them. Mother cured _us_ of - wanting them. - - I'm dancing my legs off. Yesterday, I'm ashamed to say, I danced - all a lovely afternoon. The Syncopated Orchestra here is heavenly, - and Bunny says I two-step better than any one he's ever known. - - Meanwhile, under the dancing and the eating and the dressing-up, - there's the strangest feeling of unrest. Yesterday there was a - Bolshevik meeting near the bandstand. Luckily there was a football - match (very important--Cladgate _v._ Margate) and all the supposed - Bolshies went to that instead. Aren't we a funny country? - Victoria's very happy, dressing and undressing, taking people out - in the car and buying things she doesn't want. She plays bridge - very badly and was showing signs of interest in Spiritualism. They - have séances in the hotel every night, and Victoria went to one - last evening and was fortunately frightened out of her life. Some - one put a hand on her bare shoulder and she made such a fuss that - they had to break up the séance. Give my love to Peter if you see - him. He wrote me a sweet little letter about the engagement. . . . - -That which Millie had said about her consciousness of Henry's world was -very true. It seemed to her that his life and experience was always -intermingling with hers, and one could not possibly be complete without -the other. Now, for instance, Ellen was the connecting link. Ellen, one -could see at once, did not belong to Cladgate, with its materialism, -snobbery and self-satisfaction. Cross old maid though you might call -her, she had power and she had passion; moreover she was restless, in -search of something that she would never find perhaps, but the search -was the thing. That was Henry's world--dear, pathetic, stumbling -Henry, with his fairy princess straight out of Hans Andersen, and -the wicked witch and the cottage built of sugar--all this, as Millie -felt assured, to vanish with the crow of the cock, but to leave Henry -(and here was what truly distinguished him from his fellows) with his -vision captured, the vision that was more important than the reality. -Ellen was one of the midway figures (and the world has many of them, -discontented, aspiring, frustrated) who serve to join the Dream and the -Business. - -Unhappy they may be, but they have their important use and are not the -least valuable part of God's creation. See Ellen in her black, rather -dingy frock striding about the corridors of the Cladgate hotel, and you -were made uncomfortably to think of things that you would rather forget. - -During her first days she was delighted with Cladgate and everything -and everybody in it. Then the rain came back and danced upon the glass -roofs and jazz bands screamed from floor to floor, and every one sat -under the palms in pairs. There was no one to sit with Ellen; she did -not play bridge, she did not dance. She was left alone. Millie tried -to be kind to her when she remembered, but it was Ellen's fate to be -forgotten. - -One evening, just as Millie was going to bed, Ellen came into the room. -She stood by the door glowering. - -"I'm going back to London to-morrow," she announced. - -"Oh, Ellen, why? I thought you were enjoying yourself so much." - -"I'm miserable here. Nobody wants me." - -"Oh, but you're wrong. I----" - -She strode across to Millie's dressing-table. "No, you don't. Don't lie -about it. Do you think I haven't eyes?" - -Suddenly she sank on to the floor, burying her head in Millie's lap, -bursting into desperate crying. - -"Oh, I'm so lonely--so miserable. Why did I ever come here? Nobody -wants me. They'd rather I was dead. . . . They say work--find work, -they say. What are you doing thinking about love with your plain face -and ugly body? This is the Twentieth Century, they say, the time for -women like you. Every woman's free now. Free? How am I free? Work? -What work can I do? I was never trained to anything. I can't even -write letters decently. When I work the others laugh at me--I'm so -slow. I want some one to love--some one, something. I can't keep even -a dog because Victoria doesn't like dogs. . . . Millie, be kind to me -a little--let me love you a little, do things for you, run messages, -anything. You're so beautiful. Every one loves you. Give me a little. -. . ." - -Millie comforted her as best she might. She stroked her hair and kissed -her, petted her, but, as before, in her youth and confidence she felt -some contempt for Ellen. - -"Get up," she whispered. "Ellen, dear, don't kneel like that. -Please. . . . Please." - -Ellen got up. - -"You do your best. You want to be kind. But you're young. You can't -understand. One day, perhaps, you'll know better," and she went away. - -Was it Ellen or the daily life of Cladgate that was beginning to -throttle Millie? She should have been so happy, but now a cloud -had come. She suddenly distrusted life, hearing whispers down the -corridors, seeing heads close together, murmurs under that horrible, -hateful band-music. . . . - -Why was everyone conspiring towards ugliness? On a beautiful morning, -after a night of bad and disturbed dreams, she awoke very early, and -going down to the pebbled beach below the hotel she was amazed by the -beauty on every side of her. The sea turned lazily over like a cat -in the sun, purring, asking for its back to be scratched; a veil of -blue mist hung from earth to heaven; the grey sea-wall, at midday so -hard and grim, was softly purple; the long grass sward above her head -sparkling in the dew was unsoiled by the touch of any human being; no -sound at all save suddenly a white bird rising, floating like a sigh, -outlined against the blue like a wave let loose into mid-air and the -sea stroking the pebbles for love of their gleaming smiles. - -She sat under the sea-wall longing for Bunny to be there, clutching her -love with both hands and holding it out like a crystal bowl to the sea -and air for them also to enjoy. - -She had a perfect hour and returned into the hotel. - - -III - -Then Ellen discovered. She faced Millie in Victoria's sitting-room, her -face graven and moulded like a mask. - -"So you're engaged to him after all?" - -"Yes. I would have told you before only I knew that you wouldn't like -it----" - -"Wouldn't like it?" With a short, "What does it matter what I like? All -the same you've been kind to me once or twice, and for that I'm not -going to see you ruining your life without making an effort." - -Millie flushed. She felt her anger rising as she had known that it -would do. Foreseeing this scene she had told herself again and again -that she must keep her temper when it arrived, above all things keep -her temper. - -"Now, Ellen, please don't. I know that you don't like him, but remember -that it's settled now for good or bad. I'm very sorry that you don't -like him better, but when you know him----" - -"Know him! Know him? As though I didn't. But I won't let it pass. Even -though you never speak to me again I'll force such evidence under your -nose that you'll _have to_ realize. Lord! the fools we women are! -We talk of character and the things we say we admire, and we don't -admire them a bit. What we want is decent legs and a smooth mouth and -soft hands. I thought you had some sense, a little wisdom, but you're -younger than any of us--I despise you, Millie, for this." - -Millie jumped up from the table where she had been writing. - -"And what do I care, Ellen, whether you do despise me? Who are you to -come and lecture me? I've had enough of your ill-temper and your scenes -and all the rest of it. I don't want your friendship. Go your own way -and let me go mine." - -Within her a voice was saying: "You'll be sorry for this afterwards. -You know you will. You told me you were not going to lose your temper." - -Ellen tarried by the door. "You can say what you like to me, Millie. -I'll save you from this however much you hate me for it." She went out. - -"I despise you, Millie, for this." The words rang in Millie's head as -she sat there alone, repeated themselves against her will. Well, what -did it matter if Ellen _did_ despise her? Yes it did matter. She had -been laughing at Ellen all these weeks and yet she cared for her good -opinion. Her vanity was wounded. She was little and mean and small. - -And behind that there was something else. There had been more than -anger and outraged sentiment in Ellen's attitude. She had meant what -she said. She had something serious in her mind about Bunny--something -that she thought she knew . . . . something. . . . - -"I'm contemptible!" Millie cried, "losing my temper with Ellen like a -fishwife, then distrusting Bunny. I'm worthless." She wanted to run -after Ellen and beg her pardon but pride restrained her. Instead she -was cross with Victoria all the morning. - -Victoria's affairs were especially agitating to herself at this time -and made her uncertain in her temper and easily upset. Out of the mist -in which her many admirers obscurely floated two figures had risen -who were quite obviously suitors for her hand. When Millie had first -begun to perceive this she doubted the evidence of her observation. -It could not be possible that any one should want to marry Victoria, -stout and middle-aged as she was. But on second thoughts it seemed -quite the simple natural thing for any adventurer to attempt. There was -Victoria's money, with which she quite obviously did not know what to -do. Why should not some one for whom youth was over, whose income was -an uncertain quantity, decide to spend it for her? - -Millie called both these men adventurers. There she was unjust. Major -Miles Mereward was no adventurer; he was simply an honest soldier -really attracted by Victoria. Honest, but Lord, how dull! - -As he sat in Victoria's room, the chair creaking beneath his fat body, -his red hair rough and unbrushed, his red moustache untrimmed, his red -hands clutching his old grey soft hat, he was the most uncomfortable, -awkward, silent man Millie had ever met. He had nothing to say at all; -he would only stare at Victoria, give utterance to strange guttural -noises that were negatives and affirmatives almost unborn. He was poor, -but he was honest. He thought Victoria the most marvellous creature in -the world with her gay talk and light colour. He scarcely realized that -she had any money. Far otherwise his rival Robin Bennett. - -Mr. Bennett was a man of over forty, one who might be the grandson of -Byron or a town's favourite "Hamlet"--"Distinguished" was the word -always used about him. - -He dressed beautifully; he moved, Victoria declared, "like a picture." -Not only this; he was able to talk with easy fluency upon every -possible subject--politics, music, literature, painting, he had his -hand upon them all. Moreover, he was adaptable. He understood just why -Victoria preferred the novels she did, and he was not superior to her -because of her taste. He knew why tears filled her eyes when the band -played "Pomp and Circumstance," and thought it quite natural that on -such an occasion she should want, as she said, "to run out and give -sixpences to all the poor children in the place." He did not pretend -to her that her bridge-playing was good. That indeed was more than -even his Arts could encompass, but he did assure her that she was -making progress with every game she played. He even tempted her in -the ballroom of the hotel into the One-Step and the Fox-Trot, and an -amusing sight for every one it was to see Victoria's flushed and clumsy -efforts. - -Nevertheless, it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the man -was an adventurer. Every one in the hotel knew it--Victoria was his -third target that season; even Victoria did not disguise it altogether -from herself. - -It was here that Millie found her touching and appealing. Millie -realized that this was the very first time in Victoria's life that any -one had made love to her; that it was her money to which Bennett was -making love seemed at the moment to matter very little. The woman was -knowing, at long last, what it meant to have eyes--fine, large, brown -eyes--gazing into hers, what it was to have her lightest word listened -to with serious attention, what it was would some one hasten to open -the door, to push forward a chair for her, to pick up her handkerchief -when she dropped it (a thing that she was always now doing). Mereward -did none of these things for her--his brain moved too slowly to make -the race a fair one. He was beaten by Bennett (who deeply despised him) -every time. - -But Victoria was only half a fool. "Millie mine," she said, "don't you -find Major Mereward very restful? He's a _good_ man." - -"He is indeed," said Millie. - -"Of course he hasn't Mr. Bennett's brains. I said to Mr. Bennett last -night, 'I can't think how it is with your brilliance that you are not -in the Cabinet.'" - -"And what did Mr. Bennett say?" asked Millie. - -"Oh, that he had never cared about politics, that it wasn't a -gentleman's game any longer--in which I'm sure he's quite right. It -seems a pity though. With his beautiful voice and fine carriage he -might have done anything. He says his lack of means has always kept him -back." - -"I expect it has," said Millie. - -She was however able to give only half a glance towards Victoria's -interesting problem because of the increasing difficulty and -unexpectedness of her own. - -From the very first, long before he had spoken to her on that morning -in the Cromwell Road, she had made with her hands a figure of fair and -lovely report. It might be true that also from the very first she had -seen that Bunny, like Roderick Hudson, "evidently had a native relish -for rich accessories, and appropriated what came to his hand," or, like -the young man in Galleon's _Widow's Comedy_, "believed that the glories -of the world were by right divine his own natural property"--all this -she had seen and it had but dressed the figure with the finer colour -and glow. Bunny was handsome enough and clever enough and bright enough -to carry off the accessories as many a more dingy mortal might not -do. And so, having set up her figure, she proceeded to deck it with -every little treasure and ornament that she could find. All the little -kindnesses, the unselfish thoughts, the sudden impulses of affection, -the thanks and the promises and the ardours she collected and arranged. -At first there had been many of these; when Bunny was happy and things -went well with him he was kind and generous. - -Then--and especially since the little quarrel about Victoria's -money--these occasions were less frequent. It seemed that he was -wanting something--something that he was in a hurry to get--and that he -had not time now for little pleasantries and courtesies. His affection -was not less ardent than it had been--it grew indeed with every hour -more fierce--but Millie knew that he was hurrying her into insecure -country and that she should not go with him and that she could not stop. - -The whole situation now was unsatisfactory. His mother had been in -London for some days but Bunny said nothing of going to see her. Millie -was obliged to face the fact that he did not wish to tell his mother -of their engagement. Every morning when she woke she told herself that -to-day she would force it all into the daylight, would issue ultimatums -and stand by them, but when she met him, fear of some horrible crisis -held her back--"Another day--let me have another lovely day. I will -speak to him to-morrow." - -She who had always been so proud and fearless was now full of fear. -She knew that when he was not thwarted he was still charming, ardent, -affectionate, her lover--and so she did not thwart him. - -Nothing had yet occurred that was of serious moment, the things about -which they differed were little things, and she let them go by. He was -always telling her of her beauty, and for the first time in her life -she knew that she was beautiful. Her beauty grew amazingly during those -weeks. She carried herself nobly, her head high, her mouth a little -ironical, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure of life and the vigour -of perfect health, knowing that all the hotel world and indeed all -Cladgate was watching her and paying tribute to her beauty. - -No one disputed that she was the most beautiful girl in Cladgate that -summer. She roused no jealousy. She was too young, too simple, too -natural and too kindly-hearted. - -All the world could very quickly see that she was absorbed by young -Baxter and had no thoughts for any one but him. She had no desire to -snatch other young men from their triumphant but fighting captors. She -was of a true, generous heart; she would do any one a good turn, laugh -with any one, play with any one, sympathize with any one. - -She was not only the most beautiful, she was also the best-liked girl -in the place. - -Perhaps because of her retired, cloistered, Trenchard up-bringing she -was, in spite of two years finishing in Paris, innocent and pure of -heart. She thought that she knew everything about life, and her courage -and her frankness carried her through many situations before which less -unsophisticated women would have quailed. - -It was not that she credited every one with noble characters; she -thought many people foolish and weak and sentimental, but she did -believe that every one was fundamentally good at heart and intended -to make of life a fine thing. Her close companionship with Bunny -caused her for the first time to wonder whether there was not another -world--"underground somewhere"--of which she knew nothing whatever. It -was not that he told her anything or introduced her to men who would -tell her. He had, one must in charity to him believe, at this time at -any rate, a real desire to respect her innocence; but always behind the -things they did and said was this implication that he knew so much -more of life than she. Henry had often implied that same knowledge, but -she laughed at him. He might know things that he would not tell her, -but he was essentially, absolutely of her own world. But Bunny _was_ -different. She was a modern girl, belonging to the generation in which, -at last, women were to know as much, to see as much, as men. She _must_ -know. - -"What do you _mean_, Bunny?" - -"Oh, nothing . . . nothing that you need know." - -"But I want to know. I'm not a child----" - -"Rot. . . . Come and dance." She did dance, furiously, ferociously. -The Diamond Palace--a glass-domed building at the foot of the woods, -just above the sea, was the place where Cladgate danced. The negro -band, its teeth gleaming with gold, its fingers glittering with diamond -rings, stamped and shrieked, banged cymbals, clashed tins, thumped at -drums, yelled and then suddenly murmured like animals creeping back, -reluctantly, into the fastnesses of their jungles, and all the good -British citizens and citizenesses of Cladgate wandered round and round -with solemn ecstatic faces, their bodies pressed close together, sweat -gathering upon their brows; beyond the glass roof the walks were dark -and silent and the sea crept in and out over the tiny pebbles, leaving -a thin white pattern far down the deserted beach. - -"What do you _mean_, Bunny?" asked Millie. - -"Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he answered her. - - * * * * * - -The glass roof sparkled above the electric light with a million facets. -Across the broad floor there stepped and shifted the changing pattern -of the human bodies; faces stared out over shoulders, blank, serious, -grim as though the crisis--the true crisis--of life had at last -arrived, and the band encouraged that belief, softly whispering that -_now_ was the moment--NOW--and NOW. . . . - -Millie sat against the wall with Victoria; she was waiting for Bunny, -who was a quarter of an hour late. She had a panic, as she always had -when he was late, that he would not come at all; that she would never -see him again. Her dress to-night was carnation colour and she had -shoes of silver tissue. She had an indescribable air of youth and -trembling anticipation as though this were the first ball to which -she had ever been. Henry would have been amazed, had he seen her--her -usually so fearless. - -Her love for Bunny made her tremble because, unknown to herself, she -was afraid that the slightest movement from outside would precipitate -her into a situation that would be disastrous, irrecoverable. . . . - -Bunny arrived. She was in his arms and they were moving slowly around -the room. She saw nothing, only felt that it was very hot. The negro -band suddenly leapt out upon them, as though bursting forth from some -hidden fastness. The glass roof, with its diamonds, becked and bowed, -bending toward them like a vast string to a bow. Soon it would snap and -where would they be? Bunny held her very close to him. Their hearts -were like voices jumping together, trying to catch some common note -with which they were both just out of tune. - -The band shrieked and stopped as though it had been stabbed. - -They were outside, in a dark corner of the balcony that looked over the -sea. They kissed and clung close to one another. Suddenly she was aware -of an immense danger, as though the grey wood beyond the glass were -full of fiery eyes, dangerous with beasts. - -"I'm not going into that wood," she heard some voice within herself -cry. The band broke out again from beyond the wall. "Oh, Bunny, let me -go----" She had only a moment in which to save herself--to save herself -_from_ herself. - -She broke from him. She heard her dress tear. She had opened the door -of the balcony, was running down the iron steps then, just as she was, -in her carnation frock and silver shoes, was hurrying down the white -road, away from the wood towards the hotel--the safe, large, empty -hotel. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP - - -Just at that time Henry at Duncombe was thinking very much of his -sister. He could not tell why, but she was appearing to him constantly; -he saw her three nights in his dreams. In one dream she was in danger, -running for her life along a sea road, high above the sea. Once she -was shouting to him in a storm and could not make him hear because of -the straining and creaking of the trees. During his morning work in -the little library he saw her, laughing at him on the lawn beyond the -window--Millie as she was years ago, on that day, for instance, when -she came back from Paris and astonished them all by her gaiety and was -herself astonished by the news of Katherine's unexpected engagement. He -could see her now in the old green drawing-room, laughing at them all -and shouting into Great-Aunt Sarah's ear-trumpet. "Well, she's in some -trouble," he said to himself, looking out at the sun-flecked lawn. "I'm -sure she's in trouble." - -He wrote to her and to his relief received a letter from her on that -same day. She said very little: ". . . Only another week of this place, -and I'm not sorry. These last days haven't been much fun. It's so noisy -and every one behaves as though a moment's quiet would be the end of -the world. Oh, Henry darling, do come up to London soon after I get -back, even if it's only for a day. I'm sure your old tyrant will let -you off. I _ache_ to see you and Peter again. I want you near me. I'm -not a bit pleased with myself. I've turned _nasty_ lately--conceited -and vain. You and Peter shall scold me thoroughly. Vi says mother is -just the same. . . ." - -Well, she was all right. He was glad. He could sink back once more -into the strange, mysterious atmosphere of Duncombe, and call with his -spirit Christina down to share the mystery with him. He could creep -closer to Christina here than real life would ever take him. - -Strange and mysterious it was, and touchingly, poignantly -beautiful. The wet days of early August had been succeeded by fine -weather--English fine weather that was not certain from hour to hour, -and gave therefore all the pleasure of unexpected joy. - -"Why! there's the sun!" they would all cry, and the towers and the -little square pond, and the Cupid, and the hedges cut into peacocks -and towers and sailing-ships, would all be caught up into a sky so -relentlessly blue that it surely never again would be broken; in a -moment, white bolster clouds came slipping up; the oak and the mulberry -tree, whose shadows had been black velvet patterns on the shrill green -of the grass, seemed to spread out their arms beneath the threatening -sky as though to protect their friends from the coming storm. But the -storm was not there--only a few heavy drops and then the grey horizon -changed to purple, the cloud broke like tearing paper, and in a few -moments the shadows were on the lawn again and the water of the square -pond was like bright-blue glass. - -In such English weather the square English house was its loveliest. The -Georgian wing with its old red brick, its square stout windows, was -material, comfortable, homely, speaking of thick-set Jacobean squires -and tankards of ale, dogs and horses, and long pipes of heavy tobacco. -The little Elizabethan wing, where were the chapel and the empty rooms, -touched Henry as though it were alive and were speaking to him. This -old part of the house had in its rear two rooms that were still older, -a barn used now as a garage with an attic above it that was Saxon. - -The house was unique for its size in England--so small and yet -displaying so perfectly the three periods of its growth. It gained -also from its setting because the hills rose behind the garden and -the little wood like grey formless presences against the sky, and -on the ridge below the house the village, with cottages of vast age -and cottagers who seemed to have found the secret of eternal life, -slumbered through the seasons, carrying on the tradition of their -fathers and listening but dimly to the changes that were coming upon -the world beyond them. The village had done well in the War as the -cross in front of the Post Office testified, but the War had changed -its life amazingly little. - -Some of its sons had gone over the ridge of hill, had seen strange -sights and heard strange sounds--some of them had not returned. . . . -Prices were higher--it was harder now to live than it had been but not -much harder. Already the new generation was growing up. One or two, Tom -Giles the Butcher, Merriweather, a farmer, talked noisily and said that -soon the country would be in the hands of the people. Well, was it not -already in the hands of the people? Anyway, they'd rather be in the -hands of Sir Charles than of Giles. - -How were they to know that Giles' friends would be better men than Sir -Charles? Worse most likely. . . . - -Into all this Henry sank. Among the few books in the library he found -several dealing with the history of the house, of the Duncombes, of -the district. Just as he had conjured up the Edinburgh of Scott and -Ballantyne, so now his head was soon full of all the Duncombes of the -past--Giles Duncombe of Henry VIII.'s time, who had helped his fat -monarch to persecute the monasteries and had been given the lands of -Saltingham Abbey near by as a reward; Charles Duncombe, the admiral -who had helped to chase the Armada; Denis Duncombe, killed at Naseby; -Giles Duncombe, the Second, exquisite of Charles II.'s Court killed -in a duel; Guy Duncombe, his son, who had fled to France with James -II.; Giles the Third of Queen Anne's Court, poet and dramatist; then -the two brothers, Charles and Godfrey, who had joined the '45, Charles -to suffer on the scaffold, Godfrey to flee into perpetual exile; then -Charles again, friend of Johnson and Goldsmith, writer of a bad novel -called _The Forsaken Beauty_, and a worse play which even Garrick's -acting could not save from being damned; then a seaman again, Triolus -Duncombe, who had fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, and lost an arm -there; then Ponsonby Duncombe, the historian, who had known Macaulay -and written for the _Quarterly_, and had drunk tea with George Lewes -and his horse-faced genius; then Sir Charles's father, who had been -simply a comfortable country squire--one of Trollope's men straight -from _Orley Farm_ and _The Claverings_, who had liked his elder son, -Ralph (killed tiger-shooting in India), and his younger son Tom both -better than the quiet, studious Charles, whom he had never understood. -All these men and their women too seemed to Henry still to live in -the house and haunt the gardens, to laugh above the stream and walk -below the trees. So quiet was the place and so still that standing by -the pond under the star-lit sky he could swear that he heard their -voices. . . . - -Nevertheless the living engaged his attention sufficiently. Besides -Millie and Christina and Peter there were with him in the house, in -actual concrete form, Sir Charles and his sister. Lady Bell-Hall had -now apparently accepted Henry as an inevitable nuisance with whom -God, for some mysterious reason known only to Himself, had determined -still further to try her spirit. She was immensely busy here, having -a thousand preoccupations connected with the house and the village -that kept her happy and free from many of her London alarms. Henry -admired her deeply as he watched her trotting about in an old floppy -garden-hat, ministering to, scolding, listening to, admonishing the -village as though it was one large, tiresome, but very lovable family. -With the servants in the house it was the same thing. She knew the very -smallest of their troubles, and although she often irritated and fussed -them, they were not alone in the world as they would have been had Mrs. -Giles, the butcher's wife, been their mistress. - -It happened then that Henry for his daily companionship depended -entirely upon Sir Charles. A strange companionship it was, because the -affection between them grew stronger with every hour that passed, and -yet there were no confidences nor intimacies--very little talk at all. -At the back of Henry's mind there was always the incident in the cab. -He fancied that on several occasions since that he had seen that glance -of almost agonizing suffering pass, flash in the eyes, cross the brow; -once or twice Duncombe had abruptly risen and with steps that faltered -a little left the room. Henry fancied also that Lady Bell-Hall during -the last few days had begun to watch her brother anxiously. Sometimes -she looked at Henry as though she would question him, but she said -nothing. - -Then, quite suddenly, the blow fell. On a day of splendid heat, the -sky an unbroken blue, the fountain falling sleepily behind them, bees -humming among the beds near by, Duncombe and Henry were sitting on -easy chairs under the oak. Henry was reading, Duncombe sitting staring -at the bright grass and the house that swam in a haze of heat against -the blue sky. - -"Henry," Duncombe said, "I want to talk to you for a moment." - -Henry put down his book. - -"I want first to tell you how very grateful I am for the companionship -that you have given me during these last months and for your -friendship." - -Henry stammered and blushed. "I've been wanting--" he said, "been -wanting myself a long time to say something to you. I suppose that day -when I had done the letters so badly and you--you still kept me on was -the most important thing that ever happened to me. No one before has -ever believed I could do anything or seen what it was I could do--I -always lacked self-confidence and you gave it me. The War had destroyed -the little I'd had before, and if you hadn't come I don't know----" - -He broke off, feeling, as he always did, that he could say none of the -things that he really meant to say, and being angry with himself for -his own stupidity. - -"I'm very glad," Duncombe said, "if I've done that. I think you have -a fine future before you if you do the things you're really suited -for--which you will do, of course. But I'm going to trust you still -further. I know I can depend on your discretion----" - -"If there's anything in the world----" Henry began eagerly. - -"It's nothing very difficult," Duncombe said, still smiling; "I am -in all probability going to have a serious operation. It's not quite -settled--I shall know after a further examination. But it is almost -certain. . . . - -"There are definite chances that I shall not live through it--the -chances of my surviving or not are about equal, I believe. I'll tell -you frankly that if I were to think only of myself, death is infinitely -preferable to the pain that I have suffered during the last six months. -It was when the pain became serious that I determined to hurry up those -family papers that you are now working on. I had an idea that I might -not have much time left and I wanted to find somebody who could carry -them on. . . . Well, I have found somebody," he said, turning towards -Henry and smiling his slightly cynical smile. "In my Will I have left -you a certain sum that will support you at any rate for the next three -years, and directions that the book is to be left entirely in your -hands. . . . I know that you will do your best for it." - -Henry's words choked in his throat. He saw the bright grass and the red -dazzled house through a mist of tears. He wanted, at that moment above -all, to be practical, a hard, common-sense man of the world--but of -course as usual he had no power to be what he wanted. - -"Yes . . . my best . . ." he stammered. - -"Then, what I mean is this," Duncombe continued. "If you do that you -will still have some relations with my family, with my brother and -sister, I mean." He paused, then continued looking in front of him as -though for the moment he had forgotten Henry. "When I first knew that -my illness was serious I felt that I could not leave all this. I had no -other feeling for the time but that, that I must stay here and see this -place safely through these difficult days . . ." He paused again, then -looked straight across to Henry. - -"I have not forgotten what happened in London in the library the other -day. You will probably imagine from that that my brother is a very evil -person. He is not, only impulsive, short-sighted and not very clever at -controlling his feelings. He has an affection for me but none at all -for this place, and as soon as he inherits it he will sell it. - -"It is that knowledge that is hardest now for me to bear. Tom is -reckless with money, reckless with his affections, reckless with -everything, but he is not a mean man. He came into the library that -day to get some papers that he knew he should not have rather as a -schoolboy might go to the cupboard and try to steal jam, but you will -find when you meet him again that he bears no sort of malice and will -indeed have forgotten the whole thing. My sister too--of course she is -rather foolish and can't adapt herself to the new times, but she is a -very good woman, utterly unselfish, and would die for Tom and myself -without a moment's hesitation. If I go, be a help to her, Henry. She -doesn't know you now at all, but she will later on, and you can show -her that things are not so bad--that life doesn't change, that people -are as they always were--certainly no worse, a little better perhaps. -To her, the world seems to be suddenly filled with ravening wolves---- -Poor Meg!" - -His voice died away. . . . Again he was looking at the house and the -sparkling lawn. - -"To lose this . . . to let it go---- After all these years." - -There was a long silence. Only the doves cooing from the gay-tiled roof -seemed to be the voice, crooning and satisfied of the summer afternoon. - -"And that," said Duncombe, suddenly waking from his reverie, "is -another idea that I have had. I feel as though you are going to be of -importance in your new generation and that you will have influence. -Even though I shall lose this place I shall be able to continue it in a -way, perhaps, if I can make you feel that the past is not dead, that it -_must_ go on with its beauty and pathos influencing, interpenetrating -the present. You young ones will have the world to do with as you -please. Our time is done. But don't think that you can begin the world -again as though nothing had ever happened before. There is all that -loveliness, that beauty, longing to be used. The lessons that you are -to learn are the very same lessons that generation after generation has -learnt before you. Take the past which is beseeching you not to desert -it and let it mingle with the present. Don't let modern cleverness make -you contemptuous of all that has gone before you. They were as clever -as you in their own generation. This beauty, this history, this love -that has sunk into these walls and strengthened these trees, carry -these on with you as your companions. . . . I love it so . . . and I -have to leave it. To know that it will go to strangers . . ." - -Henry said: "I'll never forget this place. It will influence all my -life." - -"Well, then," Duncombe shook his head almost impatiently, "I've done -enough preaching . . . nonsense perhaps. It seems to me now important. -Soon, if the pain returns, only that will matter." - -They sat for a long time in silence. The shadows of the trees spread -like water across the lawn. The corners of the garden were purple -shaded. - -"God! Is there a God, do you think, Henry?" - -"Yes," he answered. "I think there is One, but of what kind He is I -don't know." - -"There must be. . . . There must be. . . . To go out like this when -one's heart and soul are at their strongest. And He is loving, I -can't but fancy. He smiles, perhaps, at the importance that we give -to death and to pain. So short a time it must seem to Him that we are -here. . . . But if He isn't. . . . If there is nothing more---- What a -cruel, cold game for Something to play with us----" - -Henry knew then that Duncombe was sure he would not survive the -operation. An aching longing to do something for him held him, but a -power greater than either of them had caught him and he could only sit -and stare at the colours as they came flocking into the garden with -the evening sky, at the white line that was suddenly drawn above the -garden wall, at two stars that were thrown like tossed diamonds into -the branches of the mulberry. - -"Yes--I know God exists," something that was not Henry's body whispered. - -"God must exist to explain all the love that there is in the world," he -said. - -"And all the hatred too," Duncombe answered, looking upward at the two -stars. "Why do we hate one another? Why all this temper and scorn, -sport and cruelty? Men want to do right--almost every man and woman -alive. And the rules are so simple--fidelity, unselfishness, loving, -kindliness, humility--but we can't manage them except in little -spurts. . . . But then why should they be there at all? All the old -questions!" He broke off. "Come, let us go in. It's cold." He got up -and took Henry's arm. They walked slowly across the lawn together. - -"Henry," he said, "remember to expect nothing very wonderful of men. -Remember that they don't change, but that they are all in the same box -together--so love them. Love them whenever you can, not dishonestly, -because you think it a pretty thing to do, but honestly, because you -can't help yourself. Don't condemn. Don't be impatient because of their -weaknesses. That has been the failure of my life. I have been so badly -disappointed again and again that I retired into myself, would not -let them touch me--and so I lost them. But you are different--you are -idealistic. Don't lose that whatever foolish things you may be dragged -into. It seems to me so simple now that the end of everything has come -and it is too late--love of man, love of God even if He does not exist, -love of work--humility because the time is so short and we are all so -weak." - -By the door he stopped, dropping his voice. "Be patient with my sister -to-night. I am going to tell her about my affair. It will distress her -very much. Assure her that it is unimportant, will soon be right. Poor -Meg!" - -He pressed Henry's arm and went forward alone into the dark house. - - * * * * * - -But how tiresome it is! That very same evening Henry, filled with -noble thoughts and a longing for self-sacrifice, was as deeply and as -childishly irritated by the events of the evening and by Lady Bell-Hall -as he had ever been. In the first place, when he was dressing and had -just found a clean handkerchief and was ready to go downstairs, the -button-hole of his white shirt burst under his collar and he was forced -to undress again and was ten minutes late downstairs. - -He saw at once that Duncombe had told his sister the news. Henry had -been prepared to show a great tenderness, a fine nobility, a touching -fatherliness to the poor frightened lady. But Lady Bell-Hall was not -frightened, she was merely querulous, with a drop of moisture at the -end of her nose and a cross look down the table at Henry as though he -were to-night just more than she could bear. It was also hard that on -this night of all nights there should be that minced beef that Henry -always found it difficult to encounter. It was not so much that the -mince was cooked badly, and what was worse, meanly and baldly, but -that it stood as a kind of symbol for all that was mistaken in Lady -Bell-Hall's housekeeping. - -She was a bad housekeeper, and thoroughly complacent over her -incompetence, and it was this incompetence that irritated Henry. -Somehow to-night there should have been a gracious offering of the very -best the place could afford, with some silence, some resignation, some -gentle evidence of affection. But it was not so. Duncombe was his old -cynical self, with no sign whatever of the afternoon's mood. - -Only for a moment after dinner in the little grey drawing-room, when -Duncombe had left them alone and Henry was seated reading Couperas and -Lady Bell-Hall opposite to him was knitting her interminable stockings, -was there a flash of something. She looked up suddenly and across at -him. - -"I learn from my brother that he has told you?" she said, blinking her -eyes that were always watering at him. - -"Yes," said Henry. - -"He tells me that it is nothing serious," her voice quavered. - -"No, no," Henry half started up, his book dropping on to the floor. -"Indeed, Lady Bell-Hall, it isn't. He hopes it will be all right in a -week or two." - -"Yes, yes," she answered, rather testily, as though she resented his -fancying that he knew more about her brother's case than she herself -did. "But operations are always dangerous." - -"I had an operation once----" began Henry, then seeing that her eyes -were busy with her knitting again he stopped. Nevertheless her little -pink cheeks were shaking and her little obstinate chin trembled. He -could see that she was doing all that she could to keep herself from -tears. He could fancy herself saying: "Well, I'm not going to let that -tiresome young man see me cry." But touched as he was impetuously -whenever he saw any one in distress, he began again--"Why, when I had -an operation once----" - -"Thank you," she said to her knitting, "I don't think we'll talk about -it if you don't mind." - -He picked up his book again. - -Next morning Henry asked for leave to go up to London for two days. He -had been possessed, driven, tormented during the last week by thoughts -of Christina, and in some mysterious way his talk with Duncombe in the -garden had accentuated his longing. All that he wanted was to see her, -to assure himself that she was not, as she always seemed to him when he -was away from her, a figure in a dream, something imagined by him, more -lovely, more perfect than anything he could read of or conceive, and -yet belonging to the world of poetry, of his own imagined fictions, of -intangible and evasive desires. - -It was always this impulse that drove him back to her, the impulse to -make sure that she was of flesh and blood even though, as he was now -beginning to realize, that same form and body were never destined to be -his. - -He had other reasons for going. Books in the library of the London -house had to be consulted, and Millie would now be in Cromwell Road -again. Duncombe at once gave him permission. - -Going up in the train, staring out of the window, Henry tried to bring -his thoughts into some sort of definite order. He was always trying -to do this, plunging his hands into a tangle, breaking through here, -pulling others straight, trying to find a pattern that would give -it all a real symmetry. The day suited his thoughts. The beautiful -afternoon of yesterday had been perhaps the last smile of a none too -generous summer. To-day autumn was in the air, mists curled up from the -fields, clouds hung low against a pale watery blue, leaves were turning -red once again, slowly falling through the mist with little gestures of -dismay. What he wanted, he felt, thinking of Christina, of Duncombe, of -Millie, of his work, of his mother, lying without motion in that sombre -house, of his own muddle of generosities and selfishness and tempers -and gratitudes, was not so much to find a purpose in it all (that was -perhaps too ambitious), but simply to separate one side of life from -the other. - -He saw them continually crossing, these two sides, not only in his -own life, but in every other. One was the side of daily life, of his -work for Duncombe, of money and business and Mr. King's bills, and -stomach-ache and having a good night's sleep, and what the Allies were -going to do about Vienna, and whether the Bolsheviks would attack -Poland next spring or no. Millie and Peter both belonged to this world -and the Three Graces, and the trouble that he had to keep his clothes -tidy, and whether any one yet had invented sock-suspenders that didn't -fall down in a public place and yet didn't give you varicose veins--and -if not why not. - -The other world could lightly be termed the world of the Imagination, -and yet it was so much more, so _much_ more than that. Christina -belonged to it absolutely, and so did her horrible mother and the -horrible old man Mr. Leishman. So did his silly story at Chapter -XV., so did the old Duncombe letters, so did the place Duncombe, so -did Piccadilly Circus in certain moods, and the whole of London on -certain days. So did many dreams that he had (and he did not want -Mr. Freud, thank you, to explain them away for him), so did all his -thoughts of Garth-in-Roselands and Glebeshire, so did the books of -Galleon and Hans Andersen, and the author of _Lord Jim_, and la Motte, -Fouqué, and nearly all poetry; so did the voice of a Danish singer -whom he had heard one chance evening at a Queen's Hall Concert, and -several second-hand bookshops that he knew, and many, many other -things, moments, emotions that thronged the world. You could say that -he was simply gathering his emotions together and packing them away -and calling them in the mass this separate world. But it was not so. -There were many emotions, many people whom he loved, many desires, -ambitions, possessions that did not belong to this world. And Millie, -for instance, complete and vital though she was, with plenty of -imagination, did not know that this world existed. Could he only find -a clue to it how happy he would be! One moment would be enough. If for -one single instant the heavens would open and he could see and could -say then: "By this moment of vision I will live for ever! I know now -that this other world exists and is external, and that one day I shall -enter into it completely." He fancied--indeed he liked to fancy--that -his adventure with Christina would, before it closed, offer him this -vision. Meanwhile his state was that of a man shut into a room with the -blinds down, the doors locked, but hearing beyond the wall sounds that -came again and again to assure him that he would not always be in that -room--and shadows moved behind the blind. - -Meanwhile on both worlds one must keep one's hand. One must be -practical and efficient and sensible--oh yes (one's dreams must not -interfere. But one's dreams, nevertheless, were the important thing). - -"Would you mind," the voice broke through like a stone smashing a pane -of glass. "But your boot is----" - -He looked up to find a nervous gentleman with pince-nez and a -white slip to his waistcoat glaring at him. His boot was resting -on the opposite seat and a considerable portion of the gentleman's -trouser-leg. - -He was terribly sorry, dreadfully embarrassed, blushing, distressed. He -buried himself in Couperas, and soon forgot his own dreams in pursuing -the adventures of the large and melancholy familiar to whose dismal -fate Couperas was introducing him. And behind, in the back of his head, -something was saying to him for the two-millionth time, "I must not be -such an ass! I must not be such an ass!" - -He arrived in London at midday, and the first thing that he did was -to telephone to Millie. She would be back in her rooms by five that -afternoon. His impulse to rush to Christina he restrained, sitting in -the Hill Street library trying to fasten his mind to the monotonous -voice of Mr. Spencer, who was so well up in facts and so methodical in -his brain that Henry always wanted to stick pins into his trousers and -make him jump. - -When he reached Millie's lodgings she had not yet returned, but Mary -Cass was there just going off to eat some horrible meal in an A.B.C. -shop preparatory to a chemistry lecture. - -"How's Millie?" he asked. - -She looked him over as she always did before speaking to him. - -"Oh! She's all right!" she said. - -"Really all right?" he asked her. "I haven't thought her letters -sounded very happy." - -"Well, I don't think she is very happy, if you ask me," Mary answered, -slowly pulling on her gloves. "I don't like her young man. I can't -think what she chose him for." - -"What's he like?" asked Henry. - -"Just a dressed-up puppy!" Mary tossed her head. "But, maybe, I'm not -fair to him. When two girls have lived together and like one another -one of them isn't in all probability going to be very devoted to the -man who carries the other one off." - -"No, I suppose not," Henry nodded his head with deep profundity. - -"And then I despise men," Mary added, tossing her head. "You're a poor -lot--all except your friend Westcott. I like _him_." - -"I didn't know you knew him," said Henry. - -"Oh yes, he's been here several times. Now if it were _he_ who was -going to carry Millie off! You know he's deeply in love with her!" - -"He! Peter?" Henry cried horrified. - -"Yes, of course. Do you mean to say you didn't see it?" - -"But he can't--he's married already!" - -"Mr. Westcott married?' Mary Cass repeated after him. - -"Yes, didn't you know? . . . But Millie knows." - -"Married? But when?" - -"Oh, years ago, when he was very young. She ran away with a friend of -his and he's never heard of her since. She must have been awful!" Henry -drew a deep breath of disgust. - -"Poor man!" Mary sighed. "Everything's crooked in this beastly world. -Nobody gets what he wants." - -"Perhaps it's best he shouldn't." - -Mary turned upon him. "Henry, there are times when I positively loathe -you. You're nearly the most detestable young prig in London--you would -be if you weren't--if you weren't----" - -"If I weren't----?" said Henry, blushing. Of all things he hated most -to be called a prig. - -"If you weren't such an incredible infant and didn't tumble over your -boots so often----" - -She was gone and he was alone to consider her news. Peter in love with -Millie! How had he been so blind? Of course he could see it now, could -remember a thousand things! Poor Peter! Henry felt old and protective -and all-wise, then remembering the other things that Mary Cass had said -blushed again. - -"Am I really a prig?" he thought. "But I don't mean to be. But perhaps -prigs never do mean to be. What is a prig, anyway? Isn't it some one -who thinks himself better than other people? Well, I certainly don't -think myself better----" - -These beautiful thoughts were interrupted by Millie and, with her, Mr. -Baxter. - -It may be said at once to save further time and trouble that the two -young men detested one another at sight. It was natural and inevitable -that they should. Henry with his untidy hair, his badly shaven chin, -his clumsy clothes and his crookedly-balancing pince-nez would of -course seem to Bunny Baxter a terrible fellow to appear in public -with. It would shock him deeply, too, that so lovely a creature as -Millie could possibly have so plain a relation. It would also be at -once apparent to him that here was some one from whom he could hope -for nothing socially, whether borrowing of money, introductions to -fashionable clubs, or the name of a new tailor who allowed, indeed -invited, unlimited credit. It was quite clear that Henry was a gate to -none of these things. On Henry's side it was natural that he should at -once be prejudiced against any one who was "dressed up." He admitted to -himself that Baxter looked a gentleman, but his hair, his clothes, his -shoes, had all of them that easy perfection that would never, never, -did he live for a million years, be granted to Henry. - -Henry disliked his fresh complexion, his moustache, the contemptuous -curl of his upper lip. He decided at once that here was an enemy. - -It would not in any case have been a very happy meeting, but -difficulties were made yet more difficult by the fact, sufficiently -obvious to the eyes of an already critical brother, that the two of -them had been "having words" as they came along. Millie's cheeks were -flushed and her eyes angry, and that she looked adorable when she was -thus did not help substantially the meeting. - -Millie went into the inner room and the two men sat stiffly opposite -one another and carried on a hostile conversation. - -"Beastly weather," Mr. Baxter volunteered. - -"Oh, do you think so?" Henry smiled, as though in wonder at the extreme -stupidity of his companion. "I should have said it had been rather fine -lately." - -Silence. - -"Up in London for long?" asked Baxter. - -"Only two days, I think. Just came up to see that Millie was all right." - -"You won't have to bother any more now that she's got me to look after -her," said Baxter, sucking the gold knob of his cane. - -"As a matter of fact," said Henry, "she's pretty good at looking after -herself." - -Silence. - -"You're secretary to some old Johnny, aren't you?" asked Baxter. - -"I'm helping a man edit some family papers," said Henry with dignity. - -"Same thing, isn't it?" said Baxter. "I should hate it." - -"I expect you would," said Henry, with emphatic meaning behind every -word. - -Silence. - -"Know Cladgate?" asked Baxter. - -"No," said Henry. - -"Beastly place. Wouldn't have been there if it weren't for your sister. -Good dancing, though. Do you dance?" - -"No, I don't," said Henry. - -"You're wise on the whole. Awful bore having to talk to girls you don't -know. One simply doesn't talk, if you know what I mean." - -"Oh, I know," said Henry. - -Silence. - -Millie came in. Henry got up. - -"Think I'll be off now, Millie," he said. "Got a lot to do. Will you -creep away from your Cromwell Road to-morrow and have lunch with me?" - -"All right," she said, with a readiness that showed that this was in -some way a challenge to Mr. Baxter. - -"I'll fetch you--one-fifteen." - -With a stiff nod to Baxter, he was gone. - -"By Jove, how your brother does hate me," that young gentleman -remarked. Then with a sudden change of mood that was one of his most -charming gifts, he threw himself at her feet. - -"I'm a beast, Millie; I'm everything I shouldn't be, but I _do_ love -you so! I do! I do! . . . The only decent thing in my worthless life, -perhaps, but it's true." - -And, for a wonder, it was. - -On that particular afternoon he was very nearly frank and honest with -her about many things. His love for her was always to remain the best -and truest thing that he had ever known; but when he looked down into -that tangle of his history and thence up into her clear, steadfast gaze -his courage flagged--he could only reiterate again and again the one -honest fact that he knew--that he did indeed love her with all the -best that was in him. She knew that it was the perception of that that -had first won her, and in all the doubts of him that were now beginning -to perplex her heart, _that_ doubt never assailed her. He _did_ love -her and was trying his best to be honest with her. That it was a poor -best she was soon to know. - -But to-day, tired and filled to the brim with ten hours' querulousness -in the Cromwell Road household, she succumbed once more to a longing -for love and comfort and reassurance. Once again she had told herself -that this time she would force him to clarity and truth--once again she -failed. He was sitting at her feet: she was stroking his hair; soon -they were locked in one another's arms. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -HENRY IN LOVE - - -At half-past one next day Millie and Henry were sitting opposite -one another at a little table in a Knightsbridge restaurant. This -might easily have been an occasion for one of their old familiar -squabbles--there was material sufficient--but it was a mark of the -true depths of their affection that the one immediately recognised -when the other was in real and earnest trouble--so soon as that was -recognised any question of quarrelling--and they enjoyed immensely that -healthy exercise--was put away. Henry made that recognition now, and -complicated though his own affairs were and very far from immediate -happiness, he had no thought but for Millie. - -She, as was her way, at once challenged him: - -"Of course you didn't like him," she said. - -"No, I didn't," he answered. "But you didn't expect me to, did you?" - -"I wanted you to. . . . No, I don't know. You will like him when you -know him better. You're always funny when any one from outside dares to -try and break into the family. Remember how you behaved over Philip." - -"Ah, Philip! I was younger then. Besides there isn't any family to -break into now. . . ." He leant forward and touched her hand. "There -isn't anything I want except for you to be happy, really there isn't. -Of course for myself I'd rather you stayed as you are for a long time -to come--it's better company for me, but that's against nature. I made -up my mind to be brave when the moment came, but I'd imagined some -one----" - -"Yes, I know," broke in Millie, "that's what one's friends always -insist on, that they should do the choosing. But it's me that's got to -do the living." She laughed. "What a terrible sentence, but you know -what I mean. . . . How do you know I'm not happy?" she suddenly ended. - -"Oh, of course any one can see. Your letters haven't been happy, your -looks aren't happy, you weren't happy with him yesterday----" - -"I was--the last part," she said, thinking. "Of course we'd quarrelled -just before we came in. We're always quarrelling, I'm sure I don't know -why. I'm not a person to quarrel much, now am I?" - -"We've quarrelled a good bit in our time," said Henry reflectively. - -"Yes, but that was different. This is so serious. Every time Bunny and -I quarrel I feel as though everything were over for ever and ever. Oh! -there's no doubt of it, being engaged's a very difficult thing." - -"Well, then, there it is," said Henry. "You love him and he loves -you. There's nothing more to be said. But there _are_ some questions -I'd like to ask. What are his people? What's his profession? When are -you going to be married? What are you going to live on when you are -married?" - -"Oh, that's all right," she answered hurriedly. "I'm to meet his mother -in a day or two, and very soon he's going into a motor-works out at -Hackney somewhere. There aren't many relations, I'm glad to say, on -either side." - -"Thanks," said Henry. "But haven't you seen his mother yet?" - -"No, she's been in Scotland." - -"Where does he come from?" - -"Oh, they've got a place down in Devonshire somewhere." - -She looked at him. He looked at her. Her look was loving and tender, -and said: "I know everything's wrong in this. You know that I know -this, but it's my fight and I'm going to make it come right." His look -was as loving as hers, and said: "I know that you know that I know that -this is going all wrong and I'm doing my best to keep my eye on it, but -I'm not going to force you to give him away. Only when the smash comes -I'll be with you." - -All that he actually said was: "Have another éclair?" - -She answered, "No thanks. . . ." Looking at him across the table, -she ended, as though this were her final comment on a long unspoken -conversation between them. - -"Yes, Henry, I know--but there are two ways of falling in love, one -worshipping so that you're on your knees, the other protecting so that -your arm goes round--I _know_ he's not perfect--I know it better every -day--but he wants some one like me. He says he does, and I know it's -true. You'd have liked me," she said almost fiercely, turning upon him, -"to have married some one like Peter." - -"Yes, I would. I'd have loved you to marry Peter--if he hadn't been -married already." - -They went out into the street, which was shining with long lines of -colour after a sudden scatter of rain. - -She kissed him, ran and caught an omnibus, waved to him from the steps, -and was gone. - -He went off to Peter Street. - - * * * * * - -He was once more in the pink-lit, heavily-curtained room with its smell -of patchouli and stale bread-crumbs, and once again he was at the -opposite end of the table from Mrs. Tenssen trying to engage her in -pleasant conversation. - -He realized at once to-day that their relationship had taken a further -step towards hostility. She was showing him a new manifestation. -When he came in she was seated dressed to go out, hurriedly eating -a strange-looking meal that was here paper-bags and there sardines. -She was eating this hurriedly and with a certain greed, plumping her -thumb on to crumbs that had escaped to the table and then licking -her fingers. Her appearance also to-day was strange: she was dressed -entirely in heavy and rather shabby black, and her face was so thickly -powdered and her lips so violently rouged that she seemed to be wearing -a mask. Out of this mask her eyes flashed vindictively, greedily and -violently, as though she wished with all her heart to curse God and -the universe but had no time because she was hungry and food would -not wait. Another thing to-day Henry noticed: on other occasions when -he had come in she had taken the trouble to force an exaggerated -gentility, a refinement and elegance that was none the less false for -wearing a show of geniality. To-day there was no effort at manners: -instead she gave one glance at Henry and then lifted up her saucer and -drank from it with long thirsty gurgles. He always felt when he saw -her the same uncanny fear of her, as though she had some power over -him by which with a few muttered words and a baleful glance she could -turn him into a rat or a toad and then squash him under her large flat -foot. _She_ was of the world of magic, of unreality if you like to -believe only in what you see with your eyes. She was real enough to eat -sardines, though, and crunch their little bones with her teeth and then -wipe her oily fingers on one of the paper-bags, after which she drank -the rest of her tea, and then, sitting back in her chair, surveyed -Henry, sucking at her teeth as she did so. - -"Well, what have you come for to-day?" she asked him. - -"Oh, just to pay you a visit." - -"Me! I like that. As though I didn't know what you're after. . . . -She's in there. She'll be out in a minute. I'm off on some business of -my own for an hour or two so you can conoodle as much as you damned -well please." - -Henry said nothing to that. - -"Why didn't you make an offer for her?" Mrs. Tenssen suddenly asked. - -"An offer?" Henry repeated. - -"Yes. I'm sick of her. Been sick of her these many years. All I want -is to get a little bit as a sort of wedding present, in return, you -know, for all I've done for her, bringing her up as I have and feeding -her and clothing her. . . . You're in love with her. You've got rich -people. Make an offer." - -"You're a bad woman," Henry said, springing to his feet, "to sell your -own daughter as though she were. . . ." - -"Selling, be blowed," replied Mrs. Tenssen calmly, pursuing a -recalcitrant crumb with her finger. "She's my daughter. I had the pain -of bearing her, the trouble of suckling her, the expense of clothing -her _and_ keeping her respectable. She'd have been on the streets long -ago if it hadn't been for me. I don't say I've always been all I should -have been. I'm a sinful woman, and I'm glad of it--but you'll agree -yourself she's a pure girl if ever there was one. _Dull_ I call it. -However, for those who like it there it is." - -Henry said nothing. - -Mrs. Tenssen looked at him scornfully. - -"You're in love with her, aren't you?" she asked. - -"I'd rather not talk to you about what I feel," Henry answered. - -"Of course you're in love with her," Mrs. Tenssen continued. "I don't -suppose she cares a rap for you. She doesn't seem to take after men -at all, and you're not, if you'll forgive my saying so, altogether -a beauty. You're young yet. But she'd do anything to get away from -me. Don't I know it and haven't I had to make my plans carefully to -prevent it? So long as her blasted uncles keep out of this country for -the next six months, with me she's got to stay, and she knows it. But -time's getting short, and I've got to make my mind up. There are one or -two other offers I'm considering, but I don't in the least object to -hearing any suggestion you'd like to make." - -"One suggestion I'd like to make," said Henry hotly, "is that I can get -the police on your track for keeping a disorderly house. They'll take -her away soon enough when they know what you've got in Victoria Street." - -"Now then," said Mrs. Tenssen calmly, "that comes very near to libel. -You be careful of libel, young man. It's got many a prettier fellow -than you into trouble before now. Nobody's ever been able to prove a -thing against me yet and it's not likely a chicken like you is going to -begin now. Besides, supposing you could, a pretty thing it would be for -Christina to be 'dragged into such an affair in the Courts.' No thank -you. I can look after my girl better than that." - -Mrs. Tenssen got up, went to a mirror to put her hat straight, and then -turned round upon him. She stood, her arms akimbo, looking down upon -him. - -"I don't understand you virtuous people," she said, "upon my word I -don't. You make such a lot of fine talk about your nobility and your -high conduct and then you go and do things that no old drab in the -street would lower herself to. Here are you, been sniffing round my -daughter for months and haven't got the pluck to lift a finger to take -her out of what you think her misery and make her happy. Oh, I loathe -you good people, damn the lot of you. You can go to hell for all I -care, so you bloody well can. . . . You'd better make the most of your -Christina while you've got the chance. You won't be coming here many -more times." With that she was gone, banging the door behind her. - -Christina came in, smiled at him without speaking, carried the dirty -remnants of her mother's meal into the inner room, returned and sat -down, a book in her hand, close to him. - -He saw at once that she was happy to-night. The fright was not in her -eyes. When she spoke there was only a slight hint of the Danish accent -which, on days when she was disturbed, was very strong. - -She looked so lovely to him sitting there in perfect tranquillity, -the thin green book between her hands, that he got exultant draughts -of pleasure simply from gazing at her. They both seemed to enjoy -the silence; the room changed its atmosphere as if in submission, -perhaps, to their youth and simplicity. The bells from the church -near Shaftesbury Avenue were ringing, and the gaudy clock on the -mantelpiece, usually so inquisitive in its malicious chatter, now -tick-tocked along in amiable approval of them both. - -"I'm very glad you've come--at last," she said. "It's a fortnight since -the other time." - -"Yes," he answered, flushing with pleasure that she should remember. -"I've been in the country working. What are you reading?" he asked. - -"Oh!" she cried, laughing. "Do hear me read and see whether I pronounce -the words right and tell me what some of them mean. It's poetry. I -was out with mother and I saw this book open in the window with his -picture, and I liked his face so much that I went in and bought it. -It's lovely, even though I don't understand a lot of it. Now tell me -the truth. If I read it very badly, tell me: - - "It was a nymph, uprisen to the breast - In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood - 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. - To him her dripping hand she softly kist, - And anxiously began to plait and twist - Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: Youth! - Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, - The bitterness of love: too long indeed, - Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed - Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer - All the bright riches of my crystal coffer - To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, - Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, - Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze; - Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws - A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands - Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands. - By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, - My charming rod, my potent river spells; - Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup - Meander gave me,--for I bubbled up - To fainting creatures in a desert wild. - But woe is me, I am but as a child - To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, - Is, that I pity thee; that on this day - I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far - In other regions, past the scanty bar - To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en - From every wasting sigh, from every pain, - Into the gentle bosom of thy love. - Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: - But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell! - I have a ditty for my hollow cell.'" - -"That's _Endymion_," Henry said. "Keats." - -"Keats!" she repeated, "what a funny name for a poet. When I read it in -the book I remembered very distantly when we were learning English at -school there was such a name. What kind of man was he?" - -"He had a very sad life," said Henry. "He had consumption and the -critics abused his poetry, and he loved a young lady who treated him -very badly. He was very young when he died in Italy." - -"What was the name of the girl he loved?" she asked. - -"Brawne," said Henry. - -"Ugh! what a horrible name! Keats and Brawne. Isn't England a funny -country? We have beautiful names at home like Norregaard and Friessen -and Christinsen and Engel and Röde. You can't say Röde." - -Henry tried to say it. - -"No. Not like that at all. It's right deep in your throat, listen! -Röde--Röde, Röde." She stared in front of her. "And on a summer -morning the water comes up Holman's Canal and the green tiles shine in -the water and the ships clink-clank against the side of the pier. The -ships are riding almost into Kongens Nytorv and all along the Square -in the early morning sun they are going." She pulled herself up with a -little jump. - -"All the same, although he was called Keats there are lovely words in -what I was reading." She turned to the book again, repeating to herself: - - "All my clear-eyed fish, golden or rainbow-sided, - My grotto-sands tawny and gold." - -"'Tawny.' What's that?" - -"Rich red-brown," said Henry. - -"Do I say most of the words right?" - -"Yes, nearly all." - -She pushed the book away and looked at him. - -"Now tell me," he said, "why you're happy to-day?" - -She looked around as though some one might be listening, then leant -towards him and lowered her voice. - -"I've had a letter from my uncle, Uncle Axel. It's written from -Constantinople. Luckily I got the letters before mother one morning and -found this. He's coming to London as soon as ever he can to see after -me. Mother would be terribly angry if she knew. She hates Uncle Axel -worst of them all. When he's there I'm safe!" - -Henry's face fell. - -"I feel such a fool," he said. "Even your mother said the same thing. -Here I've been hanging round for months and done nothing for you at -all. Any other man would have got you away to Copenhagen or wherever -you wanted to go. But I--I always fail. I'm always hopeless--even now -when I want to succeed more than ever before in my life." - -His voice shook. He turned away from her. - -"No," she said. "You've not failed. I couldn't have escaped like that. -Mother would only have followed me. Both my uncles are abroad. There's -no one in Copenhagen to protect me. I would rather--what do you call -it? hang on like this until everything got so bad that I _had_ to run. -You've been a wonderful friend to me these months. You don't know -what a help you've been to me. I've been the ungrateful one." She -looked at him and drew his eyes to hers. "Do you know I've thought a -lot about you these last weeks, wondering what I could do in return. -It seems unfair. I'd like to love you in the way you want me to. But I -can't. . . . I've never loved anybody, not in _that_ way. I loved my -father and I love my uncles, but most of all I love places, the places -I've always known, Odense and the fields and the long line against the -sky just before the sunsets, and Kjöbenhavn when the bells are ringing -and you go up Ostngarde and it's so full of people you can't move: in -the spring when you walk out to Langlinir and smell the sea and see -the ships come in and hear them knocking with hammers on the boats, -and it's all so fresh and clean . . . and at twelve o'clock when they -change the guard and the soldiers come marching down behind the band -into Kongens Nytorv and all the boys shout . . . I don't know," she -sighed, staring again in front of her. "It's so simple there and every -one's kind-hearted. Here----" She suddenly burst into tears, hiding her -face in her arms. - -He came across to her, knelt down beside her, put his hands against her -neck. - -"Don't cry. Oh, don't cry, Christina. You'll go home soon. You will -indeed. It won't be long to wait. No, don't bother. It's only my -pince-nez. I don't mind if they do break. Your uncle will come and -you'll go home. Don't cry. Please, please don't cry." - -He laid his cheek against her hot one, then his heart hammering in his -breast he kissed her. She did not move away from him; her cheek was -still pressed against his, but, as he kissed her, he knew that it was -true enough that whosoever one day she loved it would not be him. - -He stayed there his hand against her arm. She wiped her eyes. - -"I'm frightened," she said. "If Uncle Axel doesn't come in time . . . . -mother . . . Mr. Leishman." - -"I'm here," Henry cried valiantly, feeling for his pince-nez, which to -his delight were not broken "I'll follow you anywhere. No harm shall -happen to you so long as I'm alive." - -She might have laughed at such a knight with his hair now dishevelled, -his eye-glasses crooked, his trouser-knees dusty. She did not. She -certainly came nearer at that moment to loving him than she had ever -done before. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD - - -I have said before that one of the chief complaints that Henry had -against life was the abrupt fashion in which it jerked him from one set -of experiences and emotions into another. When Christina laid her head -on her arms and cried and he kissed her Time stood still and History -was no more. - -He had been here for one purpose and one alone, namely to guard, -protect and cherish Christina so long as she might need him. - -Half an hour later he was in his room in Panton Street. - -A telephone message said that his mother was very ill and that he was -to go at once to the Westminster house. - -He knew what that meant. The moment had, at last, come. His mother -was dying, was perhaps even then dead. As he stood by his shabby -little table staring at the piece of paper that offered the message, -flocks of memories--discordant, humorous, vulgar, pathetic--came to -him, crowding about him, insisting on his notice, hiding from him the -immediate need of his action. No world seemed to exist for him as he -stood there staring but that thick scented one of Garth and Rafiel -and the Westminster house and the Aunts--and through it all, forcing -it together, the strong figure of his mother fashioning it all into a -shape upon which she had already determined, crushing it until suddenly -it broke in her hands. - -Then he remembered where he should be. He put on his overcoat again and -hurried down the dark stairs into the street. The first of the autumn -fogs was making a shy, half-confident appearance, peeping into Panton -Street, rolling a little towards the Comedy Theatre, then frightened at -the lights tumbling back and running down the hill towards Westminster. -In Whitehall it plucked up courage to stay a little while, and -bunched itself around the bookshop on one side and the Horse Guards -on the other and became quite black in the face peeping into Scotland -Yard. Near the Houses of Parliament it was shy again, and crept away -after writhing itself for five minutes around St. Margaret's, up into -Victoria Street, where it suddenly kicked its heels in the air, snapped -its fingers at the Army and Navy Stores, and made itself as thick and -confusing as possible round Victoria Station, so that passengers went -to wrong destinations and trains snorted their irritation and annoyance. - -To Henry the fog had a curious significance, sweeping him back to -that evening of Grandfather's birthday, when, because of the fog, a -stranger had lost himself and burst in upon their family sanctity for -succour--the most important moment of young Henry's life perhaps! and -here was the moment that was to close that earlier epoch, close it and -lock it up and put it away and the Fog had come once again to assist at -the Ceremony. - -In Rundle Square the Fog was a shadow, a thin ghostly curtain twisting -and turning as though it had a life and purpose all of its own. It hid -and revealed, revealed and hid a cherry-coloured moon that was just -then bumping about on a number of fantastically leering chimney-pots. -The old house was the same, with its square set face, its air of ironic -respectability, sniggering at its true British hypocrisy, alive though -the Family Spirit that it had once enshrined was all but dead, was -to-night to squeak its final protest. The things in the house were the -same, just the same and in the same places--only there was electric -light now where there had been gas and there was a new servant-maid to -take off his coat, a white-faced little creature with a sniffling cold. - -She knew him apparently. "Please, Mr. Henry, they're all upstairs," -she said. But he went straight into his father's study. There was no -human being there, but how crammed with life it was, and a life so far -from Christina and her affairs! It was surely only yesterday that he -had stood there and his father had told him of the engagement between -Katherine and Philip, and afterwards he had gone out into the passage -and seen them kissing. . . . That too was an event in his life. - -The books looked at him and remained aloof knowing so much that he did -not know, tired and sated with their knowledge of life. - -He went upstairs. On the first landing he met Millie. They talked in -whispers. - -"Shall I go up?" - -"Yes, you'd better for a moment." - -"How is she?" - -"Oh, she doesn't know any of us. She can't live through the night." - -"Who's there?" - -"Father and Katherine and the Aunts." - -"And she didn't know you?" - -"None of us. . . ." - -He went suddenly stepping on tip-toe as though he were afraid of waking -somebody. - -The long dim bedroom was green-shaded and very soft to the tread. -Beside the bed Katherine was sitting; nearer the window in an armchair -Henry's father; on the far side of the bed, against the wall like -images, staring in front of them, the Aunts; the doctor was talking -in a low whisper to the nurse, who was occupied with something at the -wash-hand stand--all these figures were flat, of one dimension against -the green light. When Henry entered there was a little stir; he could -not see his mother because Katherine was in the way, but he _felt_ that -the bed was terrible, something that he would rather not see, something -that he ought not to see. - -The thought in his brain was: "Why are there so many people here? They -don't want _all_ of us. . . ." - -Apparently the doctor felt the same thing because he moved about -whispering. He came at last to Henry. He was a little man, short and -fat. He stood on his toes and whispered in Henry's ear, "Better go -downstairs for a bit. No use being here. I'll call you if necessary." - -The Aunts detached themselves from the wall and came to the door. -Then Henry noticed that something was going on between his sister -Katherine and the little doctor. She was shaking her head violently. -He was trying to persuade her. No, she would not be persuaded. Henry -suddenly seemed to see the old Katherine whom through many years now -he had lost--the old Katherine with her determination, her courage, her -knowledge of what she meant to do. She stayed, of course. The others -filed out of the door--Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, his father, himself. - -They were down in the dining-room, sitting round the dining-room table. -Millie had joined them. - -Aunt Aggie looked just the same, Henry thought--as thin and as bitter -and as pleased with herself--still the little mole on her cheek, the -tight lips, the suspicious eyes. - -They talked in low voices. - -"Well, Henry." - -"Well, Aunt Aggie." - -"And what are you doing for yourself?" - -"Secretarial work." - -"Dear, dear, I wouldn't have thought you had the application." - -His father was fatter, yes, a lot fatter. He had been a jolly-looking -man once. Running to seed. . . . He'd die too, one day. They'd all -die . . . all . . . himself. Die? _What_ was it? _Where_ was it? - -"Oh yes, we like Long-Masterman very much, thank you, Millie dear. -It suits Aggie's health excellently. You really should come down one -day--only I suppose you're so busy." - -"Yes indeed." Aunt Aggie's old familiar snort. "Millie always _was_ too -busy for her poor old Aunts." - -How disagreeable Aunt Aggie was and how little people changed although -you might pretend. . . . But he felt that he was changing all the -time. Suppose he wasn't changing at all? Oh, but that was absurd! -How different the man who sat out in the garden at Duncombe from the -boy who, at that very table, had sat after dinner on Grandfather's -table looking for sugared cherries? Really different? . . . But, of -course. . . . Yes, but really? - -Aunt Aggie stood up. "I really don't know what we're all sitting round -this table for. They'll send for us if anything happens. I'm sure poor -Harriet wouldn't want us to be uncomfortable." - -Henry and Millie were left there alone. - -"How quiet the house is!" Millie gave a little shiver. "Poor mother! I -wish I felt it more. I suppose I shall afterwards." - -"It's what people always call a 'happy release,'" said Henry. "It -really has been awful for her these last years. When I went up to see -her a few weeks ago her eyes were terrible." - -"Poor mother," Millie repeated again. They were silent for a little, -then Millie said: "You know, I've been thinking all the evening what -Peter once said to us about our being enchanted--because we are young. -There's something awfully true about it. When things are at their very -worst--when I'm having the most awful row with Bunny or Victoria's more -tiresome than you can imagine--although I say to myself, 'I'm perfectly -miserable,' I'm not really because there's something behind it all -that I'm enjoying hugely. I wouldn't miss a moment of it. I want every -scrap. It is _like_ an enchantment really. I suppose I'll wake up soon." - -Henry nodded. - -"I feel it too. And I feel as though it must all have its climax in -some wonderful adventure that's coming to me. An adventure that I -shall remember all the rest of my life. It seems silly, after the War, -talking of adventures, but the War was too awful for one to dare to -talk about oneself in connection with it, although it was immensely -personal all the time. But we're out of the War now and back in life -again, and if I can keep that sense of magic I have now, nothing can -hurt me. The whole of life will be an adventure." - -"We _must_ keep it," said Millie. "We must remember we had it. And when -we get ever so old and dusty and rheumatic we can say: 'Anyway we knew -what life was once.'" - -"Yes, I know," said Henry. "And be one of those people who say to their -children and other people's children if they haven't any of their own: -'Ah, my dear, there's nothing like being young. My school-days were the -happiest.' Rot! as though most people's school-time wasn't damnable." - -"Oh it's nothing to do with age," said Millie scornfully. "The -enchanted people are any age, but they're always young. The only point -about them is that they're the only people who really know what life -is. All the others are wrong." - -"We're talking terribly like the virtuous people in books," said -Henry. "You know, books like Seymour's, all about Courage and Tolerance -and all the other things with capital letters. Why is it that when a -Russian or Scandinavian talks about life it sounds perfectly natural -and that when an Englishman does it's false and priggish?" - -"I'm sure I don't know," said Millie in an absent-minded voice. "Isn't -the house quiet? And isn't it cold? . . . Poor mother! It's so horrid -being not able to do anything. Katherine's feeling it terribly. She's -longing for her to say just one word." - -"She won't," said Henry. "She'll hold out to the very last." - -At that moment Aunt Betty appeared in the doorway, beckoning to them. - -A moment later they were all there gathered round the bed. - -Now Henry could see his mother. She was lying, her eyes closed, but -with that same determined expression in the face that he had so often -seen before. She might be dead or she might be asleep. He didn't feel -any drama in connection with his vision of her. Too many years had now -intervened since his time with her. He did indeed recall with love and -affection some woman who had been very good to him, who had taken him -to Our Boys' Clothing Company to be fitted on, who had written to him -and sent him cake when he was at school, and of whom he had thought -with passionate and tearful appeal when he had been savagely bullied. -But that woman had died long ago. This stern, remorseless figure, who -had cursed her children because they would not conform to the patterns -that she had made for them, had confronted all his love of justice, of -tolerance, of freedom. There had been many moments when he had hated -her, and now when he was seeing her for the last time he could not -summon false emotion and cry out at a pain that he did not feel. And -yet he knew well that when she was gone remorse would come sweeping in -and that he would be often longing for her to return that he might tell -her that he loved her and wished to atone to her for all that he had -done that was callous and selfish and unkind. - -Worst of all was the unreality of the scene, the dim light, the -faint scent of medicine, the closed-in seclusion as though they were -all barred from the outside world which they were never to enter -again. He looked at the faces--at Aunt Betty upset, distressed, -moved deeply because in her tender heart she could not bear to see -any one or any thing unhappy; Aunt Aggie, severe, fancying herself -benign and dignified, thinking only of herself; the doctor and the -nurse professionally preoccupied, wondering perhaps how long this -tiresome old woman would be "pegging out"; his father struggling to -recover something of the old romance that had once bound him, tired -out with the effort, longing for it all to be over; Millie, perfectly -natural, ready to do anything that would help anybody, but admitting no -falseness nor hypocrisy; Katherine----! - -It was Katherine who restored Henry to reality. Katherine was suffering -terribly. She was gazing at her mother, an agonized appeal in her eyes. - -"Come back! Come back! Come and say that you forgive me for all I have -done, that you love me still----" - -She seemed to have shed all her married life, her home with Philip, -her bearing of children to him, her love for him, her love for them -all. She was the daughter again, in an agony of repentance and -self-abasement. Was the victory after all to Mrs. Trenchard? - -Katherine broke into a great cry: - -"Mother! Mother; speak to me! Forgive me!" - -She fell on her knees. - -Mrs. Trenchard's eyes opened. There was a slight movement of the mouth: -it seemed, in that half light, ironical, a gesture of contempt. Her -head rolled to one side and the long, long conflict was at an end. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -NOTHING IS PERFECT - - -At that moment of Mrs. Trenchard's death began the worst battle of -Millie's life (so far). She dated it from that or perhaps from the -evening of her mother's funeral four days later. - -Mrs. Trenchard had expressed a wish to be buried in Garth and so -down to Glebeshire they all went. The funeral took place on a day -of the dreariest drizzling rain--Glebeshire at its earliest autumn -worst. Afterwards they--Katherine, Millie, Henry, Philip and Mr. -Trenchard--sat over a spluttering fire in the old chilly house and -heard the rain, which developed at night into a heavy down-pour, beat -upon the window-panes. - -The Aunts had not come down, for which every one was thankful. Philip, -looking as he did every day more and more a cross between a successful -Prize-fighter and an eminent Cabinet Minister, was not thinking, as in -Henry's opinion he should have been, of the havoc that he had wrought -upon the Trenchard family, but of Public Affairs. Katherine was silent -and soon went up to her room. Henry thought of Christina, his father -retired into a corner, drank whisky and went to sleep. Millie struggled -with a huge pillow of depression that came lolloping towards her and -was only kept away by the grimmest determination. - -Nobody except Katherine thought directly of Mrs. Trenchard, but she -was there with them all in the room and would be with one or two of -them--Mr. Trenchard, senior, and Katherine for instance--until the very -day of their death. - -Yes, perhaps after all Mrs. Trenchard _had_ won the battle. - -Millie went back to London with a cold and the Cromwell Road seemed -almost unbearable. A great deal of what was unbearable came of course -from Victoria. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes Millie -could not have believed that a month at Cladgate could alter so -completely a human being as it had altered Victoria. There she had -tasted Blood and she intended to go on tasting Blood to the end of the -Chapter. It is true that Cladgate could not take all the blame for the -transformation--Mr. Bennett and Major Mereward must also bear some -responsibility. When these gentlemen had first come forward Millie had -been touched by the effect upon Victoria of ardent male attention. Now -she found that same male attention day by day more irritating. Major -Mereward she could endure, silent and clumsy though he was. It was -certainly tiresome to find yourself sitting next to him day after day -at luncheon when the most that he could ever contribute was "Rippin' -weather, what?" or "Dirty sort of day to-day"--but he did adore -Victoria and would have adored her just as much had she not possessed -a penny in the world. He thought her simply the wittiest creature in -Europe and laughed at everything she said and often long before she -said it. Yes, he was a _good_ man even though he was a dull one. - -But if Major Mereward was good Robin Bennett was most certainly bad. -Millie very soon hated him with a hatred that made her shiver. She -hated him, of course, for himself, but was it only that? Deep down -in her soul there lurked a dreadful suspicion. Could it be that some -of her hatred arose because in him she detected some vices and low -qualities grown to full bloom that in twig, stem and leaf were already -sprouting in a younger soil? _Was_ there in Robin Bennett a prophecy? -No, no. Never, never, never. . . . And yet. . . . Oh, how she hated -him! His smart clothes, his neat hair, his white hands, his soft voice! -And Bunny liked him. "Not half a bad fellow that man Bennett. Knows a -motor-car when he sees one." - -Millie had it not in her nature to pretend, and she did not disguise -for a moment on whose side she was. - -"You don't like me?" Bennett said to her one day. - -"No, indeed I don't," said Millie, looking him in the eyes. - -"Why not?" - -"Why? Because for one thing I'm very fond of Victoria. You're after her -money. She'll be perfectly miserable if she marries you." - -He laughed. Nothing in life could disconcert him! - -"Yes, of course I'm a Pirate." (Hadn't some one else somewhere said -that once?) "This is the day for Pirates. There never _was_ such a -time for them. All sorts of people going about with money that they -don't know what to do with. All sorts of other people without any money -ready to do anything to get it. No morality any more. Damned good thing -for England. Hypocrisy was the only thing that was the matter with -her--now she's a hypocrite no longer! You see I'm frank with you, Miss -Trenchard. You say you don't like me. Well, I'll return the compliment. -I don't like you either. Of course you're damned pretty, about the -prettiest girl in London I should say. But you're damned conceited too. -You'll forgive me, won't you? _You_ don't spare _me_ you know. I tell -young Baxter he's a fool to marry you. He'll be miserable with you." - -"You tell him that?" Millie said furiously. - -"Yes, why not? You tell Victoria she'd be miserable with _me_, don't -you? Well, then. . . . You're very young, you know. When you're a bit -older you'll see that there's not so much difference between people -like me and people like yourself as you think. We all line up very much -the same in the end. I mayn't have quite your faults and you mayn't -have quite mine, but when it comes to the Judgment Day I don't expect -there'll be much to choose between Piracy and Arrogance." - -So far Mr. Bennett and a Victory cannot exactly be claimed for Millie -in this encounter. She was furious. She was miserable. _Was_ she so -conceited? She'd ask Henry. She did ask the little doctor, who told -her--"No. Only a little self-confident." He was her only friend and -support in these days. - -"Be patient with Victoria," he said. "It's only a phase. She'll work -through this." - -"She won't if she marries Mr. Bennett," Millie said. - -Meanwhile the old artists' colony was broomed right away. Eve was -carried down to the cellar, the voice of Mr. Block was no longer heard -in the land and the poor little Russian went and begged for meals -in other districts. Victoria danced, went to the theatre and gave -supper-parties. - -She was quite frank with Millie. - -"I don't mind telling you, Millie, that all that art wasn't quite -genuine--not altogether. I _do_ like pretty things, of course--you know -me well enough to know that. And I do want to help poor young artists. -But they're so ungrateful. Now aren't they, Millie? You can see it for -yourself. Look at Mr. Block. I really did everything I could for him. -But is he pleased? Not a bit. He's as discontented as he can be." - -"It's very difficult doing kindnesses to people," said Millie -sententiously. "Sometimes you want to stop before they think you ought -to." - -"Now you're looking at me reproachfully. That isn't fine. Why shouldn't -I enjoy myself and be gay a little? And I love dancing; I daresay I -look absurd, but so do thousands of other people, so what does it -matter? My Millie, I _must_ be happy. I must. Do you know that this is -positively the first time I've been happy in all my life and I daresay -it's my last. . . . I know you often think me a fool. Oh, _I_ see you -looking at me. But I'm not such a fool as you think. I know about my -age and my figure and all the rest of it. I know that if I hadn't a -penny no one would look at me. You think that I don't know any of these -things, but indeed I do. . . . It's my last fling and you can't deprive -me of it!" - -"Oh I don't want to deprive you of it," cried Millie, suddenly flinging -her arms round the fat, red-faced woman, "only I don't want you to go -and do anything foolish--like marrying Mr. Bennett for instance." - -"Now, why shouldn't I marry Mr. Bennett? Suppose I'm in love with -him--madly. Isn't it something in these days when there are so many -old maids to have a month of love even if he beats one all the rest -of one's days? And anyway I've got the purse--I could keep him in -check. . . . No, that's a nasty way of talking. And I'm certainly not -in love with Bennett, nor with Mereward neither. I don't suppose I'll -ever be in love with any one again." - -"You're lucky!" Millie broke out. "Oh, you are indeed! It isn't happy -to be in love. It's miserable." - -Indeed she was unhappy. She could not have believed that she would -ever allow herself to be swung into such a swirl of emotions as were -hers now. At one moment she hated him, feeling herself bound ignobly, -surrendering weakly all that was best in herself; at such a moment she -determined that she would be entirely frank with him, insisting on his -own frankness, challenging him to tell her everything that he was, as -she now knew, keeping back from her . . . then she loved him so that -she wanted only his company, only to be with him, to hear him laugh, to -see him happy, and she would accept any tie (knowing in her heart that -it was a lie) if it would keep him with her and cause him to love her. -That he did love her through all his weakness she was truly aware: it -was that awareness that chained her to him. - -Very strange the part that Ellen played in all this. That odd woman -made no further demonstrations of affection; she was always now -ironically sarcastic, hurting Millie when she could, and she knew, as -no one else in the place did, the way to hurt her. Because of her Bunny -came now much less to the house. - -"I can't stand that sneering woman," he said, "and she loathes _me_." - -Millie tried to challenge her. - -"Why do you hate Bunny?" she asked. "He's never done you any harm." - -"Hasn't he?" Ellen answered smiling. - -"No, what harm has he done you?" - -"I'll tell you one day." - -"I hate these mysteries," Millie cried. "Once you asked to be my -friend. Now----" - -"Now?" repeated Ellen. - -"You seem to want to hurt me any way you can." - -Ellen had a habit of standing stiff against the wall, her heels -together, her head back as though she were being measured for her -height. - -"Perhaps I don't like to see you so happy when I'm unhappy myself." - -Millie came to her. - -"Why are you unhappy, Ellen? I hate you to be. I do like you. I do want -to be your friend if you'll let me. I offended you somehow in the early -days. You've never forgiven me for it. But I don't even now know what I -did." - -Ellen walked away. Suddenly she turned. - -"What," she said, "can people like you know about people like us, how -we suffer, how we hate ourselves, how we are thirstier and thirstier -and for ever unsatisfied. . . . No, I don't mean you any harm. I'll -save you from Baxter, though. You're too pretty. . . . You can escape -even though I can't." - -There was melodrama in this it seemed to Millie. It was quite a relief -to have a fierce quarrel with Bunny five minutes later. The quarrel -came, of course, from nothing--about some play which was, Bunny said, -at Daly's, and Millie at the Lyric. - -They were walking furiously down Knightsbridge. An omnibus passed. The -play was at the Lyric. - -"Of course I was right," said Millie. - -"Oh, you're always right, aren't you?" - -Millie turned. - -"I'm not coming on with you if you're like that." - -"Very well then." He suddenly stepped back to her with his charming air -of penitence. - -"Millie, I'm sorry. Don't let's fight to-day." - -"Well, then, take me to see your mother." - -The words seemed not to be hers. At their sudden utterance -Knightsbridge, the trees of the Park were carved in coloured stone. - -His mouth set. "No, I can't." - -"Why not?" - -"She's not--she's not in London." - -She knew that he was lying. - -"Then take me to where she is." - -They were walking on again, neither seeing the other. - -"You know that I can't. She's down in the country." - -"Then we'll go there." - -"We can't." - -"Yes, we can. Now. At once. If you ever want to speak to me -again. . . ." - -"I tell you--I've told you a thousand times--we must wait. There are -reasons----" - -"What reasons?" - -"If you're patient----" - -"I'm tired of being patient. Take me now or I'll never speak to you -again." - -"Well then, don't." - -They parted. After an evening of utter misery she wrote to him: - - MY DARLING BUNNY--I know that I was hateful this - afternoon. I know that I've been hateful other afternoons and - _shall_ be hateful again on afternoons to come. You're not very - nice either on these occasions. What are we to do about it? We - do love one another--I know we do. We ought to be kinder to one - another than we are to any one else and yet we seem to like to - lash out and hurt one another. And I think this is because there's - something really wrong in our relationship. You make me feel as - though you were ashamed to love me. Now why should you be ashamed? - Why can't we be open and clear before all the world? - - If you have some secret that you are keeping from me, tell me and - we'll discuss it frankly like friends. Take me to see your mother. - If she doesn't like me at first perhaps she will when she knows - me better. Anyway we shall be sure of where we are. Oh, Bunny, - we could be _so_ happy. Why don't you let us be? I know that it - is partly my fault. I suppose I'm conceited and think I'm always - right. But I don't really inside--only if you don't pretend to - have an opinion of your own no one will ever listen to anything - you say. Oh! I don't know what I'm writing. I am tempted to - telephone to you and see if you are in and if you are to ask you - to come over here. Perhaps you will come of your own accord. Every - footstep outside the door seems to be yours and then it goes on - up the stairs. Don't let us quarrel, Bunny. I hate it so and we - say such horrid things to one another that we neither of us mean. - Forgive me for anything I've done or said. I love you. I _love_ - you. . . . Bunny darling.--Your loving - M. - -Her letter was crossed by one from him. - - DEAREST MILLIE--I didn't mean what I said this afternoon. - I love you so much that when we quarrel it's terrible. Do be - patient, darling. You want everything to be right all in a moment. - I'll tell you one day how difficult it has been all these months. - You'll see then that it isn't all my fault. I'm not perfect but - I do love you. You're the most beautiful thing ever made and I'm - a lucky devil to be allowed to kiss your hand. I'll be round at - Cromwell Road five o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Please forgive me, - Millie darling.--Your loving - BUNNY. - -"To-morrow afternoon at five o'clock" the reconciliation was complete. -No secrets were revealed. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE RETURN - - -Peter Westcott, meanwhile, had been passing his London summer in a -strange state of half-expectant happiness and tranquillity. It was -a condition quite new to him, this almost tranced state of pause as -though he were hesitating outside the door of some room; was some one -coming who would enter with him? Was he expecting to see some treasure -within that might after all not be there? Was he afraid to face that -realization? - -Throughout the whole of that solitary August he had with him three -joys--London, the book that was now slowly day by day growing, -and Millie. When he was young he had taken all he could get--then -everything had been snatched from him--now in his middle age life -had taught him to savour everything slowly, to expect nothing more -than he perceived actually before him; he had grown selfish in his -consciousness of his few treasures. If he shared with others perhaps -the gods would grow jealous and rob him once again. - -People might deride or condemn. He was shy now; his heart went out as -truly, as passionately as it had ever done, but he alone now must know -that. Henry and Millie, yes--they might know something--had he not -sworn comradeship with them? But not even to them could he truly speak -of his secrets. He had talked to Henry of his book and even discussed -it with him, but he would not put into spoken words the desires and -ambitions that, around it, were creeping into his heart. He scarcely -dared own them to himself. - -Of his feeling about London he did not speak to any one because he -could not put it into words. There was something mysterious in the very -soul of the feeling. He could tell himself that it was partly because -London was a middle-aged man's town. Paris was for youth, he said, -and New York too and Berlin perhaps, but London did not love you until -you were a little tired and had known trouble and sorrow and lost your -self-esteem. Then the grey-smoked stone, the grey of pigeon's wings -and the red-misted sky and the faint dusty green of the trees settled -about your heart and calmed you. Now when the past is something to you -at last, and the scorn of the past that you had in your youth is over, -London admits you into her comradeship. "There is no place," he said to -himself, "where one can live in such tranquillity. She is like a woman -who was once your mistress, whom you meet again after many years and -with whom at last, now that passion is gone, you can have kind, loving -friendship. Against the grey-white stone and the dim smoke-stained sky -the night colours come and go, life flashes and fades, sounds rise and -fall, and kindliness of heart is there at the end." He found now that -he could watch everything with a passionate interest. Marylebone High -Street might not be the most beautiful street in London, but it had -the charm of a small country town where, closing your eyes you could -believe that only a mile away there was the country road, the fir-wood, -the high, wind-swept down. As people down the street stopped for their -morning gossip and the dogs recognized their accustomed friends and the -little bell of the tiny Post Office jangled its bell, London rolled -back like a thick mist on to a distant horizon and its noise receded -into a thin and distant whisper of the wind among the trees. Watching -from his window he came to know faces and bodies and horses, he grew -part of a community small enough to want his company, but not narrow -enough to limit his horizon. - -His days during those months were very quiet and very happy. He worked -in the morning at his book, at some reviewing, at an occasional -article. His few friends, Campbell, Martha Proctor, Monteith perhaps, -James Maradick, one or two more, came to see him or he went to them. -There was the theatre (so much better than the highbrows asserted), -there were concerts. There was golf at a cheap little course at -Roehampton, and there were occasional week-ends in the country . . . -as a period of pause before some great event--those were happy months. -Perhaps the great event would never come, but never in his life before -had he felt so deeply assured that he was moving towards something -that was to change all his life. Even the finishing of his book would -do that. It was called _The Fiery Tree_, and it began with a man who, -walking at night towards a town, loses his way and takes shelter in -an old farmhouse. In the farmhouse are two men and an old woman. They -consent to put him up for the night. He goes to his room, and looking -out from his window on to the moonlit garden he sees, hiding in an -appletree. . . . What does he see? It does not matter. In the spring of -1922 the book will be published--_The Fiery Tree_, By Peter Westcott: -Author of _Reuben Hallard_, etc.: and you be able to judge whether -or no he has improved as a writer after all these years. Whether he -has improved or no the principal fact is that day after day he got -happiness and companionship and comfort from his book. It might be -good: it might be bad: he said he did not know. Campbell was right. -He did his best, secured his happiness. What came when the book was -between its cover was another matter. - -Behind London and the book was Millie. She coloured all his day, all -his thoughts: sometimes she came before him with her eyes wide and -excited like a child waking on her birthday morning. Sometimes she -stood in front of him, but away from him, her eyes watching him with -that half-ironical suggestion that she knew all about life, that he -and indeed all men were children to her whom she could not but pity, -that suggestion that went so sweetly with the child in herself, the -simplicity and innocence and confidence. - -And then again she would be before him simply in her beauty, her -colour, gold and red and dark, her body so straight, so strong, so -slim, the loveliness of her neck, her hands, her breast. Then a mist -came before his eyes and he could see no more. - -Sometimes he ached to know how she was, whether she were happy with -this man to whom she was engaged; he had no thought any more of having -her for himself. That was one thing that his middle-age and his past -trouble had brought him--patience, infinite, infinite patience. - -Then, as unheralded as such things usually are, the crisis came. It was -a foggy afternoon. He came in about half-past three, meaning to work. -Just as he was about to sit down at his table his telephone bell rang. -He was surprised to hear Martha Proctor's voice: he was still more -surprised when she told him that she was at Selfridge's and would like -to come in and have tea if he were alone. - -Martha Proctor! The last of the Three Graces to pay him any attention -he said. But I like her. I've always liked her best of the three. . . . - -He got his tea things from the little brown cupboard, made some toast, -found a pot of raspberry jam; just as he had finished Martha Proctor -stalked in. He liked her clear-cut ways, the decent friendly challenge -of her smile, her liking for brown bread and jam, with no nonsense -about "not being really hungry." Yes, he liked her--and he was pleased -that she had troubled to come to him, even though it was only the fog -that had driven her in. But at first his own shyness, the eternal sense -always with him that he was a recognized failure, and that no one -wanted to hear what he had to say, held him back. There fell silences, -silences that always came when he was alone with anybody. - -He had not the gift of making others enthusiastic, of firing their -intelligence. Only Millie and Henry, and perhaps James Maradick and -Bobby Galleon were able to see him as he really was. With others he -always thought of the thing that he was going to say before he said it; -then, finding it priggish, or sententious, or platitudinous, didn't say -it after all. No wonder men found him dull! - -He liked Martha Proctor, but the first half-hour of their meeting was -not a success. Then, with a smile he broke out: - -"You know--you wouldn't think it--but I'm tremendously glad the fog -drove you in here to-day. There are so many things I want to talk -about, but I've lost my confidence somehow in any one being interested -in what I think." - -"If you imagine it was the fog," said Martha Proctor, "that brought -me in to-day, you are greatly mistaken. I've been meaning to come for -weeks. You say you're diffident, well, I'm diffident too, although I -wouldn't have any one in the world to know it. Here I am at forty-two, -and I'm a failure. No, don't protest. It's true. I know I've got a -name and something of a position and young authors are said to wait -nervously for my Olympian utterances, but as a matter of fact I've got -about as much influence and power as that jam-pot there. But it isn't -only with myself I'm disappointed--I'm disappointed with everybody." - -She paused then, as though she expected Peter to say something, so he -said: - -"That's pretty sweeping." - -"No, it isn't. The state of literature in London is rotten, more rotten -than I've ever known it. Everybody over forty is tired and down and -out, and everybody under thirty has swelled head. And they're all in -sets and cliques. And they're all hating one another and abusing one -another and running their own little pets. And all the little pets -that might have turned into good writers if they'd been let alone have -been spoiled and ruined." She paused for breath, then went on, growing -really excited: "Look at young Burnley for instance. There's quite a -promising dramatist--you know that _The Rivers' Family_ was a jolly -good play. Then Monteith gets hold of him, persuades him that he's a -critic, which, poor infant, he never was and never will be, lets him -loose on his paper and ruins his character. Yes, ruins it! Six months -later he's reviewing the same book in four different papers under four -different names, and hasn't the least idea that he's doing anything -dishonest! - -"But Burnley isn't the point. It's the general state of things. -Monteith and Murphy and the rest think they're Olympian. They're as -full of prejudices as an egg is full of meat, and they haven't got a -grain of humour amongst the lot. They aren't consciously dishonest, -but they run round and round after their own tails with their eyes on -the ground. Now, I'm only saying what lots of us are feeling. We want -literature to become a jollier, freer thing; to be quit of schools and -groups, and to have altogether more fun in it. That's why I've come to -you!" - -"To me!" said Peter, laughing. "I'm not generally considered the most -amusing dog in London----" - -"No, you're not," said Miss Proctor. "People don't know you, of course. -Lots of them think you dull and conceited. You may be proud, but you're -certainly not conceited--and you're not dull." - -"Thank you," said Peter. - -"No, but seriously, a lot of us have been considering you lately. You -see, you're honest--no one would deny that--and you're independent, and -even if you're proud you're not so damned proud as Monteith, and you -haven't got a literary nursery of admiring pupils. You'd be surprised, -though, if you knew how many friends you have got." - -"I should be indeed," said Peter. - -"Well, you have. Of course Janet Ross and the others of her kind think -you're no good, but those are just the cliques we want to get away -from. To cut a long story short, some of us--Gardiner, Morris, Billy -Wells, Thompson, Thurtell, and there are others--want you to join us." - -"What are you going to do?" - -"Nothing very definite at the moment. We are going to be apart from all -cliques and sets----" - -"I see----" interrupted Peter, "be an anti-clique clique." - -"Not at all," said Martha Proctor. "We aren't going to call ourselves -anything or have meetings in an A.B.C. shop or anything of the kind. It -is possible that there--there'll be a paper one day--a jolly kind of -paper that will admit any sort of literature if it's good of its kind; -not only novels about introspective women and poems about young men's -stomachs on a spring morning. I don't know. All we want now is to be a -little happier about things in general, to be a little less jealous of -writing that isn't quite our kind and, above all, not to be Olympian!" - -She banged the table with her hand and the jam-pot jumped. "I hate the -Olympians! Damn the Olympians! Self-conscious Olympians are the worst -things God ever made . . . I'm a fool, you're not very bright, but -we're not Olympian, therefore let's have tea together once or twice a -year!" - -Soon after that she went. Peter had promised to come to her flat one -evening soon and meet some of her friends. She left him in a state of -very pleasureable excitement. - -He walked up and down his room, lurching a little from leg to leg -like a sailor on his deck. Yes, he was awfully pleased--_awfully_ -pleased. . . . Somebody wanted him. Somebody thought his opinion worth -having. - -There were friendly faces, kindly voices waiting for him. - -His ambition leapt up again like fire. Life was not over for him, and -although he might never write a fine book nor a word that would be -remembered after he was gone, yet he could help, take his share in the -movement, encourage a little what seemed to him good, fight against -everything that was false and pretentious and insincere. - -He felt as though some one were pushing the pieces of the game at last -in his favour. For long he had been baffled, betrayed, checked. Now -everything was moving together for him. Even Millie. . .! - -He stopped in his walk, staring at the window behind whose panes the -fog lay now like bales of dirty cotton. Millie! Perhaps this engagement -of hers was not a success. He did not know why but he had an impression -that all was not well with her. Something that Henry had said in a -letter. Something. . . . So long as she were still there so that he -might see her and tell her of his work. See her, her colour, her eyes, -her hands, her movement as she walked, her smile so kindly and then -a little scornful as though she were telling herself that it was not -grown-up to show kindness too readily, that they must understand that -she _was_ grown up. . . . - -Oh, bless her! He would be her true friend whatever course her life -might take, however small a share himself might have in it. - -He stared at the window and his happiness, his new ambition and -confidence were suddenly penetrated by some chill breath. By what? He -could not tell. He stood there looking in front of him, seeing nothing -but the grey shadows that coiled and uncoiled against the glass. - -What was it? His heart seemed to stand still in some sudden -anticipation. What was it? Was some one coming? He listened. There -was no sound but a sudden cry from the fog, a dim taxi-whistle. -Something was about to happen. He was sure as one is sure in dreams -with a knowledge that is simply an anticipation of something that one -has already been through. Just like this once he had stood, waiting -in a closed room. Once before. Where? Who was coming? Some one out -in the fog was now looking at the number of his house-door. Some -one had stepped into the house. Some one was walking slowly up the -stairs, looking at the cards upon the doors. It was as though he were -chained, enchanted to the spot. Now his own floor. A pause outside his -door. When suddenly his bell rang he felt no surprise, only a strange -hesitation before he moved as though a voice were saying to him: "This -is going to be very difficult for you. Pull yourself together. You'll -need your courage." - -He opened his door and peered out. The passage was dark. A woman was -there, standing back, leaning against the bannisters. - -"Who's there?" he called. His voiced echoed back to him from the empty -staircase. The woman made no answer, standing like a black shadow -against the dark stain of the bannisters. - -"Do you want anything?" asked Peter. "Did you ring my bell?" - -She moved then ever so slightly. In a hoarse whisper she said: "I want -to speak to Mr. Westcott." - -"I'm Peter Westcott," he answered. - -She moved again, coming a little nearer. - -"I want to sit down," she said. "I'm not very well." She gave a little -sigh, her arms moved in a gesture of protest and she sank upon the -floor. He went to her, lifted her up (he felt at once how small she -was and slight), carried her into his room and laid her on his old -green-backed sofa. - -Then, bending over her, he saw that she was his wife, Clare. - -Instantly he was flooded, body and soul, with pity. He had, he could -have, no other sense but that. It had been, perhaps, all his life even -during those childish years of defiance of his father the strongest -emotion in him--it was called forth now as it had never been before. - -He had hurried into his bedroom, fetched water, bathed her forehead, -her hands, taken off the shabby hat, unfastened the faded black dress -at the throat, still she lay there, her eyes closed in the painted -and powdered face, the body crumpled up on the sofa as though it were -broken in every limb. - -Broken! Indeed she was! It was nearly twenty years since he had last -seen her, since that moment when she had turned back at the door, -looking at him with that strange appeal in her eyes, the appeal that -had failed. He heard again, as though it had been only yesterday, her -voice in their last conversation--"I've got a headache. I'm going -upstairs to lie down. . . ." And that had been the end. - -She smelt of some horrible scent, the powder on her face blew off in -little dry flakes, her hair was still that same wonderful colour, -yellow gold; she must be forty now--her body was as slight and childish -as it had been twenty years ago. He rubbed her hands: they were not -clean and the nails were broken. - -She moved restlessly without opening her eyes, as though in her sleep, -she pushed against him, then freed her hands from his, muttering. He -caught some words: "No, Alex--no. Don't hurt me. I want to be happy! -Oh, I want to be happy! Oh, don't hurt me! Don't!" - -All this in a little whimper as though she had no strength left with -which to cry out. Then her eyes opened: she stared about her, first at -the ceiling, then at the table and chairs, then at Peter. - -She frowned at him. "I oughtn't to have come here," she said. "You -don't want me--not after all this time. Did I faint? How silly of me!" -She pushed herself up. "That's because I'm so hungry--so dreadfully -hungry. I've had nothing to eat for two days except what that man gave -me at the station . . . I feel sick but I must eat something----" - -"Hungry!" he sprang to his feet. "Just lie there a minute and rest. -Close your eyes. There! Lie back again! I'll have something ready in a -moment." - -He rushed into the little kitchen, found the kettle, filled it and put -it on the sitting-room fire. The tea-things were still on the table, a -plate with cakes, a loaf of bread, the pot of jam. She was sitting up -staring at them. She got up and moved across to the table. "Cut me some -bread quickly. Never mind about the tea." - -He cut her some bread and butter. She began to eat, tearing the bread -with her fingers, her eyes staring at the cakes. She snatched two of -them and began to eat them with the bread. Suddenly she stopped. - -"Oh, I can't!" she whispered. "I'm so hungry, but I can't--I'm going to -be sick." - -He led her into his bedroom, his arm around her. There she was very -ill. Afterwards white and trembling she lay on his bed. He put the -counterpane over her, and then said: - -"Would you like a doctor?" She was shivering from head to foot. - -"No," she whispered. "Would you make me some tea--very hot?" - -He went into the sitting-room and in a fever of impatience waited for -the kettle to boil. He stood there, watching it, his own emotion so -violent that his knees and hands were trembling. - -"Poor little thing! Poor little thing! Poor little thing!" He found -that he was repeating the words aloud. . . . The lid of the kettle -suddenly lifted. He made the tea and carried it into the other room. It -was dark now, with the fog and the early evening. He switched on the -light and then as she turned, making a slight movement of protest with -her hand, he switched it off again. She sat up a little, catching at -the cup, and then began to drink it with eager, thirsty gulps. - -"Ah, that's good!" he heard her murmur. "Good!" He gave her some more, -then a third cup. With a little sigh she sank back satisfied. She lay -then without speaking and he thought she was asleep. He drew a chair to -the bedside and sat down there, leaning forward a little towards her. -He could not see her now at all: the room was quite dark. - -Suddenly she began to speak in a low, monotonous voice---- - -"I oughtn't to have come. . . . Do you know I nearly came once last -year? I was awfully hard up and I got your address from the publishers. -I didn't like to go to them again this time. It was just chance that -you might still be here. I wouldn't have come to you at all if I hadn't -been so hard up. . . ." - -"Hush," he said, "you oughtn't to talk. Try and sleep." - -She laughed. "You say that just as you used to. You aren't changed very -much, fatter a bit. I'd have known you anywhere. I wouldn't have come -if I'd known where Benois was. He's in London somewhere, but he's given -me the slip. Not the first time either. . . . I'm not going to stay -here, you know. You needn't be frightened." - -The voice was changed terribly. He would have recognized it from the -thin sharp note, almost of complaint, that was still in it, but it -was thickened, coarsened, with a curious catch in it as though her -breathing were difficult. - -"Don't talk now. Rest!" he repeated. - -"Yes, you're not changed a bit. Fatter of course. I've often wondered -what you'd turned into. How you got on in the War. You know Jerry was -killed--quite early, at the beginning. He was in the French Army. He -treated me badly. But every one's treated me badly. All I wanted was to -be happy. I didn't mean to do any one any harm. It's cruel the way I've -been treated." - -Her voice died off into a murmur. He caught only the words -"Benois . . . Paris . . . Station." - -Soon he heard her breathing, soft with a little catch in it like a -strangled sob. He sat on then, hearing nothing but that little catch. -He did not think at all. He could see nothing. He was sightless in a -blind world, coil after coil of grey vapour moving about him, enclosing -him, releasing him, enclosing him again--"Poor little thing!" "Poor -little thing!" "Poor little thing!" - -He did not move as the evening passed into night. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -DUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE - - -At the moment when Clare Westcott was climbing the stairs to her -husband's rooms Henry Trenchard was walking up the drive through the -Duncombe park. The evening air was dark and misty with a thin purple -thread of colour that filtered through the bare trees and shone in -patches of lighted shadow against tall outlines of the road. Everything -was very still: even his steps were muffled by the matted carpet of -dead leaves that had not been swept from the drive. He had told them -the time of his arrival but there had been nothing at the station to -meet him. That did not surprise him. It had happened before; you could -always find a fly at the little inn. But this evening he had wanted to -walk the few miles. Something made him wish to postpone the arrival if -he could. - -The day after to-morrow Duncombe was to go up to London for his -operation. Henry hated scenes and emotional atmospheres and he knew -that Duncombe also hated them. Everything of course would be very quiet -during those two days--beautifully restrained in the best English -fashion, but the emotion would be there. No one would be frank; every -one would pretend to be gay with that horrible pretence that Englishmen -succeed in so poorly. No one would be worse at it than Henry himself. - -As he turned the corner of the drive that gave the first view of the -house a thin white light, a last pale flicker before dusk, enveloped -the world, spread across the lawn and shone upon the square, thick-set -building as though a sheet of very thin glass had suddenly been lowered -from the sky. The trees were black as ink, the grass grey, but the -house was illumined with a ghastly radiancy under the bare branches and -the pale evening sky. The light passed and the house was in dusk. - -When he had been up to his room and come down to the little -drawing-room he found Alicia Penrose. "She's been asked to make things -easier," he said to himself. He was glad. He was not afraid of her -as he was of some people and he fancied that she rather liked him. -In her presence he always felt himself an untidy, uncouth schoolboy, -but to-night he was not thinking of himself. He knew that beneath her -nonsense she was a good sort. She was standing, legs apart, in front of -the fire; she was wearing a costume of broad checks, like a chessboard. -It reached just below the knees, but she had fine legs, slim, strong, -sensible. Her hair, brushed straight back from her forehead, was jet -black; she had beautiful, small, strong hands. - -"Well, Trenchard," she said, "had enough of London?" - -He stammered, laughed and said nothing. - -"Why do you always behave like a complete idiot when you're with me?" -she asked. "You're not an idiot--know you're not from what Duncombe has -told me--always behave like one with me." - -"Perhaps you terrify me!" said Henry. - -"Damn being terrified! Why be terrified of anybody? All the same, all -of us. Legs, arms---- All dead soon." - -"Shyness is a very difficult thing," said Henry. "I've suffered from it -all my life--partly because I'm conceited and partly because I'm not -conceited enough." - -"Have you indeed?" said Lady Alicia, looking at him with interest. "Now -that's the first interestin' thing you've ever said to me. Expect you -could say a lot of things like that if you tried." - -"Oh, I'm clever!" said Henry. "The trouble is that my looks are against -me. That's funny, too, because I have a most beautiful sister and -another sister is quite nice-looking. I suppose they took all the looks -of the family and there were none left for me." - -Lady Alicia considered him. - -"But you're not bad-lookin'," she said. "Not at all. It's an -interestin' face. You look as though you were a poet or something. It's -your clothes. Why do you dress so badly?" - -"My clothes are all right when I buy them," said Henry blushing. (This -was a sensitive point with him.) "I go to a very good tailor. But when -I've worn them a week or two they're like nothing on earth, although I -put them under my bed and have a trousers press. I look very fine in -the morning sometimes just for five minutes, but in an hour it's all -gone." - -Lady Alicia laughed. - -"You want to marry--some woman who'll look after you." - -Next moment Henry had a shock. The door opened and in came Tom -Duncombe. Henry had not seen him since the day of their encounter. In -spite of himself his heart failed him. What would happen? How awful if, -in front of Lady Alicia, Duncombe went for him! What should he do? How -maintain his dignity? How not show himself the silly young fool that he -felt? - -Duncombe crossed the room, fat, red-faced, smiling. "Well, Alice," he -said, "glad to see you. How's everything?" - -Then he turned to Henry, holding out his hand. - -"Glad to see you, Trenchard," he said. "Hope you're fit." - -"Very," said Henry. - -They shook hands. - -That evening was a strange one. The comedy of _Old Masks to Hide a New -Tragedy_ was played with the greatest success. A thoroughly English -piece, played with all the best English restraint and fine discipline. -Sir Charles Duncombe as the hero was altogether admirable, and Lady -Bell-Hall as the heroine won, and indeed, deserved, rounds of applause. -Lady Alicia Penrose as the Comic Guest played in her own inimitable -style a part exactly suited to her talents. Minor rôles were suitably -taken by Thomas Duncombe, Henry Trenchard and Miss Bella Smith as -Florence, a Parlourmaid. . . . - -Henry was amazed to see Lady Bell-Hall's splendid _sang-froid_. The -house was tumbling about her head, her beloved brother was in all -probability leaving her for ever, the whole of her material conditions -were to change and be transformed, yet she, who beyond all women -depended upon the permanence of minute signs and witnesses, gave -herself no faintest whisper of apprehension. - -Magnificent little woman, with her pug nose and puffing cheeks; -dreading her Revolution, screaming at the prophecies of it, turning -no hair when it was actually upon her! Threaten an Englishman with -imagination and he will quail indeed, face him with facts and nothing -can shake his courage and dogged pugnacity. Imagination is the Achilles -heel of the English character . . . after which great thought Henry -discovered that he was last with his soup and every one was waiting for -him. - -Alicia Penrose carried the evening on her shoulders. She was superb. -Her chatter gave every one what was needed--time to build up -battlements round reality so that to-morrow should not be disgraced. - -Tom Duncombe ably seconded her. - -"Seen old Lady Adela lately?" he would ask. - -"Adela Beaminster?" Alicia was greatly amused. "Oh, but haven't you -heard about her? She's got a medium to live with her in her flat in -Knightsbridge and talks to her mother every mornin' at eleven-fifteen." - -"What, the old Duchess?" - -"Yes. You know what a bully she was when she was alive--well, she's -much worse now she's dead. Medium's Mrs. Bateson--you must have heard -of her--Creole woman--found Peggy Nestle's pearl necklace for her last -year, said it was at the bottom of a well in a village near Salisbury, -and so it was. Of course she'd taken it first and put it there--all -the same it did her an immense amount of good. Old Lady Adela saw -her at somebody's house and carried her off there and then. Now at -eleven-fifteen every morning up springs the Duchess, says she's very -comfortable in heaven, thank you, and then tells Adela what she's to -do. Adela doesn't move a step without her. Did her best to get old Lord -John in on it too, but he said 'No thank you.' He'd had enough of his -mother when she was alive, and he wasn't goin' to start in again now he -was over eighty and is bound to be meeting her in a year or two anyway. -Why, he says, these few days left to him are all he's got and he's not -going to lose 'em. But Adela's quite mad. When you go and have tea with -her, just as she's givin' you your second cup she says, 'Hush! Isn't -that mother?' Then she calls out in her cracked voice, 'Is that you, -mother darlin'?' then, if it is, she goes away and you never see your -second cup----" . . . - -A sudden silence. Down every one goes, down into their own thoughts. -About the house, in and out of the passages, through the doors and -windows, figures are passing. Faces, pale and thin, are pressed against -the window-panes. Into the dining-room itself the figures are crowding, -turning towards the table, whispering: "Do not desert us! Do not -abandon us! We are part of you, we belong to you. You cannot leave the -past behind. You must take us with you. We love you so, take us, take -us with you!" - -Alicia's voice rose again. - -"But every one's a crank now, Charles. In this year of grace 1920 -it's the only thing to be. You've got to be queer one way or t'other. -That's why young Pomfret keeps geese in his flat in Parkside. He feeds -them in a sort of manger at the back of his dinin'-room. He likes -them for their intelligence, he says. You've simply got to be queer -or no one will look at you for a moment. That's why they started the -Pyjama Society, Luxmoore and Young Barrax, and some others. You have -to swear that you'll never wear anythin' but pyjamas, and they've got -special warm ones with fur inside for the cold weather. It's catchin' -on like anythin'. It's so comfortable and economical too after the -first expense. Then there's the Coloured Hair lot that Lady Bengin -started--you all have to wear coloured wigs, green and purple and -orange. You put on a new wig for lunch just as you used to put on a new -hat. There's a shop opened in Lover Street--Montayne's--specially for -these wigs. Expensive, of course, but not much more than a decent hat!" - -Closer the pale figures pressed into the room, smiling, wistfully -watching, tenderly waiting for their host so soon now to join them. - -"Do not leave us! Do not forsake us! We must go with you! the beauty of -life comes from us as well as from you, do not desert us! We are your -friends! We love you!" - -"Well, I'm sure," said Lady Bell-Hall, searching for her crystallized -sugar at the bottom of her coffee cup, "I never know whether to believe -half the things you say, Alicia." - -"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Tom Duncombe. "You're right, Meg, don't you -believe her. You stick to me." - -But as the two women went out of the room together one whispered to the -other: - -"You are kind, Alicia. . . . I'll never forget it." - - * * * * * - -The next day was a wild one of wind and rain. Rain slashed the windows -and spurted upon the lawns, died away into grey sodden clouds, burst -forth again and was whirled by the wind with a noise like singing hail -against the shining panes. The day passed without any incident. The -normal life of the house was carried on. Henry worked in the library. -Duncombe came in, found a book, went out again. The evening--the last -evening--was upon them all with a startling suddenness. The women went -up to their rooms; Charles Duncombe, his face grey and drawn, stopped -Henry. - -"Wait a minute," he said. "I'm going round the house for the last time. -Come with me." - -He lit a candle and they started. The rain had died now to a -comfortable purr. Into every room they went, the candle, raised high, -throwing a splash of colour, marking pools of flickering light. - -The old bedroom near the Chapel seemed to hold Duncombe. He stood there -staring, the candlestick steady in his hand, but his eyes staring as -though in a dream. - -He sat down in a chair near the four-poster. - -"We'll stop here a moment," he said to Henry. "It's the least I can do -for the old room. It knows I'm going. This was the bridal-chamber of -the old Duncombes," he said. "Lady Emily Duncombe died in this room on -her wedding-night. Heart failure. In other words, terror. . . . Poor -little thing." - -"And now I'm going to die too." Henry said something in protest. "Oh, -of course there's a chance--a-million-to-one chance. . . ." He looked -up, smiling. "I'll tell you one thing, Henry. Pain, if you have much of -it, makes death a most desirable thing. Pain! Why I'd no idea at the -beginning of what pain really was until this last year. Now I know. -Many times I've wanted to die these last months, just before it comes -on, when you know it's coming. . . . Pain, yes I know something about -that now." - -He had placed the candle on a table near to him. He raised it now above -his head. "Dear old room. I remember crawling in here when I was about -three and hiding from my nurse. They couldn't find me for ever so -long. . . . And now it's all over." - -Henry said: "Not over if you've cared for it." - -"By Jove, there's something in that," Duncombe answered. "And I depend -on you to carry it on. It's strange how my thoughts have centred round -you these last weeks. If I get through this by good fortune I'll talk -to you a bit, tell you things I've never told a living soul. I've -always been alone all my life, not because I wanted to be, but just -because I'm English. I've seen other men look at me just as I've looked -at them, as though they longed to speak but their English education -wouldn't let them lest they should make fools of themselves. Then human -beings have seemed to me so disappointing, so weak, so foolish. Not -that I've thought myself any better. No, indeed. But we're a poor lot, -there's no doubt about it. - -"You're honest, Henry, and loyal and affectionate. Stick to those three -things for all you're worth. You've been born into a wonderful time. -Make something of it. Don't be passive. Throw yourself into it. And -take all this with you. Make the past and the present and the future -one. Join them all together for the glory of God--and sometimes think -of your old friend who loves you." - -He came across to Henry, kissed him on the forehead and patted him on -the shoulder. - -"I'm tired," he said, "damned tired. These haven't been easy weeks." - -Henry said: "I think you're going to come through. If you do it will be -wonderful for me. If you don't I'll never forget you. I'll think of you -always. I'll try to do as you say." - -Duncombe smiled. "Look after my sister. Bring out the book with a bang. -We'll meet again one day." - -Henry saw the candle-light trail down the passage and disappear. He -fumbled his way to his room. - - * * * * * - -Next morning Charles Duncombe went up to London. There was no sign of -emotion at his departure; it was as though he would be back before they -could turn round. He was his dry, cynical self. He merely nodded to -Henry, looking at him a little sternly before he climbed into the car. -"I'll see that Spencer sends you those notes," he said. "Meanwhile -you'd better be getting on with that Ballantyne press." He nodded still -sternly, smiled with his accustomed irony at his sister and was gone. - -Tom Duncombe and Alicia Penrose disappeared then for the day, rattling -over in a very ancient hired taxi to see the Seddons, who were living -just then some thirty miles away. Henry tried to fling himself into -his work; manfully he sat in the little library driving through the -intricacies of Ballantyne finances, striving desperately to lose -himself in that old Edinburgh atmosphere and friendly company. It -could not be done. He saw, stalking towards him across the leaf-sodden -lawn, the harshest melancholy that his young life had ever known. He -had faced before now his unhappy times--in his younger years he had -rebelled and sulked and made himself a curse to every one around him! -he was growing older now. He was becoming a man, but the struggle was -none the easier because he was learning how to deal with it. - -He gave up his work, stared out for a little on to the grass pale under -a thin autumn sun, then felt that he must move about or die. . . . - -He went out into the hall; the whole place seemed deserted and dead; -the hall door was open and from far away came the dim creaking of a -cart. A little, chill, autumnal wind blew a thin eddy of leaves a few -paces into the hall. Suddenly he heard a sound--some one was crying. -Like any boy he hated above everything to hear a grown person cry. His -immediate instinct was to run for his life. Then he was drawn against -his will but by his natural instincts of tenderness and kindness -towards the sound. He pushed back the drawing-room door that was ajar -and looked into the room. Lady Bell-Hall was sitting there, crumpled up -on the sofa, her head in her arms, crying desperately. - -He knew that he should go away; the English instinct deep in him that -he must not make a fool of himself warned him that she did not like -him, that she had never liked him and that she would hate that he above -all people should see her in this fashion. There was nevertheless -something so desolate and lonely in her unhappiness that he could not -go. He stood there for a moment, then very gently closed the door. -She heard the sound and looked up. She saw who it was and hurriedly -sat erect, tried to assume dignity, rolling a handkerchief nervously -between her hands and frowning. . . . - -"Well," she said in a strange little voice with a crack and a sob in -it, "what is it?" - -"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I wondered--I was thinking--that -perhaps there was something----" - -"No," she answered hurriedly, not looking at him. "Thank you. There's -nothing." - -She sniffed, blew her nose, then suddenly began to sob again, turning -to the mantelpiece, leaning her head upon her arms. - -He waited, seeing such incongruous things as that a grey lock of hair -had escaped its pins and was trailing down over the black silk collar -of her blouse, that Pretty One was fast asleep, snoring in her basket, -undisturbed by her mistress's grief, that last week's _Spectator_ had -fallen from the table on to the floor, that the silver calendar on -the writing-table asserted that they were still in the month of May -whatever the weather might pretend. - -He came nearer to her. "I do want you to know," he said, blushing -awkwardly, "how I understand what you must be feeling, and that I -myself feel some of it too." - -She turned round at him, looked at him with her short-sighted eyes as -though she were seeing him for the first time, then sat down again on -the sofa. - -"You do think he's going to get well, don't you?" she said suddenly. -"This isn't serious, this operation, is it? Tell me, tell me it isn't." - -He lied to her because he knew that she knew that he was lying and that -she wanted him to lie. - -"Of course he's going to come through it," he said. "And be better than -he's ever been in his life before. Doctors are so wonderful now. They -can do anything." - -"Oh, I do hope so! I do indeed! He wouldn't let me go up with him, -although I did want to be there. I nursed my dear husband through three -terrible illnesses so I have _much_ experience. . . . But I'm going up -to-morrow to Hill Street to be near in case he should need me." - -She blinked at Henry, then patted the sofa. - -"Come and sit here and talk to me. . . . It is very kind of you to -speak as you do." - -Henry sat down. She looked at him more closely. "I wish I liked you -better," she said. "I have tried very hard to. Charles likes you so -much and says you're so clever." - -"I'm sorry you don't like me, Lady Bell-Hall," said Henry. "I would do -anything in the world for your brother. I think he's the finest man I -have ever known." - -This set Lady Bell-Hall sobbing again: "He is! Oh, he is! Indeed he -is!" she cried, waving one little hand in the air while with the other -she wiped her eyes. "No one can know as well as I know how kind he is -and good . . . and it's so wicked . . . when he's so good--that they -should take away his money and his house that he loves and has always -been in the family and give it to people who aren't nearly so good. Why -do they do it? What right have they----?" She broke off, looking at -him with sudden suspicion. "Oh, I suppose it all seems right to you," -she said. "You're the new generation, I suppose that's why I don't -like you. I don't like the new generation. All you boys and girls are -irreligious and immoral and selfish. You don't respect your parents -and you don't believe in God. You think you know everything and you're -hard-hearted. The world has become a terrible place and the wrath of -God will surely be called down upon it." - -Henry said quietly: - -"After a war like the one there's just been it always takes a long -time to settle down, doesn't it? And all the young generation aren't -as you say. For instance, I have a splendid sister who is as modern -as anybody, but she isn't immoral and she isn't hard-hearted and she -doesn't think she knows everything. I think many girls now are fine, -with their courage and independence and honesty. Hypocrisy is leaving -England at last. It's been with us quite long enough." - -Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "I daresay you're right. I'm sure I -don't know, I don't understand any of you. I'm lost in this new world. -The sooner I die the better." She got up and walked with great dignity -across the room. She looked back at Henry rather wistfully. "You do -seem a kind young man and Charles is very fond of you. I don't want -to be unjust. I don't indeed!" She suddenly put up her hand and -realized the escaping lock of hair. She cried, "Oh, dear!" in a little -frightened whisper, then hurried from the room. - -Henry waited a little, then, feeling his own loneliness and desolation -in the chilly place, broke out into the garden. He wandered down the -paths until he found himself in a little rough-grassed orchard that -hung precariously on the bend of the hill, above a little trout-stream -and a clumsy, chattering water-mill. - -Under the bare trees he stood and stared at himself. As a boy the -principal note in his character perhaps had been his suspicion of human -nature, and his suspicion of it especially in its relation to himself. -The War, his life in London, his close intimacy with Peter and Millie -had robbed him of much of this, but these influences had not brought -him to that stage of sophistication that would establish him upon such -superiority that he need never be suspicious again. He would in all -probability never become sophisticated. There was something naïve in -his character that would accompany him to his grave; he was none the -worse for that. - -And it was this very naïveté that Lady Bell-Hall had just roused. As -he walked in the orchard he was miserable, lonely, self-distrustful. -He seemed to be deserted of all men. Christina was far, far away. -Millie and Peter did not exist. His work was nothing. He was out of -tune with the universe. He felt behind him the house, the lands, the -country falling into ruin. His affection for Duncombe, his master, was -affronted by the vision of brother Tom, flushed and eager, selling -his family for thirty pieces of silver. He and his generation could -assist only at the breaking of the old world, not at the making of the -new. . . . - -He looked up and saw between the leafless branches of the trees the -sky shredding into lines of winged and fleecy little clouds that ran -in cohorts across a sky suddenly blue. The wind had fallen; there -was utter stillness. The sun, itself invisible, suddenly with a -royal gesture flung its light in sheets of silver across the brown -tree-trunks, the thick and tangled grass. The light was so suddenly -brilliant that Henry, looking up, was dazzled. It seemed to him that -for an instant the sky was filled with shining forms. - -He had the sense that he had known so often before that in another -moment some great vision would be granted him. - -He waited, his hand above his eyes, his heart suddenly flooded with -happiness and reassurance. A little wind rose, a sigh ran through the -trees and drops of rain like glittering sparks from the sun touched his -forehead. Shadow ran along the ground as though from the sweep of a -giant's wing. - -Strangely comforted he walked back to the house. - -Next morning, in the company of Lady Bell-Hall, Lady Alicia and Tom -Duncombe, he left for Hill Street. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED - - -Victoria Platt was seated in her little dressing-room surrounded -with fragments of coloured silk. She was choosing curtains for the -dining-room. She was not yet completely dressed, and a bright orange -wrapper enfolded her shapeless body. Millie stood beside her. - -"I know you like bright colours, my Millie," she said, "so I can't -think what you can object to in this pink. I think it's a pet of a -colour." - -"Pink isn't right for a dining-room," said Millie. (She had not slept -during the preceding night and was feeling in no very amiable temper.) - -"Not right for a dining-room?" Victoria repeated. "Why, Major Mereward -said it was just the thing." - -"You know perfectly well," answered Millie, "that in the first place -Major Mereward has no taste, and that secondly he always says whatever -you want him to say." - -"No taste! Why, I think his taste is splendid! Certainly he's not -artistic like Mr. Bennett, who may be said to have a little too much -taste sometimes---- - -"But, dear me, that was a lovely dinner he gave us at the Carlton -last night. Now wasn't it? You can't deny it although you _are_ -prejudiced----" - -"That _you_ gave, you mean," Millie snorted. "Yes, I daresay he likes -nothing better than ordering the best dinners possible at other -people's expense. He's quite ready, I'm sure, to go on doing that to -the end of his time." - -Victoria forgot her silks and looked up at her young friend. - -"Why, Millie, what _has_ come to you lately? You're not at all as you -used to be. You're always speaking contemptuously of people nowadays. -And you're not looking well. You're tired, darling----" - -"Oh, I'm all right," Millie moved impatiently away. "You know I hate -that man. He's vulgar, coarse and selfish." - -Victoria was offended. - -"You've no right to speak of my friends that way. . . . But I'm not -going to be cross with you. No, I'm not. You're tired and not yourself. -Dr. Brooker was saying so only yesterday." - -"There's no reason for Dr. Brooker to interfere. When I want his advice -I'll ask for it." - -Victoria looked as suddenly distressed as a small child whose doll has -been taken away. - -"I can't make you out, Millie. There's something making you unhappy." - -She looked up with a touching, anxious expression at the girl, whose -face was dark with some stormy trouble that seemed only to bring out -her loveliness the more, but was far indeed from the happy, careless -child Victoria had once known. - -Millie's face changed. She suddenly flung herself down at her friend's -feet. - -"Victoria, darling, I don't want you to marry that man. No, I don't, -I don't indeed. He's a bad man, bad in every way. He only wants your -money: he doesn't even pretend to want anything else. And when he's got -that he'll treat you so badly that you'll be utterly wretched. You know -yourself you will. Oh, don't marry him, don't, don't, don't!" - -Victoria's face was a curious mixture of offended pride and tender -affection. - -"There, there, my Millie. Don't you worry. Whoever said I was going -to marry him? At the same time it isn't quite true to say that he -only cares for my money. I think he has a real liking for myself. You -haven't heard all the things he's said. After all, I know him better -than you do, Millie dear, and I'm older than you as well. Yes, and -you're prejudiced. You never liked him from the first. He has his -faults, of course, but so have we all. He's quite frank about it. He's -told me his life hasn't been all that it should have been, but he's -older now and wiser. He wants to settle down with some one whom he can -really respect." - -"Respect!" Millie broke out. "He doesn't respect any one. He's an -adventurer. He says he is. Oh, don't you see how unhappy you'll be? -You with your warm heart. He'll break it in half a day." - -Victoria sighed. "Perhaps he will. Perhaps I'm not so blind as you -think. But at least I'll have something first. I've been an old maid -so long. I want--I want----" She brushed her eyes with her hand. "It's -foolish a woman of my age talking like this--but age doesn't, as it -ought, make as much difference." - -"But you can have all that," Millie cried. "The Major's a good man and -he does care for you, and he'd want to marry you even though you hadn't -a penny. I know he seems a little dull, but we can put up with people's -dullness if their heart's right. It seems to me just now," she said, -staring away across the little sunlit room, "that nothing matters in a -man beside his honesty and his good heart. If you can't trust----" - -Victoria felt that the girl was trembling. She put her arms closer -around her and drew her nearer. - -"Millie, darling, what's the matter? Tell me. Aren't you happy? Tell -me. I can't bear you to be unhappy. What does it matter what happens to -a silly old woman like me? I've only got a few more years to live in -any case. But you, so lovely, with all your life in front of you. . . . -Tell me, darling----" - -Millie shivered. "Never mind about me, Victoria. Things aren't easy. He -won't tell me the truth. I could stand anything if only he wouldn't lie -to me. I ought to leave him, I suppose--give him up. But I love him--I -love him so terribly." - -She did, what was so rare with her, what Victoria had never seen her do -before, she burst into a passion of tears, sobbing--"I love him--and I -oughtn't to--and every day I love him more." - -"Oh, my dear--I'm afraid it is a great deal my fault. I should have -stopped it before it went so far--but indeed I never knew that it was -on until it was over. And I liked him--I see now that I was wrong, but -I'm not perhaps very clever about people----" - -"No, no," Millie jumped to her feet. "You're not to say a word against -him. You're not indeed. It's myself who's to blame for things being -as they are. I should have been stronger and forced him to take me to -his mother. I despise myself. I who thought I was so strong. But we -quarrel, and then I'm sorry, and then we quarrel again." - -She smiled, wiping her eyes. "Dear Victoria, I'm not so fine as I -thought myself--that's all. You see I've never been in love before. It -will come right. It must come right----" - -She bent forward and kissed her friend. - -"I'll go down now and get on with those letters. You're a darling--too -good to me by far." - -"I'm a silly old woman," Victoria said, shaking her head. "But I do -wish you liked the pink, Millie dear. It will be so nice at night with -the lights--so gay." - -"We'll have it then," said Millie. "After all, it's your house, isn't -it?" - -She went downstairs, and then to her amazement found Bunny waiting for -her near her desk. - -"Why----" Her face flushed with pleasure. How could she help loving him -when every inch of him called to her, and touched her with pity and -pride and longing and wonder? - -"I've come," he began rather sulkily, not looking at her but out of the -window, "to apologize for last night. I shouldn't have said what I did. -I'm sorry." - -How strange that now, when only a moment ago she had loved him so that -most likely she would have died for him, the sound of his sulky voice -should harden her with a curious, almost impersonal hostility. - -"No need to apologize," she said lightly, sitting down at her desk and -turning over the letters. "You weren't very nice last night, but last -night's last night and this morning's this morning." - -"Oh well," he said angrily, still not looking at her, "for the matter -of that you weren't especially charming yourself; but of course it's -always my fault." - -"Need we have it all over again?" she said, her heart beating, her head -hot, as though some one were trying to enclose it in a bag. "If I was -nasty I'm sorry, and you say you're sorry--so that's over." - -He turned towards her angrily. "Of course--if that's all you have to -say----" he began. - -The door opened and Ellen came in. - -Millie had then the curious sensation of having passed through, not -very long ago, the scene that was now coming. She saw Ellen's thin -body, the faded, grey, old-fashioned dress, the sharply cut, pale -face with the indignant, protesting eyes; she saw Bunny's sudden -turn towards the door, his face hardening as he realized his old and -unrelenting enemy, then the quick half-turn that he made towards -Millie as though he needed her protection. That touched her, but -again strangely she was for a moment outside this, a spectator of the -sun-drenched room, of the silly pictures on the wall, of the desk with -the litter of papers that even now she was still mechanically handling. -Outside it and beyond it, so that she was able to say to herself, "And -now Ellen will move to that far window, she'll brush that chair with -her skirt, and now she'll say: 'Good-morning, Mr. Baxter. I won't -apologize for interrupting because I've wanted this chance---- '" - -"Good-morning, Mr. Baxter," Ellen said, turning from the window towards -them both with the funny jerky movement that was so especially hers. -"I won't apologize for interrupting because I've wanted this chance of -speaking to you both together for some time." - -Then, at the actual sound of her voice, Millie was pushed in, right -in--and with that immersion there was a sudden desperate desire to keep -Ellen off, not to hear on any account what she had to say, to postpone -it, to answer Bunny's appeal, to do anything rather than to allow -things to go as she saw in Ellen's eyes that woman intended them to go. - -"Leave us alone for a minute, Ellen," she said. "Bunny and I are in the -middle of a scrap." - -Standing up by the desk she realized the power that her looks had upon -Ellen--her miserable, wretched looks that mattered nothing to her, -less than nothing to her at all. She did not realize though that the -tears that she had been shedding in Victoria's room had given her eyes -a new lustre, that her cheeks were touched to colour with her quarrel -with Bunny, and that she stood there holding herself like a young -queen--young indeed both in her courage and her fear, in her loyalty -and her scorn. - -Ellen stared at her as though she were seeing her for the first time. - -"Oh well----" she said, suddenly dropping her eyes and turning as -though she would go. Then she stopped. "No, why should I? After all, -it's for your good that you should know . . . this can't go on. I care -for you enough to see that it shan't." - -Millie came forward into the centre of the room that was warm with the -sun and glowing with light. "Look here, Ellen. We don't want a scene. -I'm sick of scenes. I seem to have nothing but scenes now, with Bunny -and you and Victoria and every one. If you've really got something to -say, say it quickly and let's have it over." - -Bunny's contribution was to move towards the door. "I'll leave you to -it," he said. "Lord, but I'm sick of women. One thing after another. -You'd think a man had nothing better to do----" - -"No, you don't," said Ellen quickly. "You'll find it will pay you best -to stay and listen. It isn't about nothing this time. You've _got_ to -take it. You're caught out at last, Mr. Baxter. I don't want to be -unfair to you. If you'll promise me on your word of honour to tell -Millie everything from first to last about Miss Amery, I'll leave you. -If afterwards I find you haven't, I'll supply the missing details. -Millie's got to know the truth this time whatever she thinks either of -me or of you." - -Bunny stopped. His face stiffened. He turned back. - -"You dirty spy!" he said. "So you're been down to my village, have you?" - -"I have," said Ellen. "I've seen your mother and several other people. -Tell Millie the truth and my part of this dirty affair is over." - -Millie spoke: "You've seen his mother, Ellen? What right had you to -interfere? What business was it of yours?" - -"Oh, you can abuse me," Ellen answered defiantly. "I'm not here to -defend myself. Anyway you can't think worse of me than you seem to. I -waited and waited. I thought some one else would do something. I knew -that Victoria had heard some of the stories and thought that she would -take some steps. I thought that you would yourself, Millie. I fancied -that you'd be too proud to go on month after month in the way you have -done, putting up with his lies and shiftings and everything else. At -last I could stand it no longer. If no one else would save you I would. -I went down to his village in Wiltshire and got the whole story. I told -his mother what he was doing. She's coming up to London herself to see -you next week." - -Millie's eyes were on Bunny and only on him in the whole world. She and -he were enclosed in a little room, a blurring, sun-drenched room that -grew with every moment smaller and closer. - -"What _is_ this, Bunny?" she said, "that she means? Now at last we'll -have the whole story, if you don't mind. What _is_ it that you've been -keeping from me all these months?" - -He laughed uneasily. "You're not going to pay any attention to a nasty, -jealous woman like that, Millie," he said. "We all know what _she_ is -and why she's jealous. I knew she'd been raking around for ever so long -but I didn't think that even her spite would go so far----" - -"But what _is_ it, Bunny?" Millie quietly repeated. - -"Why, it's nothing. She's gone to my home and discovered that I was -engaged last year to a girl there, a Miss Amery. We broke it off last -Christmas, but my mother still wants me to marry her. That's why it's -been so difficult all these weeks. But----" - -"So you're not going to tell her the truth," interrupted Ellen. "I -thought you wouldn't. I just thought you hadn't the pluck. Well, I will -do it for you." - -"It's lies--all lies, Millie. Whatever she tells you," Bunny broke in. -"Send her away, Millie. What has she to do with us? You can ask me -anything you like but I'm not going to be cross-questioned with her in -the room." - -Millie looked at him steadily, then turned to Ellen. - -"What is it, Ellen, you've got to say? Bunny is right, you've been -spying. That's contemptible. Nothing can justify it. But I'd like to -hear what you _think_ you've discovered, and it's better to say it -before Mr. Baxter." - -Ellen looked at Millie steadily. "I'm thinking only of you, Millie. Not -of myself at all. You can hate me ever afterwards if you like, but one -day, all the same, you'll be grateful--and you'll understand, too, how -hard it has been for me to do it." - -"Well," repeated Millie, scorn filling every word, "what is it that you -think you've discovered?" - -"Simply this," said Ellen, "that last autumn a girl in Mr. Baxter's -village, the daughter of the village schoolmaster--Kate Amery is her -name--was engaged secretly to Mr. Baxter. She is to have a baby in two -months' time from now, as all the village knows. All the village also -knows who is its father. Mr. Baxter has promised his mother to marry -the girl. - -"His mother insists on this, and until I told her she had no idea that -he was involved with any one else." - -"A nice kind of story," Bunny broke in furiously. "Just what any old -maid would pick up if she went round with her nose in the village mud. -It's true, Millie, that I was engaged to this girl last year, and then -Christmas-time we saw that we were quite unsuited to one another and we -broke it off." - -"Is it true," asked Millie quietly, "that your mother says that you're -to marry her?" - -"My mother's old-fashioned. She thinks that I'm pledged in some way. -I'm not pledged at all." - -"Is it true that the village thinks that you're the father of this poor -girl's child?" - -"I don't know what the village thinks. They all hate me there, anyway. -They'd say anything to hurt me. Probably this woman's been bribing -them." - -"Oh, poor girl! How old is she?" - -"I don't know. Nineteen. Twenty." - -"Oh, poor, poor girl! . . . Did you promise your mother that you would -marry her?" - -"I had to say something. I haven't a penny. My mother would cut me off -absolutely if I didn't promise." - -"And you've known all this the whole summer?" - -"Of course I've known it." - -"And not said a word to me?" - -"I've tried to tell you. It's been so difficult. You've got such funny -ideas about some things. I wasn't going to lose you." - -Something he saw in Millie's face startled him. He came nearer to her. -They had both completely forgotten Ellen. She gave Millie one look, -then quietly left the room. - -"But you must understand, Millie," he began, a new note of almost -desperate urgency in his voice. "I've been trying to tell you all the -summer. I don't love this girl and she doesn't love me. It would be -perfectly criminal to force us to marry. She doesn't want to marry me. -I swear she doesn't. I don't know whose child this is----" - -"Could it be yours?" - -"There's another fellow----" - -"Could it be yours?" - -"Yes, if you want to know, it could. But she hates me now. She says she -won't marry me--she does really. And this was all before I knew you. -If it had happened after I knew you it would be different. But you're -the only woman I've ever loved, you are truly. I'm not much of a fellow -in many ways, I know, but you can make anything of me. And if you turn -me down I'll go utterly to pieces. There's never been any one since I -first saw you." - -She interrupted him, looking past him at the shining window. - -"And that's why I never met your mother? That poor girl . . . that poor -girl . . . ." - -"But you're not going to throw me over?" - -"Throw you over?" She looked at him, wide-eyed. "But you don't belong -to me--and I don't belong to you. We've nothing to do with one another -any more. We don't touch anywhere." - -He tried to take her hand. She moved back. - -"It's no good, Bunny. It's over. It's all over." - -"No--don't--don't let me go like this. Don't----" Then he looked at her -face. - -"All right, then," he said. "You'll be sorry for this." - -And he went. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -QUICK GROWTH - - -He stayed beside the desk for a long time, turning the papers over and -over, reading, as she long afterwards remembered, the beginning of one -letter many times: "Dear Victoria--If you take the 3.45 from Waterloo -that will get you to us in nice time for tea. The motor shall meet you -at the station." - -"The motor shall meet you at the station. . . . The motor shall meet -you at the station. . . ." - -Well, and why shouldn't it? How easy for motors to meet trains--that -is, if you _have_ a motor. But motors are expensive these days, and -then there is the petrol--and the chauffeur must cost something. . . . -But that's all right if you can drive yourself--drive yourself. . . . -She pulled herself up. Where was she? Oh, in Victoria's sitting-room. -How hot the room was! And the beginning of October. How hot and how -empty! Then as though something cut her just beneath the heart, -she started. She put her hand to her forehead. Her head was aching -horribly. She would go home. She knew that Victoria would not mind. - -Her only dominant impulse then was to be out of that house, that house -that reminded her with every step she took of something that she must -forget--but what she must forget she did not know. - -In the hall she found her hat and coat. Beppo was there. - -"Beppo," she said, "tell Miss Victoria that I have a headache and have -gone home. She'll understand." - -"Yes, miss," he said, grinning at her in that especially confidential -way that he had with those whom he considered his friends. - -In the street she took a taxi, something very foreign to her economic -habits. But she wanted to hide herself from everybody. No one must see -her and stop her and ask her questions that she could not answer. And -she must get home quickly so that she might go into her own room and -shut her door and be safe. - -In the sitting-room she found Mary Cass sitting at the table with a -pile of books in front of her, nibbling a pencil. - -"Hullo!" cried Mary. "You back already?" - -Then she jumped up, the book falling from her hand to the floor. - -"Darling, what's the matter? . . . What's happened?" - -"Why, do I look funny?" said Millie smiling. "There's nothing the -matter. I've got an awful headache--that's all. I'm going to lie down." - -But Mary had her arms around her. "Millie, what _is_ it? You look -awful. Are you feeling ill?" - -"No, only my headache." Millie gently disengaged herself from Mary's -embrace. "I'm going into my room to lie down." - -"Shall I get something for you? Let me----" - -"Please leave me alone, Mary dear. I want to be left alone. That's all -I want." - -She went into her bedroom, drew down the blinds, lay down on her bed, -closing her eyes. How weak and silly she was to come home just for a -headache, to give up her morning's work without an effort because she -felt a little ill! Think of all the girls in the shops and the typists -and the girl secretaries and the omnibus girls and all the others, they -can't go home just because they have a headache--just because . . . - -Mary Cass had come in and very quietly had laid on her forehead a wet -handkerchief with eau-de-cologne. Ah! That was better! That was cool. -She faded away down into space where there was trouble and disorder and -pain, trouble in which she had some share but was too lazy to inquire -what. - -Then she awoke sharply with a jerk, as though some one had pushed -her up out of darkness into light. The Marylebone church clock was -striking. First the quarters. Then four o'clock very slowly. . . . She -was wide awake now and realized everything. It was the middle of the -afternoon and she had been asleep for hours. Her head was still aching -very badly but it did not keep her back now as it had done. - -She knew now what had happened. She had seen the last of Bunny, the -very, very last. She would never see him again, nor hear his voice -again, nor feel his kiss on her cheek. - -And at first there was the strangest relief. The matter was settled -then, and that confusing question that had been disturbing her for so -many months. There would be no more doubts about Bunny, whether he were -truthful or no, why he did not take her to his mother, whether he would -write every day, and why a letter was suddenly cold when yesterday's -letter had been so loving, as to why they had so many quarrels. . . . -No, no more quarrels, no more of that dreadful pain in the heart and -wondering whether he would telephone or whether her pride would break -first and she would speak to him. Relief, relief, relief---- Relief -connected in some way with the little dancing circle of afternoon -sunlight on the white ceiling, connected with the things on her -dressing-table, the purple pin-cushion, the silver-backed brushes -that Katherine had given her, the slanting sheet of looking-glass -that reflected the end of her bed and the chair and the piece of blue -carpet. Relief. . . . She turned over, resting her head on her hand, -looking at the pearl-grey wall-paper. Relief! . . . and she would never -see him again, never hear his voice again! Some one in the room with -her uttered a sharp, bitter cry. Who was it? She was alone. Then the -knife plunged deep into her heart, plunged and plunged again, turning -over and over. The pain was so terrible that she put her hand over -her eyes lest she should see this other woman who was there with her -suffering so badly. No, but it was herself. It was she who would never -see Bunny again, never hear his voice. - -She sat up, her hands clenched, summoning control and self-command with -all the strength that was in her soul. She must not cry, she must not -speak. She must stare her enemy in the face, beat him down. Well, then. -She and Bunny were parted. He did not belong to her. He belonged to -that poor girl of whose baby he was the father. - -She fought then, for twenty minutes, the hardest battle of her -life--the struggle to face the facts. The facts were, quite simply, -that she could never be with Bunny any more, and worse than that, that -he did not belong to her any more but to another woman. - -She had not arrived yet at any criticism of him--perhaps that would -never be. When a woman loves a man he is a child to her, so simple, -so young, so ignorant, that his faults, his crimes, his deceits are -swallowed in his babyhood. Bunny had behaved abominably--as ill as -any man could behave; she did not yet see his behaviour, but when it -came to her she would say that she should have been there to care for -him and then it would never have been. She was to remember later, and -with a desperate, wounding irony, how years before, when she had been -the merest child and Katherine had been engaged to Philip, Henry had -discovered that Philip had once in Russia had a mistress who had borne -him a child. - -Millie, when she had heard this, had poured indignant scorn upon the -suggestion that Katherine should leave her lover because of this -earlier affair. Had it not all had its history before Katherine had -known Philip? How ironic a parallel here! Did not Millie's indignant, -brave, fearless youth rise up here to challenge her? No, that other -woman had surrendered Philip long, long before. This woman . . . poor -child---- Only nineteen and the village mocking her, waiting for her -child with scorn and coarse gossip and taunting sneers! - -She got up, bathed her face, her eyes dry and hot, her cheeks flaming, -brushed her hair and went into the sitting-room. - -No one was there, only the evening sun like a kindly spirit moving from -place to place, touching all with gentle, tender fingers. Strange that -she could have slept for so long! She would never sleep again--never. -Always would she watch, untouched, unmoved, that strange, coloured, -leaping world moving round and round before her, moving for others, for -their delight, their pain, but only for her scorn. - -Mary Cass came in with her serious face and preoccupied air. - -"Hullo Mill! Head better?" - -"Yes, thanks." - -"That's good. Had a sleep?" - -"Yes." - -"Splendid. . . . Lord, I've got plenty of work here. I don't know -what they think we're made of. Talk about stuffing geese to get -_foie-gras_! People say that's wicked. Nothing to what they do to us. -Had any tea?" - -"No." - -"Want any?" - -"No thanks." - -"Do your head good. But I daresay you're right. I'm going to have some -though." - -She moved about busying herself in her calm efficient way, lighting the -spirit lamp, getting out the cups, cutting the bread. - -"Sure you won't have some?" - -"No thanks." - -Tactful Mary was--none of that awful commiseration, no questions. - -A good pal, but how far away, what infinite distance! - -Millie took the book that was nearest to her, opened it and read page -after page without seeing the words. - -Then a sentence caught her. - -"_Nor is it altogether the remembrance of her cathedral stopping -earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the -tearlessness of arid skies that never rain. . . ._" - -"_The tearlessness of arid skies that never rain?_" How strange a -phrase! What was this queer book? She read on. "_Thus when the muffled -rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of the festooned frosts of -mountains; the desolate shiftings of the windrowed snows of prairies; -all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking of that buffalo robe to the -frightened colt!_" - -The murmuring of the wonderful prose consoled her, lulled her. She read -on and on. What a strange book! What was it about? She could not tell. -It did not matter. About the Sea. . . . - -"What's that you're reading, Mill?" - -She looked back to the cover. - -"_Moby-Dick._" - -"What a name! I wonder how it got here." - -"Perhaps Henry left it." - -"I daresay. He's always reading something queer." - -The comfortable little clock struck seven. - -"You'd better eat something, you know." - -"No thank you, Mary." - -"Look here, Mill--you won't tell me what the trouble is?" - -"Not now. . . . Later on." - -"All right. Sorry, old dear. But every trouble passes." - -"Yes, I know." - -She read on for an hour. The little clock struck eight. She put the -book down. - -"I'll go to bed now I think." - -"Right oh! Nothing I can get you?" - -"No. I'm all right." - -"Shall I come and sleep with you?" - -"Oh, _no_!" - -She crossed and kissed her friend, then quietly went to her room. She -undressed, switched off the light, and lay on her back staring. A -terrible time was coming, the worst time of all. She knew what it would -be--Remembering Things. Remembering everything, every tiny, tiny little -thing. Oh, if that would only leave her alone for to-night, until -to-morrow when she would endure it more easily. But now. They were -coming, creeping towards her across the floor, in at the window, in at -the door, from under the bed. - -"I don't want to remember! I don't want to remember!" she cried. - -Then they came, in a long endless procession, crowding eagerly with -mocking laughter one upon another! That first day of all when she -had quarrelled with Victoria and she had come downstairs to find him -waiting for her, when they had sat upon her boxes, his arm round her. -When they had walked across the Park and he had given her tea. After -their first quarrel which had been about nothing at all, and he had -sent her flowers, when he had caught her eye across the luncheon-table -at Victoria's and they had laughed at their own joke, their secret -joke, and Clarice had seen them and been so angry. . . . Yes, and -moments caught under flashing sunlight, gathering dusk--moments at -Cladgate, dancing in the hotel with the rain crackling on the glass -above them, sudden movements of generosity and kindliness when his face -had been serious, grave, involved consciously in some holy quest . . . -agonizing moments of waiting for him, feeling sure that he would not -come, then suddenly seeing him swing along, his eyes searching for -her, lighting at the sight of her. . . . His hand seeking hers, finding -it, hers soft against the cool strength of his . . . jokes, jokes, -known only to themselves, nicknames that they gave, funny points of -view they had, "men like trees walking," presents, a little jade box -that he had given her, the silver frame for his photograph, a tennis -racket. . . . - -Oh, no, no, shut it out! I can't hear it any longer! If you come to me -still I must go to him, find him, tell him I love him whatever it is -that he has done, and that I will stay with him, be with him, hear his -voice. . . . - -She sat up, her hands to her head, the frenzy of another woman beating -now in her brain. She did not know the hour nor the place; the world on -every side of her was utterly still, you might hear the minutes like -drops of water falling into the pool of silence. She saw it a vast -inverted bowl gleaming white against the deep blue of the sky shredded -with stars. On the edge of this bowl she was walking perilously, as on -a rope over space. - -She had slept--but now she was awake, clear-headed, seeing everything -distinctly, and what she saw was that she must go to Bunny, must find -him, must tell him that she would never leave him again. - -She was now so clear about it because the peril she saw in front of her -was her loneliness. To go on, living for ever and ever in a completely -empty world, walking round and round on that ridge above that terrible -shining silence--could that be expected of any one? No. Seriously she -spoke aloud, shaking her head: "I can't be supposed to endure that." - -She got out of bed and dressed very carefully, very cautiously, -realizing quite clearly that she must not wake Mary Cass, who would -certainly stop her from going to find Bunny. Time did not occur to her, -only she saw that the moonlight was shining into her room throwing -milky splashes upon the floor, and these she avoided as though they -would contaminate her, walking carefully around them as she dressed. -She went softly into the sitting-room, softly down the stairs, softly -into the street. She was wearing her little crimson hat because that -was one that he liked. - -She stayed for a moment in the street marvelling at its coolness and -silence. The night breeze touched her cheek caressing her. Yes, the sky -blazed with stars--blazed! And the houses were ebony black, like rocks -over still deep water. - -Everything around her seemed to give, at regular intervals, little -shudders of ecstasy--a quiver in which she also shared. She walked down -the street with rapid steps, her face set with serious determination. -The sooner to reach Bunny! No one impeded her. It seemed to her that -as she advanced the rocks grew closer about her, hanging more thickly -overhead and shutting out the stars. - -She was nearing the Park. There were trees, festoons above the water -making dark patterns and yet darker shadows. - -Under the trees she met a woman. She stopped and the woman stopped. - -"You're out late," the woman said; then as Millie said nothing but -only stared at her she went on, laughing affectedly--"good evening or -morning I should say. It's nearly four." - -She stared at Millie with curiosity. "Which way you going? I'm for -home. Great Portland Street. Been back once to-night already. But I -thought I'd make a bit more. Had no luck the second time." - -"Am I anywhere near Turner's Hotel?" Millie asked politely. - -"Turner's Hotel, dear? And where might that be?" - -"Off Jermyn Street." - -"Jermyn Street! You walk down Park Lane and then down Piccadilly. Are -you new to London?" - -"Oh, no, I'm not new," said Millie very seriously. "I couldn't sleep so -I came out for a walk." - -The woman looked at her more closely. She was a very thin woman with a -short tightly-clinging skirt and a face heavily powdered. - -"Here, we'd better be moving a bit, dear, or the bobby will be on us. -You do look tired. I don't think I've seen you about before." - -"Yes, I _am_ tired." - -"Well, so's myself if you want to know. But I've been working a bit -too hard lately. Want to save enough for a fortnight's holiday. -Glebeshire. That's where I come from. Of course I wouldn't go back to -my own place--not likely. But I'd like to see the fields and hedges -again. Bit different from the rotten country round London." - -Millie suddenly stopped. - -"It's very late to go now, isn't it?" she asked. "In the middle of the -night. He'll think it strange, won't he?" - -"I should guess he would," said the woman, tittering. "Why, you're only -a child. You've no right to be wandering about like this. You don't -know what you're doing." - -"It was just because I couldn't sleep," said Millie very gravely. "But -I see I've done wrong. I can't disturb him this hour of the night." - -She stumbled a little, her knees suddenly trembling. The woman put her -arm around her. "Steady!" she said. "Here, you're ill. You'd better be -getting home. Where do you live?" - -"One Hundred and Sixteen Baker Street." - -"I'll take you. . . . There's a taxi. Why, you're nothing but a kid!" - -In the taxi Millie leant her head on the woman's shoulder. - -"I'm very tired but I can't sleep," she said. - -"You're in some trouble I guess," the woman said. - -"Yes, I am. Terrible trouble," said Millie. - -"Some man I suppose. It's always the men." - -"What's your name?" asked Millie. "You're very kind." - -"Rose Bennett," said the woman. "But don't you remember it. I'm much -better forgotten by a child like you. Why, I'm old enough to be your -mother." - -The taxi stopped. Millie paid for it. - -"Give me a kiss, will you?" asked the woman. - -"Why, of course I will," said Millie. She kissed her on the lips. - -"Don't you go out alone at night like that," said the woman. "It isn't -safe." - -"No, I won't," said Millie. - -She let herself in. The sitting-room was just as it had been, very -quiet, so terribly quiet. - -She had no thought but that she must not be alone. She opened Mary's -door. She went in. Mary's soft breathing came to her like the voice of -the room. - -She took a chair and sat down and stared at the bed. . . . The -Marylebone Church struck half-past seven and woke Mary. She looked up, -staring, then in the dim light saw Millie sitting there. - -"Why, Millie! You! All dressed. . . . Good heavens, what's the matter!" - -She sprang out of bed. - -"Why, you haven't even taken off your hat! Millie darling, what is it?" - -"I couldn't sleep so I went out for a walk and then I didn't want to be -alone so I came in here." - -Mary gave her one look, then hurriedly throwing on her dressing-gown -went into the next room, saying as she went: - -"Stay there, Mill dear. . . . I'll be back, in a moment." - -She carefully closed the door behind her then went to the telephone. - -"6345 Gerrard, please. . . . Yes, is that--? Yes, I want to speak to -Mr. Trenchard, please--Oh, I know he's asleep. Of course, but this -is very serious. Illness. Yes. He must come at once. . . . Oh, is -that you, Henry? Sorry to make you come down at this unearthly hour. -Yes--it's Mary Cass. You must come over here at once. It's Millie. -She's very ill. No, I don't know what the matter is, but you must come. -Yes, at once." - -She went back to Millie. She persuaded her to come into the -sitting-room, to take off her hat. After that, she sat there on the -little sofa without moving, staring in front of her. - -Half an hour later Henry came in, rough, tumbled, dishevelled. At the -sight of that familiar face, that untidy hair, those eager devoted -eyes, a tremor ran through Millie's body. - -He rushed across to her, flung his arms around her. - -"Millie darling . . . darling. . . . What is it? Mill dearest, what's -the matter?" - -She clung to him; she shuddered from head to foot; then she cried: "Oh, -Henry, don't leave me. Don't leave me. Never again. Oh, Henry, I'm so -unhappy!" - -And at that the tears suddenly came, breaking out, releasing at once -the agony and the pain and the fear, pouring them out against her -brother's face, clinging to him, holding him, never never to let him go -again. And he, seeing his proud, confident, beloved Millie in desperate -need of him held her close, murmuring old words of their childhood to -her, stroking her hair, her face, her hands, looking at her with eyes -of the deepest, tenderest love. - - - -BOOK IV - -KNIGHT-ERRANT - - - -CHAPTER I - -MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND IS MADE UP AT LAST - - -At the very moment in the afternoon when Millie was hiding herself from -a horrible world in a taxi Henry and Lady Bell-Hall were entering the -Hill Street house. - -The house was still and unresponsive; even Lady Bell-Hall, who was not -sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and hurried upstairs. -Henry hung up his coat and hat in the little room to the right of the -hall and went to the library. - -Herbert Spencer was there, seated at Sir Charles' table surrounded with -little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright new red tape. He -was making entries in a large book. - -"Ah, Trenchard," he said, and went on with his entries. - -Henry felt depressed. Although the day was sunny and warm the library -was cold. Spencer seemed most damnably in possession, his thin nose and -long thin fingers pervading everything. Henry went to his own table, -took his notes out of his despatch-box and sat down. He had a sudden -desire to have a violent argument with Spencer--about anything. - -"I say, Spencer--you might at least ask how Sir Charles is." - -Spencer carefully finished the note that he was making. - -"How is he?" he asked. - -Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table. - -"You're a cold-blooded fish!" he broke out indignantly. "Yes you are! -You've no feelings at all. If he dies the only sensation you'll have I -suppose is whether you'll still keep this job or no." - -Spencer said nothing but continued to write. - -"Thank heaven I am inaccurate," Henry went on. "It's awful being as -accurate as you are. It dries up all your natural feelings. There never -was a warm-blooded man yet who was really accurate. And it's the same -with languages. Any one who's a really good linguist is inhuman." - -"Indeed!" said Spencer, sniffing. - -"Yes. Indeed. . . ." retorted Henry indignantly. "I think it's -disgusting. Here's Duncombe, one of the finest men who's ever -lived. . . ." - -"I can't help feeling," said Spencer slowly, "that one is best serving -Sir Charles Duncombe's interests by carrying out the work that he has -left in our charge. I may be wrong, of course." - -He then performed one of his most regular and most irritating -habits--namely, he wiped a drop of moisture from his nose with the back -of his hand. - -"If you've made those notes on Cadell and Constable, Trenchard," he -added, "during these last days in the country, I shall be very glad to -have them." - -"Well, I haven't," said Henry. "So you can put that in your pipe and -smoke it. I haven't been able to concentrate on anything during the -last two days, and I shan't be able to either until the operation's -over." - -Spencer said nothing. He continued to work, then, as though suddenly -remembering something, he opened a drawer and produced from it two -sheets of foolscap paper thickly covered with writing. - -"I believe this is your handwriting, Trenchard," he said gravely. "I -found them in the waste-paper basket, where they had doubtless gone by -mistake." - -Trenchard took them and then blushed violently. The top of the first -page was headed: - -"Chapter XV. The Mystery of the Blue Closet." - -"Thanks," he said shortly, and took them to his own table. - -There was a silence for a long time while Henry, lost in a miserable -vague dream, gazed with unperceptive eyes at the portrait of the stout, -handsome Archibald Constable. Then came the luncheon-bell, and after -that quite a horrible meal alone with Lady Bell-Hall, who only said -two things from first to last. One: "The operation's to be on Tuesday -morning, I understand." The other: "I see coal's gone up again." - -After luncheon he felt that he could endure the terrible house no -longer. He must get out into the air. He must try and see Christina. - -Spencer returned from his luncheon just as Harry was leaving. - -"Are you going?" he asked. - -"Yes, I am," said Henry. "I can't stand this house to-day." - -"What about Cadell and Constable?" asked Spencer, sniffing. - -"Damn Cadell and Constable," said Henry, rushing out. - -In the street he thought suddenly of Millie. He stopped in Berkeley -Square thinking of her. Why? He had the strangest impulse to go off to -Cromwell Road and see her. But Christina drew him. - -Nevertheless Millie . . . but he shook his head and hurried off towards -Peter Street. - -I have called this a Romantic Story because it is so largely Henry's -Story and Henry was a Romantic Young Man. He felt that it was his -solemn duty to be modern, cynical and realistic, but his romantic -spirit was so strong, so courageous, so scornful of the cynical parts -of him that it has dominated and directed him to this very day, and -will so continue to dominate, I suppose, until the hour of his death. - -To many a modern young man Mrs. Tenssen would have been merely a -nasty, dangerous, black-mailing woman, and Christina her pretty but -possibly not-so-innocent-as-she-appears daughter. But there the young -modern would have missed all the heart of the situation and Henry, -guided by his romantic spirit, went directly to it. He still believed -in the evil, spell-brewing, hag-like witch, the dusky wood, the -beautiful imprisoned Princess--nothing in the world seemed to him more -natural--and for once, just for once, he was exactly right! - -The Witch on this present occasion was, even thus early in the -afternoon, taking a cup of tea with her friend, Mrs. Armstrong. When -Henry came in they were sitting close together, and their heads were -turned towards the door as though they had suddenly been discovered -in some kind of conspiracy. Mrs. Tenssen tightened her thin lips when -she recognized her visitor, and Henry realized that a new crisis had -arrived in his adventure and that he must be prepared for a dramatic -interview. - -Nevertheless, from the moment of his entry into that room his -depression dropped from him like the pack off Christian's back. Nothing -was ever lost by politeness. - -"Good afternoon, Mrs. Tenssen. Is Christina in?" - -He stood in the doorway smiling at the two women. - -Mrs. Tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying. - -"No, she is not," she at length answered. "Nor is she likely to be. -Neither now nor later--not to-day and not to-morrow." - -"What's he asking?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong in her deep bass voice. - -"Whether Christina's in." - -Both the women laughed. It seemed to them an excellent joke. - -"Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her a message from me," Henry -said, suddenly involved in the strange miasma of horrid smell and -hateful sound that seemed to be forever floating in that room. - -"Perhaps I will not," said Mrs. Tenssen, suddenly getting up from her -chair and facing him. "Now you've been hanging around here just about -enough, and it will please you to take yourself off once and for all or -I'll see that somebody makes you." She turned round to Mrs. Armstrong. -"It's perfectly disgusting what I've had to put up with from him. -You'll recollect that first day he broke in here through the window -just like any common thief. It's my belief it was thieving he was after -then and it's been thieving he's been after ever since. Damned little -squab. - -"Always sniffing round Christina and Christina fairly loathes the sight -of him. Why, it was only yesterday she said to me: 'Well, thank God, -mother, it's some weeks since we saw that young fool, bothering the -life out of me,' she said. Why, it isn't decent." - -"It is not," said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea. "I should have -the police in if he's any more of a nuisance." - -"That's a lie," said Henry, his cheeks flaming. Stepping forward, "And -you know it is. Where is Christina? What have you done with her? I'll -have the police here if you don't tell me." - -Mrs. Tenssen thrust her head forward, producing an extraordinary evil -expression with her white powdered face, her heavy black costume and -her hanging podgy fingers. "Call me a liar, do you? That's a nice, -pretty thing to call a lady, but I suppose it's about as much manners -as you _have_ got. He's always talking about the police, my dear," -turning round to Mrs. Armstrong. "It's a mania he's got. Although what -good they're going to do him I'm sure I don't know. And a pretty thing -for Christina to be dragged into the courts. He's mad, my dear. That's -all there is about it." - -"I'm not mad," said Henry, "as you'll find out one day. You're trying -to do something horrible to Christina, but I'll prevent it if it kills -me." - -"And let me tell you," said Mrs. Tenssen, standing now, her arms -akimbo, "that if you set your foot inside that door again or bring -your ugly, dirty face inside this room I'll whip you out of it. I will -indeed, and you can have as many of your bloody police in as you like -to help you. All the police force if you care to. But I'll tell you -straight," here her voice rose suddenly into a violent scream, "that I -will bloody well scratch the skin off your face if you poke it in here -again . . . and now get out or I'll make you." - -Here I regret to say Henry's temper, never as tightly in control as it -should be, forsook him. - -"And I tell you," he shouted back, "that if you hurt a hair of -Christina's head I'll have you imprisoned for life and tortured too if -I can. And I'll come here just as often as I like until I'm sure of her -safety. You be careful what you do. . . . You'd better look out." - -He banged the door behind him and was stumbling down the dark stairs. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT - - -In the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment against -a wall. He was trembling from head to foot, trembling with an -extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, indignation, and then anger -again. Christina had warned him months ago that this was coming. "When -mother makes up her mind," she said. Well, mother had made up her mind. -And to what? - -Where was Christina? Perhaps already she was being imprisoned in the -country somewhere and could not get word to him--punished possibly -until she consented to marry that horrible old man or some one equally -disgusting. - -The fear that he might now be too late--felt by him for the first -time--made him cold with dread. Hitherto, from the moment when he had -first seen the crimson feather in the Circus he had been sure that Fate -was with him, that the adventure had been arranged from the beginning -by some genial, warm-hearted Olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped -cloud, seeing Henry Trenchard and liking him in spite of his follies, -and determining to make him happy. But suppose after all, it should -not be so? What if Christina's life and happiness were ruined through -his own weakness and dallying and delay? He was so miserable at the -thought that he started back a step or two half-determining to face -the horrible Mrs. Tenssen again. But there was nothing at that moment -to be gained there. He turned down Peter Street, baffled as ever by -his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. What -was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him from his birth? -Good, practical common sense, that was what he needed. Would he ever -have it? - -He decided that Peter was his need. He would put his troubles to him -and do what he advised. Outside the upper part in Marylebone High -Street he rang the little tinkly bell, and then waited an eternity. -Nobody stirred. The house was dead. A grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and -rubbed itself against his leg. He rang again, and then again. - -Suddenly Peter appeared. He could not see through the dim obscurity of -the autumn afternoon. - -"Who's there?" he asked. - -"It's me. I mean I. Henry." - -"Henry?" - -"Yes, Henry. Good heavens, Peter, it's as difficult to pass your gate -as Paradise's." - -Peter came forward. - -"Sorry, old man," he said. "I couldn't see. Look here----" - -He put his hand on Henry's shoulder hesitating. "Oh, all right. Come -in." - -"What! don't you want me?" said Henry, instantly, as always, suspicious -of an affront. "All right, I'll----" - -"No, you silly cuckoo. Come in." - -They passed in, and at once Henry perceived that something was -different. What was different? He could not tell. . . . - -He looked about him. Then in the middle of his curiosity the thought of -his many troubles overcame him and he began: - -"Peter, old man, I'm dreadfully landed. There's something that ought to -be done and I don't know what it is. I never do know. It's Christina -of course. I've just had the most awful scene with her mother; she's -cursed me like a fishwife and forbidden me to come near the house -again. Of course I knew that this was coming, but Christina warned me -that when it did come it would mean that her mother had finally made -up her mind to something and wasn't going to waste any time about -it. . . . Well, where's Christina, and how am I to get at her? I don't -know what's happening. They may be torturing her or anything. That -woman's capable of. . . ." - -He broke off, his eyes widening. The door from the inner room opened -and a woman came out. - -"Henry," said Peter, "let me introduce you. This is my wife." - -Henry's first thought was: "Now I must show no surprise at this. I -mustn't hurt Peter's feelings." And his second: "Oh dear! Poor thing! -How terribly ill she looks!" - -His consciousness of her was at once so strong that he forgot himself -and Peter. He had never seen any one in the least like her before: this -was not Peter's wife come back to him, but some one who had peered up -for a moment out of a world so black and tragic that Henry had never -even guessed at its existence. Not his experiences in the War, not his -mother's death, nor Duncombe's tragedy, nor Christina and her horrible -parent were real to him as was suddenly this little woman with her -strange yellow hair, her large angry eyes, her shabby black dress. What -a face!--he would never forget it so long as life lasted--with its -sickness and anger and disgust and haggard rebellion. - -Yes, there were worse things than the War, worse things than assaults -on the body, than maiming and sudden death. His young inexperience took -a shoot into space at that instant when he first saw Clare Westcott. - -She stared at him scornfully, then she suddenly put her hand to her -throat and sat down on the sofa with pain in her eyes and a stare of -rebellious anger as though she were saying: - -"I'll escape you yet. . . . But you're damned persistent. . . . Leave -me, can't you?" - -Peter came to her. "Clare, this is Henry Trenchard--my best friend." - -Henry came across holding out his hand: - -"How do you do? I'm very glad to meet you?" - -She gave him her hand, it was hot and dry. - -"So you're one of Peter's friends?" she said, still scornfully. "You're -much younger than he is." - -"Yes, I am," he said. "But that doesn't prevent our being splendid -friends." - -"Do you write too?" she asked, but with no curiosity, wearily, angrily, -her eyes moving like restless candles lighting up a room that was dark -for her. - -"I hope to," he answered, "but it's hard to get started--harder than -ever it was." - -"Peter didn't find it hard when he began. Did you, Peter?" she asked, -a curious note of irony in her voice. "He began right away--with a -great flourish. Every one talking about him. . . . Didn't quite keep it -up though," she ended, her voice sinking into a mutter. - -"Never mind all that now," Peter said, trying to speak lightly. - -"Why not mind it?" she broke in sharply. "That young man's your friend, -isn't he? He ought to know what you were like when you were young. -Those happy days. . . ." She laughed bitterly. "Oh! I ruined his work, -you know," she went on. "Yes, I did. All my fault. Now see what he's -become. He's grown fat. You've grown fat, Peter, got quite a stomach. -You hadn't then or I wouldn't have married you. Are you married?" she -said, suddenly turning on Henry. - -"No," he answered. - -"Well, don't you be. I've tried it and I know. Marriage is just -this: If you're unhappy it's hell, and if you're happy it makes you -soft. . . ." - -She seemed then suddenly to have said enough. She leant back against -the cushion, not regarding any more the two men, brooding. . . . - -There was a long silence. - -Peter said at last: "Are you tired, dear? Would you like to go and lie -down?" - -She came suddenly up from the deep water of her own thoughts. - -"Oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." She got up slowly. "Well, I'll -go." - -"No," he answered eagerly. "If you'll lie down on this sofa I'll make -it comfortable for you. Then Harry shall tell us what he's been doing." - -She stood, her hands on her hips, her body swaying ever so slightly. - -"Tum-te-tiddledy . . . Tum-te-tiddledy. Poor little thing----! Was it -ill? Must it be fussed over and have cushions and be made to lie down? -If you're ever ill," she said to Henry, "don't you let Peter nurse -you. He'll fuss the life out of you. He's a regular old woman. He -always was. He hasn't changed a bit. Fuss, fuss--fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh! -he's very kind, Peter is, so thoughtful. Well, why shouldn't I stay? -I haven't seen so many new faces in the last few days that a new one -isn't amusing. When did you first meet Peter?" - -"Oh some while ago now," said Henry. - -"Have you read his books?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you like them?" - -"Yes, I do." - -She suddenly lay back on the sofa and, to Henry's surprise, without any -protest allowed Peter to wrap a rug round her, arrange the cushions for -her. She caught his shoulder with her hand and pressed it. - -"I used to like to do that," she said, nodding to Henry. "When we were -married years ago. Strong muscles he's got still. Haven't you, Peter? -Oh, we'll be a model married couple yet." - -She looked at Henry, more gently now and with a funny crooked smile. - -"Do you know how long we've been married? Years and years and years. -I'm over forty you know. You wouldn't think it, would you? . . . Say -you wouldn't think it." - -"Of course I wouldn't," said Henry. - -"That's very nice of you. Why, he's blushing! Look at him blushing, -Peter! It's a long time since I've done any blushing. Are you in love -with any one?" - -"Yes," said Henry. - -"When are you going to be married?" - -"Never," said Henry. - -"Never! Why! doesn't she like you?" - -"Yes, but she doesn't want to be married." - -"That's wise of her. It's hard on Peter my coming back like this, but -I'm not going to stay long. As soon as I'm better I'm going away. Then -he can divorce me." - -"Clare dear, don't----" - -"Just the same as you used to be." - -"Clare dear, don't----" - -"Clare, dear, you mustn't. . . . Oh, men do like to have it their own -way. So long as you love a man you can put up with it, but when you -don't love him any more then it's hard to put up with. How awful for -you, Peter darling, if I'm never strong enough to go away--if I'm a -permanent invalid on your hands for ever---- Won't that be fun for you? -Rather amusing to see how you'll hate it--and me. You hate me now, but -it's nothing to the way you'll hate me after a year or two. . . . Do -you know Chelsea?" - -"I've been there once or twice," said Henry. - -"That's where we used to live--in our happy married days. A dear little -house we had--the house I ran away from. We had a baby too, but that -died. Peter was fond of that baby, fonder than he ever was of me." - -She turned on her side, beating the cushions into new shapes. "Oh, -well, that's all over long ago--long, long ago." She forgot the men -again, staring in front of her. - -Henry waited a little, then said a word to Peter and went. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -A DEATH AND A BATTLE - - -Yes, life was now crowding in upon Henry indeed, crowding him in, -stamping on him, treading him down. No sooner had he received one -impact than another was upon him---- Such women as Clare, in regular -daily life, in the closest connection with his own most intimate -friend! As he hurried away down Marylebone High Street his great -thought was that he wanted to do something for her, to take that angry -tragedy out of her eyes, to make her happy. Peter wouldn't make her -happy. They would never be happy together. He and Peter would never be -able to deal with a case like Clare's, there was something too naïve, -too childish in them. How she despised both of them, as though they had -been curates on their visiting-day in the slums. - -Oh, Henry understood that well enough. But didn't all women despise all -men unless they were in love with them or wanted to be in love with -them or had helped to produce them? - -And then again, when you thought of it, didn't all men despise all -women with the same exceptions? Clare's scorn of him tingled in his -ears and made his eyes smart. And what she must have been through to -look like that! - -He dreamt of her that night; he was in thick jungle and she, -tiger-shaped, was hunting him and some one shouted to him: "Look to -yourself! Climb into yourself! The only place you're safe in!" - -But he couldn't find the way in, the door was locked and the window -barred: he knew it was quiet in there and cool and secure, but the hot -jungle was roaming with tigers and they were closer and closer. . . . - -He woke to Mary Cass's urgent call on the telephone. - -Then, when Millie was in his arms all else was forgotten by -him--Clare, Christina, Duncombe, work, all, all forgotten. He was -terrified, that she should suffer like this. It was worse, far worse, -than that he should suffer himself. All the days of their childhood, -all the _tiniest_ things--were now there between them, holding and -binding them as nothing else could hold and bind. - -Now that tears could come to her she was released and free, the -strange madness of that night and day was over and she could tell -him everything. Her pride came back to her as she told him, but when -he started up and wanted to go at once and find Baxter and drag him -through the streets of London by the scruff of his neck and then hang -him from the top of the Tower she said: "No, Henry dear, it's no use -being angry. Anger isn't in this. I understand how it was. He's weak, -Bunny is, and he'll always be weak, and he'll always be a trouble to -any woman who loves him, but in his own way he did love me. But I'm not -clear yet. It's been my fault terribly as well as his. I shouldn't have -listened to Ellen, or if I did, should have gone further. I would take -him back, but I haven't any right to him. If he'd told me everything -from the beginning I could have gone and seen his mother, I could have -found out how it really was. Now I shall never know. But what I _do_ -know is that somehow he thought he'd slip through, and that if there -_was_ a way, he'd leave that girl to her unhappiness. If he could have -found a way he wouldn't have cared how unhappy she was. He would be -glad for her to die. I can't love him any more after that. I can't -love him, but I shall miss all that that love was . . . the little -things. . . ." - -By the evening of that day she was perfectly calm. For three days he -scarcely left her side--and he was walking with a stranger. She had -grown in the space of that night so much older that she was now ahead -of him. She had been a child; she was now a woman. - -She told him that Baxter had written to her and that she had answered -him. She went back to Victoria. She was calm, quiet--and, as he knew, -most desperately unhappy. - -He had a little talk with Mary. - -"She'll never get over it," he said. - -"Oh yes, she will," said Mary. "How sentimental you are, Henry!" - -"I'm not sentimental," said Henry indignantly. "But I know my sister -better than you know her." - -"You may know your sister," Mary retorted, "but you don't know anything -about women. They must have something to look after. If you take one -thing away, they'll find something else. It's their only religion, and -it's the religion they want, not the prophets." - -She added: "Millie is far more interested in life than I am. She is -enchanted by it. Nothing and nobody will stop her excitement about -it. Nobody will ever keep her back from it. She'll go on to her death -standing up in the middle of it, tossing it around---- - -"You're like her in that, but you'll never see life as it really is. -She will. And she'll face it all----" - -"What a lot you think you know," said Henry. - -"Yes, I know Millie." - -"But she's terribly unhappy." - -"And so she will be--until she's found some one more unhappy than -herself. But even unhappiness is part of the excitement of life to her." - -After a dreamless night he awoke to a sudden consciousness that Millie, -Clare Westcott and Christina were in his room. He stirred, raising his -head very gently and seemed to catch the shadow of Christina's profile -in the grey light of the darkened window. - -He sat up and, bending over to his chair where his watch lay, saw -that it was nine o'clock. As he sprang out of bed, King entered with -breakfast and an aggrieved expression. "Knocked a hour ago, sir, and -you hanswered," he said. - -"Must have been in my sleep then," said Henry yawning, then suddenly -conscious of his shabby and faded pyjamas. - -"Can't say, I'm sure, sir . . . knocked loud enough for anything. No -letters this morning, sir." - -Henry was still at the innocent and optimistic age when letters are an -excitement and a hope. He always felt that the world was deliberately, -for malicious and cruel reasons of its own, forgetting him when there -were no letters. - -He was splashing in his tin bath, his bony and angular body like a -study for an El Greco, when he remembered. Tuesday--nine o'clock. -Why? . . . What! . . . Duncombe's operation. - -He hurried then as he had never hurried before, gulping down his tea, -choking over his egg, flinging on his clothes, throwing water on his -head and plastering it down, tumbling down the stairs into the street. - -A clock struck the half-hour as he hastened into Berkeley Square. -He had now no thought but for his beloved master; every interest in -life had faded before that. He seemed to be with him there in the -nursing home. He could watch it all, the summoning, the procession -into the operating theatre, the calm, white-clad surgeon, the nurses, -the anaesthetic. . . . His hand was on the Hill Street door bell. He -hesitated, trembling. The street was so still in the misty autumn -morning, a faint scent in the air of something burning, of tar, of -fading leaves. A painted town, a painted sky and some figures in the -foreground, breathlessly waiting. - -The old butler opened the door. He turned back as Henry entered, -pointing to the dark and empty hall as though that stood for all that -he could say. - -"Well?" said Henry. "Is there any news yet?" - -"Sir Charles died under the operation. . . . Her ladyship has just been -rung up----" - -The old man moved away. - -"I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe it. . . . It isn't -natural! Such a few good ones in the world. It isn't right." He stood -as though he were lost, fingering the visiting-cards on the table. He -suddenly raised dull imperceptive eyes to Henry! "They can say what -they like about new times coming and all being equal. . . . There'll -be masters all the same and not another like Sir Charles. Good he was, -good all through." He faded away. - -Henry went upstairs. He was so lost that he stood in the library -looking about him and wondering who that was at the long table. It was -Herbert Spencer with his packets of letters and his bright red tape. - -"Sir Charles is dead," Henry said. - -The books across that wide space echoed: "Sir Charles is dead." - -Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them drop, -glanced up. - -"Oh, I say! I'm sorry! . . . Oh dear!" he got up, staring at the -distant bookshelves. "After the operation?" - -"During it." - -"Dear, dear. And I thought in these days they were clever enough for -anything." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Not much use -going on working to-day, I suppose?" - -Henry did not hear. - -"Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose?" he repeated. - -"No, none," said Henry. - -"You'll be carrying the letters on, I suppose?" he said. - -"I don't know," Henry answered. - -"Well, you see, it's like this. I've got my regular work I'll have to -be getting back to it if this isn't going on. I was put on to this -until it was finished, but if it isn't going to be finished, then I'd -like to know you see----" - -"Of course it's going to be finished," said Henry suddenly. - -"Well then----" said Herbert Spencer. - -"And I'll tell you this," said Henry, suddenly shouting, "it's going -to be finished splendidly too. It's going to be better than you can -imagine. And you're going to work harder and I'm going to work harder -than we've ever done in our lives. It's going to be the best thing -that's ever been. . . . It's all we can do," he added, suddenly -dropping his voice. - -"All right," said Herbert Spencer calmly. "I'll come to-morrow then. -What I mean to say is that it isn't any use my staying to-day." - -"It's what he cared for more than anything," Henry cried. "It's got to -be beautiful." - -"I'll be here to-morrow then," said Spencer, gathered his papers -together and went. - -Henry walked round, touching the backs of the books with his hand. He -had known that this would be. There was no surprise here. But that -he would never see Sir Charles again nor hear his odd, dry, ironical -voice, nor see his long nose raise itself across the table--that was -strange. That was indeed incredible. His mind wandered back to that -day when Duncombe had first looked at the letters and then, when Henry -was expecting curses, had blessed him instead. That indeed had been -a crisis in his life--a crisis like the elopement of Katherine with -Philip, the outbreak of the War, the meeting with Christina--one of the -great steps of the ladder of life. He felt now, as we all must feel -when some one we love has gone, the burden of all the kindness undone, -the courtesy unexpressed, the tenderness untended. - -And then he comforted himself, still wandering, pressing with his hands -the old leather backs and the faded gilding, with the thought that at -least, out there at Duncombe, Sir Charles had loved him and had spoken -out the things that were really in his heart, the things that he would -not have said to any one for whom he had not cared. That last night in -Duncombe, the candle lighting the old room, Sir Charles had kissed him -as he might his own dearly loved son. And perhaps even now he had not -gone very far away. - -Henry climbed the little staircase into the gallery and moved into the -dusky corners. He came to the place that he always loved best, where -the old English novelists were, Bage and Mackenzie and absurd Clara -Reeved and Mrs. Opie and Godwin. - -He took out _Barham Downs_ and turned over the leaves, repeating to -himself the old artificial sentences, the redundant moralizing; the -library closed about him, put its arms around him, and told him once -again, as it had told him once before, that death is not the end and -that friendship and love know no physical boundaries. - -Hearing a step he looked up and saw below him Lady Bell-Hall. She -raised her little pig-face to the gallery and then waited, a black -doll, for him to come down to her. - -When he was close to her she said very quietly: "My brother died under -the operation." - -"Yes, I have heard," Henry said. - -She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: "Every one -matters now for whom he cared," she said. "And he cared for you very -much. Only yesterday when I saw in the nursing-home he said how much -he owed to you. He wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be." - -"Indeed, indeed we will be," said Henry. - -"What I want," she said, her upper lip trembling like a child's, "is -for every one to know how good he was--how wonderfully good! So few -people knew him--they thought him stiff and proud. He was shy and -reserved. But his goodness! There never was any one so good--there -never will be again. _You_ knew that. You felt it. . . . I don't -know . . . I can't believe that we shall never--never again . . . -see . . . hear . . ." - -She began to cry, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and he suddenly, -as though he were many years older than she, put his arm around her. -She leant her head against him and he stood there awkwardly, longing -to comfort her, not knowing what to say. But that moment between them -sealed a friendship. - -Nevertheless when he left the house he was in a curious rage with life. -On so many occasions he himself had been guilty of spoiling life, and -even in his worst moods of arrogance and ill-temper he had recognised -that. - -But often during the War he had seen cloven hoofs pushing the world, -now here, now there, and had heard the laughter of the demons watching -from their dusky woods. At such times his imagination had faded as the -sunlit glow fades from the sky, leaving steel-grey and cold horizons -all sharply defined and of a menacing reality. - -In his imagination he had seen Duncombe depart, and the picture had -been coloured with soft-tinted promises and gentle prophecies--now -in the harsh fact Duncombe was gone just as the letter-box stood in -Hill Street and the trees were naked in Berkeley Square. Life had no -right to do this, and even, so arrogantly certain are we all of our -personalities, he felt that this desire should be important enough to -defeat life's purpose. - -Christina and her mother, Millie and her lover, Duncombe and his -operation, what was life about to permit these things? How strongly he -felt in his youth his own certainty of survival, but one cock of life's -finger and where was he? - -Well, he was in Piccadilly Circus, and once again, as many months -before, he stopped on the edge of the pavement looking across at the -winged figure, feeling all the eddy of the busy morning life about -him, swaying now here, now there, like strands of coloured silk, above -which were human faces, but impersonal, abstracted, like fish in a -shining sea. The people, the place, then suddenly through his own anger -and soreness and sense of loss that moment of expectation again when -he rose gigantic above the turmoil, when beautiful music sounded. The -movement, suddenly apprehensive, ceased! like God he raised his hand, -the fountain swayed, the ground opened and---- - -Standing almost at his side, unconscious of him, waiting apparently for -an omnibus, was Baxter. - -At the sight of that hated face, seen by him before only for a moment -but never to be forgotten, rage took him by the throat, his heart -pounded, his hands shook; in another instant he had Baxter by the -waistcoat and was shaking him. - -"You blackguard! You blackguard! You blackguard!" he cried. Then he -stepped back; "Come on, you swine! You dirty coward! . . ." With his -hand he struck him across the face. - -At that moment Baxter must have been the most astonished man in -England. He was waiting for his omnibus and suddenly some one from -nowhere had caught him by the throat, screamed at him, smacked his -cheek. He was no coward; he responded nobly, and in a whirl of sky, -omnibuses, women, shop-window and noise they were involved, until, -slipping over the edge of the kerb, they fell both into the road. - -Baxter, rising first, muttered: "Look here! What the devil . . ." then -suddenly realized his opponent. - -They had no opportunity for a further encounter. A crowd had instantly -gathered and was pressing them in. A policeman had his hand on Henry's -collar. - -"Now, then, what's all this?" - -No one can tell what were Baxter's thoughts, the tangle of his -emotions, regrets, pride, remorse, since that last scene with Millie. -All that is known is that he pushed aside some small boy pressing up -with excited wonder in his face, brushed through the crowd and was -gone. - -Henry remained. He stood up, the centre of an excited circle, the -policeman's hand on his shoulder. His glasses were gone and the world -was a blur; he had a large bump on his forehead, his breath came in -confused, excited pants, his collar was torn. So suddenly had the -incident occurred that no one could give an account of it. Some one had -been knocked down by some one--or had some one fallen? Was it a robbery -or an attempted murder? Out of the mist of voices and faces the large, -broad shoulders of the policeman were the only certain fact. - -"Now, then, clear out of this. . . . Move along there." The policeman -looked at Henry; Henry looked at the policeman. Instantly there was -sympathy between them. The policeman's face was round and red like a -sun; his eyes were mild as a cow's. - -Henry found that his hat was on his head, that he was withdrawn from -the crowd, that he and the policeman together were moving towards -Panton Street. Endeavours had been made to find the other man. There -was apparently no Other Man. There had never been one according to one -shrill-voiced lady. - -"Now what's all this about?" asked the policeman. His tone was fatherly -and even affectionate. - -"I--hit him," said Henry, panting. - -"Well, where is 'e?" asked the policeman, vaguely looking about. - -"I don't know. I don't care. You can arrest me if you like," panted -Henry. - -"Well, I ought to give you in charge by rights," said the policeman, -"but seeing as the other feller's 'ooked it---- What did you do it for?" - -"I'm not going to say." - -"You'll have to say if I take you to Bow Street." - -"You can if you like." - -The policeman looked at Henry, shaking his head. "It's the War," he -said. "You wouldn't believe what a number of seemingly peaceable people -are knocking one another about. You don't look very savage. You'll have -to give me your name and address." - -Henry gave it. - -"Why, here's your lodging. . . . You seem peaceable enough." He shook -his head again. "It don't do," he said, "just knocking people down when -you feel like it. That's Bolshevism, that is." - -"I'm glad I knocked him down," said Henry. - -"You'd feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in Bow Street. -But I know myself how tempting it is. You'll learn to restrain yourself -when you come to my age. Now you go in and 'ave a wash and brush up. -You need it." He patted Henry paternally on the shoulder. "I don't -expect you're likely to hear much more of it." - -With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry stumbled up to his -room. - -Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn't expecting it. -But he felt better. His head was aching like hell. But he felt better. -And to-morrow he would work at those letters like a fanatic. He washed -his face and realized with pleasure that although it was only the -middle of the morning he was extremely hungry. Millie--yes, he was glad -that he had hit Baxter. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH - - -On the next afternoon about four of the clock Millie was writing -letters with a sort of vindictive fury at Victoria's desk. Beppo had -just brought her a cup of tea; there it stood at her side with the -bread and butter badly cut as usual. But she did not care. She must -WORK, WORK, WORK. - -Like quicksilver were her fingers, her eyes flashed fire, the rain beat -upon the windows and the loneliness and desolation were held at bay. - -The door opened and in came Major Mereward; he looked as usual, -untidy, with his hair towselled, his moustache ragged and his trousers -baggy--not a military major at all--but now a light shone in his eyes -and his eyebrows gleamed with the reflection of it. He knew that Millie -was his friend, and coming close to her and stammering, he said: - -"Miss Trenchard. It's all right. It's all right. Victoria will marry -me." - -Her heart leaped up. She was astonished at the keenness of her -pleasure. She could then still care for other people's happiness. - -"Oh, I am glad! I am _glad_!" she cried, jumping up and shaking him -warmly by the hand. "I never was more pleased about anything." - -"Well, now, that _is_ nice--that's very nice of you. It will be all -right, won't it? You know I'll do my best to make her happy." - -"Why, of course you will," cried Millie. "You know that I've wanted her -to marry you from ever so long ago. It's just what I wanted." - -He set back his shoulders, looking so suddenly a man of strength and -character that Millie was astonished. - -"I know that I'm not very clever," he said. "Not in your sort of way, -but cleverness isn't everything when you come to my time of life and -Victoria's." - -"No, indeed it isn't," said Millie with conviction. - -"I'm glad you think so," he said, sighing so hastily that quite a -little breeze sprang up. "I thought you'd feel otherwise. But I know -Victoria better than she thinks. I'm sure I shall make her happy." - -"I'm sure you will," said Millie. They shook hands again. Mereward -looked about him confusedly. - -"Well, I mustn't keep you from your work. Hard at it, I see. Hum, -yes . . . Hard at it, I see," and went. - -Millie sat at her desk, her head propped on her hands. She wasn't dead -then? She drank her tea and smoked a cigarette. Not dead as far as -others were concerned. For herself, of course, life was entirely over. -She must drag herself along, like a wounded bird, until death chose -to come and take her. The tea was delicious. She got up and looked at -herself in the glass. She was wearing an old orange jumper to-day; -she'd put it on just because it was old and it didn't matter what she -wore. Yes, it _was_ old. Time to buy another one. There was one--a -kind of purple--in Debenham & Freebody's window. . . . But why think -of jumpers when her life was over? Only five days ago she had died, -and here she was thinking of jumpers. Well, that was because she was -so glad about Victoria. However finished your own personal life might -be that did not mean that you could not be interested in the lives of -others. She loved Victoria, and it would have been horrible had she -married that terrible Bennett. Now Victoria was safe and Millie was -_glad_. She must find her and tell her so. - -She found her, as she expected, in her bedroom. Victoria had been -wonderful to her during those three days, using a tact that you never -would have expected. She must have known what had occurred but she had -made no allusion to it, had not asked where He was, had watched over -Millie with a tenderness and solicitude that, even though a little -irritating, was very touching. - -Now she sat in her bedroom armchair, still wearing her gay hat with -peacocks' feathers; she was near laughter, nearer tears and altogether -in a considerable confusion. Millie flung her arms around her and -kissed her. - -"Well, now, you've got your way," said Victoria, "and I hope you're -glad. If the marriage is a terrible failure it will be all your fault; -I hope you realize your responsibility. It was simply because I -couldn't go on being nagged by you any longer. Poor man. He did look so -funny when he proposed to me, and when I said yes he just ran out of -the room. He didn't kiss me or anything." - -"He's just mad with delight," said Millie. - -"Is he? Well, it's settled." She sat up, pushing her hat straight. "All -my adventures are over, my Millie. It's a very sad thing, when you come -to think of it. A quiet life for me now. It certainly wouldn't have -been quiet with Mr. Bennett." - -"Now don't you go sighing over him," said Millie. "Make the most of -your Major." - -"Oh, I shan't sigh after him," said Victoria, sighing nevertheless. -"But it would be lovely to feel wildly in love. I don't feel wildly in -love at all. Do you know, Millie mine, it's exactly what I feel if I -want to buy a dress that's too expensive for me. Excited for days and -days as to whether I will or I won't. And then I decide that I will and -the excitement's all over. Of course I have the dress. But it isn't as -nice as the excitement." - -"Perhaps the excitement will come with marriage," said Millie, feeling -infinitely old. "It often does." - -"Now how ridiculous," cried Victoria, jumping up, "to talk of -excitement at my age. I ought to be thankful that I can be married at -all. I'm sure he's a good man. Perhaps I wish that he weren't quite so -good as he is." - -"You wait," said Millie, "he may develop terribly after marriage. They -often do. He may beat you and spend your money riotously and leave you -for weeks at a time." - -"Oh, do you think so?" said Victoria, her cheeks flushing. "That would -be splendid. Just the risk of it, I mean. But I'm afraid there isn't -much hope. . . ." - -"You never know," Millie replied. "And now, dear, if you'll let me I'll -be off. You'll find all the letters answered in a pile on the desk -waiting for you to sign. The one from Mr. Block I've left you to answer -for yourself." She paused. "After your marriage you won't be wanting me -any more, I suppose?" - -"Want you! I shall want you more than ever. You darling! I'm never -going to let you go unless you----" Here she felt on dangerous ground -and ended, "unless you want to go yourself, I mean." - -"No, you didn't mean that," said Millie. "What you meant was unless I -marry. Well, you can make your mind easy--I'm never going to marry. -Never! I'm going to die an old maid." - -"And you so beautiful!" cried Victoria. "I don't think so," and she -threw her arms round Millie's neck and gave her one of those soft and -soapy kisses that Millie so especially detested. - -But on her way home she forgot the newly-engaged. The full tide of -her own personal wretchedness swept up and swallowed her in dark and -blinding waters. She had noticed that it was always like that. She -seemed free--coldly, indifferently free--independent of the world, -standing and watching with scorn humanity, and then of a sudden the -waters caught, at her feet, the tide drew her, the foam was in her eyes -and with agony she drowned in the flood of recollection, of vanished -tenderness, of frustrated hope. - -It was so now: she did not see the people with her in the Tube nor hear -their voices. Only she saw Bunny and heard his voice and felt his cheek -against hers. - -Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to return to -him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact or argument, -but only, as it had been that first night, the impulse to return, to -find him again, to be with him and near him at all possible cost or -sacrifice. - -She was fighting her own misery, staring in front of her, her hands -clenched on her lap, when she heard her name called. At first the voice -seemed to call from far away: "Millie! Millie!" Then quite close to -her. Some one, sitting almost opposite to her was leaning forward and -speaking to her. She raised her head out of her own troubles and looked -and saw that it was Peter. - -Peter! The very sight of his square shoulders and thick, resolute -figure reassured her. Peter! Strangely she had not actually thought -of him in all this recent trouble, but the consciousness of him had -nevertheless been there behind her. She smiled, her face breaking into -light, and then, with that swift sympathy that trouble gives, she -realized that he himself was unhappy. Something had happened to him, -and how tired he was! His eyes were pinched with grey lines, his head -hung forward a little as though it was tumbling to sleep. - -Just then Baker Street Station arrived and they got out together. He -caught her arm and they went up in the lift together. They came out -to a lovely autumn evening, the sky dotted with silver stars and the -wall of Tussaud's pearl-grey against the faint jade of the fading -light. "What's the matter, Millie?" he asked. "I haven't seen you for -a fortnight. I was watching you before I spoke to you. You looked too -tragic before I spoke to you. What's up?" - -"I was going to ask you the same question," she said. - -"Oh, I'm only tired. Here, I'll walk with you as far as your rooms. I -want to get an evening paper anyway." - -"Only tired? What's made you?" - -"I'll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. That is, if -you want to." - -"Oh, my trouble!" she shrugged her shoulders. "Ordinary enough, Peter. -But I don't think I can talk about it, if you don't mind--at least not -yet. Only this. That I'm not engaged and I'm never going to be again. -I'm a free woman Peter." - -She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an instant his -hand pressed against her side with such force that it hurt. Then he -took his hand from her arm and walked apart. He walked in silence, -rolling a little from leg to leg as was his way. And he said nothing. -She waited. She expected him to ask some question. He said nothing. -Then, when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his voice -husky, he said: - -"My trouble is that my wife's come back." - -It took her some little while to realize that--then she said: - -"Your wife?" - -"Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don't mean that _that's_ a -trouble. But she's ill--very ill indeed. She's very unhappy. She's had -a terrible time." - -"Oh, Peter, I _am_ sorry!" - -"Yes, it's difficult after all this time--difficult to find the -joining-points. And I'm not very good at that--clumsy and slow." - -"Is her illness serious? What is it?" - -"Everything! Everything's the matter with her--heart and all. But that -isn't her chief trouble. She's so lonely. Can't get near to anybody. -It's so difficult to help her. I'm stupid," he repeated. They had come -to Millie's door. They stood there facing one another in the dusk. - -"Oh, I _am_ sorry," she repeated. - -"Well, you must help me," he suddenly jerked out, almost roughly. "Only -you can." - -"Help you? How?" - -"Come and see her." - -"I? . . . Oh no!" Millie shrank back. - -"Yes, you must. Perhaps you can talk to her. Make her laugh a little. -Make her a little less unhappy." - -"I make any one laugh?" - -"Yes. Just to look at you will do her good. Something beautiful. -Something to take her out of herself----" - -"Oh no, Peter, I can't. Please, please don't ask me." - -"Yes, yes, you must." He was glaring at her as though he would strike -her. "Do you remember when we three were in Henry's room alone and we -swore friendship? We swore to help one another. Well, this is a way you -can help me. And you've got to do it." - -"Peter, don't ask me--just now----" - -"Yes, now--at once. You have got to." - -Suddenly she submitted. - -"Very well, then. But I'll be no good. I'm no use to any one just now." - -"When will you come?" - -"Soon. . . ." - -"No, definitely. To-morrow. What time?" - -"Not to-morrow, Peter. The day after." - -"Yes, to-morrow. To-morrow afternoon. About five." - -"Very well." - -"I'll expect you." He strode off. It was not until she was in her room -that she realized that he had said no single word about her broken -engagement. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -AND FINDS SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF - - -Millie stood in Peter's room looking about her with uneasy discomfort. -She was alone there: Peter, after greeting her, had gone into the -bedroom. She felt that he was in there protesting and arguing with some -one who refused a meeting. She hated him for putting her in so false -a position. She was tired with her day's work. Victoria, now that she -was engaged, allowing, nay encouraging, moods to sweep across her as -swiftly as clouds traverse the sun. She would wait only a moment longer -and then she would go. She had kept her word to Peter by coming. That -was enough. - -The door opened, and a little woman, a shawl around her shoulders, came -out, moved to the sofa without looking at Millie, and lay down upon -it. Peter followed her, arranged the cushions for her, drew a little -table to her side and placed a cup and saucer upon it. Millie, in spite -of herself, was touched by the careful clumsiness of his movements. -Nevertheless she longed to do these things herself. - -Peter turned to her. "Clare, dear," he said, "I want you to know a very -great friend of mine, Miss Trenchard. Millie, dear, this is my wife." - -Millie came over to the sofa, and in spite of her proud self-control -her heart beat with pity. She realized at that instant that here was -a woman who had gone so far in life's experience beyond her own timid -venturings that there could be no comparison at all between them. Her -passionate love of truth was one of her finest traits; one glance at -Clare Westcott's face and her own little story faded into nothingness -before that weariness, that anger, that indignation. - -She took Clare's hand and then sat down, drawing a chair closer to the -sofa. Peter had left the room. - -"It's kind of you to come and see me," Clare said indifferently, her -eyes roaming about the room. - -"Peter asked me," said Millie. - -"Oh, I know," Clare said. "Do come and see my poor wife. She's very -ill, she hasn't long to live. She's had a very bad time. You'll cheer -her up. Wasn't that it?" - -Millie laughed. "He said that you'd been ill and he'd like me to come -and see you. But I believe it was more to do me good than you. I've -been in a bit of trouble myself and have altogether been thinking too -much about myself." - -Millie's laugh attracted Clare's attention. Her wandering glance -suddenly settled on Millie's face. - -"You're beautiful," she said. "I like all that bright colour. Purple -suits you and you wear clothes well, too, which hardly any English -girls do. It's clever, that little bit of white there. . . . Nice shoes -you have . . . lovely hair. I wonder . . ." - -She broke off, staring at Millie. "Why, of course! You're the girl -Peter's in love with." - -"Me!" - -"Yes, you. Of course I discovered after I'd been back an hour that -there was somebody. Peter isn't so subtle but that you can't find out -what he's thinking. Besides, I knew him twenty years ago and he hasn't -changed as much as I have. _You're_ the girl! Well, I'm not sorry. I -did him an injury twenty years ago, more or less ruined his life for -him, and I won't be sorry to do him a good turn before I go. You won't -have long to wait, my dear. I was very nearly finished last night, if -you want to know. I can tell you a few things about Peter that it will -be good for you to understand if you're going to live with him." - -"Oh, but you're wrong! You're entirely wrong!" cried Millie. "I'm sure -Peter doesn't love me, and even if he did--anyway, I don't love him. I -was engaged until a few days ago. It has just been broken off--some one -I loved very much. That's the trouble I spoke about just now." - -"Tell me about it," said Clare, looking at her with eyes half-closed. - -"Oh, but you wouldn't--it isn't----" - -"Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. . . . Remember there's nothing about -men I don't know. You look so young: you can't know very much. Perhaps -I can help you." - -"No," said Millie, shaking her head. "You can't help me. No one can -help me but myself. It's all over--quite, quite over." - -"What did he do, the young man?" - -"We were engaged six months ago. Meanwhile he was really engaged to -another girl in his own village. She is going to have a baby this -month--his baby. I didn't know of this. He never would have told me if -some one hadn't gone to his village and found it all out." - -"Some one? Who? A woman?" - -"Yes. She thought she was helping me." - -"Are you sure it's true?" - -"Yes. He admitted it himself." - -"Hum. Were you very much in love with him?" - -"Yes, terribly." - -"No, not terribly, my dear, or you'd have gone off with him whatever -happened. Do you love him still?" - -"I don't know. He doesn't seem to belong to me any more. It was -knowing that he wasn't going to help that poor girl about her baby -that came right down between us. That was cruel, and cruelty's worse -than anything. He could have been cruel to me--he was sometimes, and I -daresay I was to him. People generally are when they are in love with -one another. But that poor girl----" - -"Never mind that poor girl. We don't know how much of it was her -doing. Perhaps she's not going to have a baby at all. Anyway, it may -not be his baby. No, if you'd been really in love with him you'd have -gone down to that village and found it all out for yourself, the -exact truth. And then, probably you'd have married him even if it had -been true. . . . Oh, yes, you would. My dear, you're too young to -know anything about love yet. Now tell me--weren't you feeling very -uncertain about it all long before this happened?" - -"I had some miserable times." - -"Yes, more and more miserable as time went on. But not so miserable as -they are now. I know. But what you're feeling now is loneliness. And -soon you won't be lonely with your prettiness and health and love of -life." - -"Oh, you're wrong! you're wrong!" cried Millie. "You are indeed. Love -is over for me. I'm never going to think of it again. That part of my -life's done." - -Clare smiled. "Good God, how young you are!" she said. "I was like that -myself once, another life, another world. But I was never like you, -never lovely as you are. I was pretty in a commonplace kind of way. -Pretty enough to turn poor Peter's head. That's about all. Now listen, -and I'll tell you a little about myself. Would you like to hear it?" - -"Yes," said Millie. - -The memory came to her of Peter telling her this same story; for a -flashing second she saw him standing beside her, the look that he gave -her. Was she not glad now that he loved her? - -Clare began: "I was the daughter of a London doctor--an only child. -My parents spoilt me terribly, and I thought I was wonderful, clever, -and beautiful and everything. Of course, I always meant to be married, -and there were several young men I was considering, and then Peter -came along. He had just published his first book and it was a great -success. Every one was talking about it. He was better-looking then -than he is now, not so fat, and he had a romantic history--starving in -the slums and some one discovered him and just saved his life. He was -wildly in love with me. I thought he was going to be great and famous, -and I liked the idea of being the wife of a famous man. And then for a -moment, perhaps, I really was in love with him, physically, you know. -And I knew nothing about life, nothing whatever. I thought it would be -always comfortable and safe, that I should have my way in everything -as I always had done. Well, we were married, and it went wrong from -the beginning. Peter knew nothing about women at all. He had strange -friends whom I couldn't bear. Then I had a child and that frightened -me. Then he got on badly with mother, who was always interfering. Then -the other books weren't as successful as the first, and I thought he -ought to give me more good times and grudged the hours he spent over -his work. Then our boy died and the last link between us seemed to be -broken. . . . Well, to cut a long story short, his best friend came -along and made love to me, and I ran off with him to Paris." - -"Oh!" cried Millie, "poor Peter!" - -"Yes, and poor me too, although you may not believe it. I only ran off -with him because I hated my London life so and hated Peter and wanted -some one to make a fuss of me. I hadn't been in Paris a week before -I knew my mistake. Never run off with a man you're not married to, -my dear, if you're under thirty. You're simply asking for it. He was -disappointed too, I suppose--at any rate after about six months of it -he left me on some excuse and went off to the East. I wasn't sorry; I -was thinking of Peter again and I'd have gone back to him, I believe, -if my mother hadn't prevented me. . . . Well, I lived with her in Paris -for two years and then--and then--Maurice appeared." - -She stopped, closing her eyes, lying back against her cushions, her -hand on her heart. She shook her head when Millie wanted to fetch -somebody. - -At last she went on: "No, let's have this time alone together. It may -be the only time we'll get . . . Maurice . . . yes. That was love, -if you like. Didn't I know the difference? You bet! He was a French -poet. Funny! two writers, Peter and Maurice, when I myself hadn't the -brain of a snail. But Maurice didn't care about my brain. I don't -know what he did care about--but I gave him the best I had. He was -married already of course, and so was I, but we went off together and -travelled. He had some money--not very much, but enough--and things I -wouldn't have endured for Peter's sake I adored for Maurice's. - -"We settled down finally in Spain and had three divine years. Then -Maurice fell ill, money ran short, I fell ill, everything was wrong. -But never our love--that never changed, never faltered. We quarrelled -sometimes, of course, but even in the middle of the worst of our fights -we knew that it wasn't serious, that really nothing _could_ separate us -but death--for once that sentimental phrase was justified. Well, death -_did_. Two months before the War he died. My mother had died the year -before and as I learnt later my father two years before. But I didn't -care what happened to me. When real love has come to you, then you do -know what loneliness means. The War gave me something to do but my -heart was all wrong. I fell ill again in Paris, was all alone, tried to -die and couldn't, tried to live and couldn't. . . . We won't talk about -that time if you don't mind. - -"I had often thought of Peter, of course. I felt guilty about him as -about nothing else in my life. He was so young when I married him, -such an infant, so absurdly romantic; I spoilt everything for him as -I couldn't have spoilt it for most men. He is such a child still. -That's why you ought to marry him, my dear, because you're such a child -too. And your brother--infants all three of you. I used to think of -returning to him. I myself was romantic enough to think that he might -still be in love with me, and although I was much too tired to care -for any one again, the thought of some one caring for me again was -pleasant. Twice I nearly hunted him out. Once hunger almost drove me -but I tried not to go for that reason, having, you see, still a scrap -of sentiment about me. Then a man who'd been very good to me but at -last couldn't stand my moods and tantrums any longer left me--small -blame to him!--and I gathered my last few coppers together and came -to Peter. I nearly died on his doorstep--now instead I'm going to die -inside. It's warmer and more comfortable." - -"No, no, no, you're not!" cried Millie. "You're going to live. Peter -and I will see to it. We're going to make you live." - -Clare frowned. - -"Don't be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be extremely -tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love with Peter but you -like him very much, and there'll be nothing more awkward for you than -having a sick woman lying round here----" - -Millie broke in: - -"There you're wrong! you're wrong indeed! I'd love to make you well. -It isn't sentiment. It's truth. How have I dared to tell you about my -silly little affair when you've suffered as you have! How selfish I am -and egoistic--give me a chance to help you and I'll show you what I can -do." - -Clare shook her head again. "Well, then," she said, "if I can't put you -off that way I'll put you off another. You'd bore me in a week, you and -Peter. I've been with bad people so long that I find good ones very -tiresome. Mother was bad. That's a terrible thing to say about your -mother, isn't it?--but it's true. And I've got a bad strain from her. -You're a nice girl and beautiful to look at, but you're too English for -me. I should feel as though you were District Visiting when you came to -see me. Just as I feel about Peter when he drops his voice and walks -so heavily on tip-toe and looks at me with such anxious eyes. No, my -dear, I've told you all this because I want you to make it up to Peter -when I've gone. You're ideally suited to one another. When I look at -him I feel as though I'd been torturing one of those white mice we used -to keep at school. I'm not for you and you're not for me. My game's -finished. I'll give you my blessing and depart." - -Millie flushed and answered slowly: "How do you know I'm so good? -How do you know I know nothing about life? Perhaps I _have_ deceived -myself over this love affair. It was my first: I gave him all I -could. Perhaps you're right. If I'd loved him more I'd have given him -everything. . . . But I don't know. Is it being a District Visitor to -respect yourself and him? Is the body more important than anything -else? I don't call myself good. . . . I don't call myself bad. It's -only the different values we put on things." - -Clare looked at her curiously. "Perhaps you're right," she said. -"Physical love when that's all there is, is terribly disappointing--an -awful sell. I could have been a friend of yours if I'd been younger. -There! Get up a moment--stand over there. I want to look at you!" - -Millie got up, crossed the room and stood, her arms at her side, her -eyes gravely watching. - -Clare sat up, leaning on her elbow. "Yes, you're lovely. Men will be -crazy about you--you'd better marry Peter quickly. And you're fine too. -There's spirit in you. Move your arm. So! Now turn your head. . . . Ah, -that's good! That's _good_! . . ." - -She suddenly turned, buried her face in the cushions and burst into -tears. Millie ran across to her and put her arms round her. Clare lay -for a moment, her body shaken with sobs. Then she pushed her away. - -"No, no. I don't want petting. It's only--what it all might have been. -You're so young: it's all before you. It's over for me--over, over!" - -She gave her one more long look. - -"Now go," she said, "go quickly--or I'll want to poison you. Leave me -alone----" - -Millie took her hat and coat and went out into the rain. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -CLARE GOES - - -That night Clare died. - -Peter slept always now in the sitting-room with the door open lest she -should need anything. He was tired that night, exhausted with struggles -of conscience, battles of the flesh, forebodings of the future; he -slept heavily without dreams. When at seven in the morning he came to -see whether she were awake, he found her, staring ironically in front -of her, dead. - -Heart-failure the doctor afterwards said. He had told Peter days before -that veronal and other things were old friends of hers. To-day no sign -of them. Nevertheless . . . had she assisted herself a little along the -inevitable road? Before he left on the evening before she had talked to -him. He was often afterwards to see her, sitting up on the sofa, her -yellow hair piled untidily on her head, her face like the mask of a -tired child, her eyes angry as always. - -"Well, Peter," she had said, "so you're in love with that girl?" - -He admitted it at once, standing stolidly in front of her, looking at -her with that pity in his eyes that irritated her so desperately. - -"Yes, I love her," he said, "but she doesn't love me. When you're -better we'll go away and live somewhere else. Paris if you like. We'll -make a better thing of it, Clare, than we did the first time." - -"Very magnanimous," she answered him. "But don't be too sure that she -doesn't love you. Or she will when she's recovered from this present -little affair. You must marry her, Peter--and if you do you'll make a -success of it. She's the honestest woman I've met yet and you're the -honestest man I know. You'll suit one another. . . . Mind you, I don't -mean that as a compliment. People as honest as you two are tiresome -for ordinary folks to live with. I found you tiresome twenty years -ago, Peter, I find you tiresome still." - -He suddenly came down and knelt beside her sofa putting his arm round -her. "Clare, please, please don't talk like that. My life's with you -now. I daresay you find me dull. I am dull I know. But I'm old enough -to understand now that you must have your freedom. All that I care -about is for you to get well; then you shall do as you like. I won't -tie you in any way; only be there if you want a friend." - -She suddenly put up her hand and stroked his cheek, then as suddenly -withdrew her hand and tucked it under her. - -"Poor Peter," she said. "It was bad luck my coming back like that just -when she'd broken with her young man. Never mind. I'll see what I can -do. I did you a bad turn once--it would be nice and Christian of me to -do you a good turn now. We ought never to have married of course--but -you _would_ marry me, you know." - -She looked at him curiously, as though she were seeing him for the -first time. - -"What do you think about life, Peter? What does it mean to you, all -this fuss and agitation?" - -"Mean?" he repeated. "Oh, I don't know." - -"Yes, you do," she answered him. "I know exactly what you think. You -think it's for us all to get better in. To learn from experience, a -kind of boarding-school before the next world." - -"Well, I suppose I do think it's something of that sort," he answered. -"It hasn't any meaning for me otherwise. It feels like a fight and a -fight about something real." - -"And what about the people who get worse instead of better? It's rather -hard luck on them. It isn't their fault half the time." - -"We don't see the thing as it really is, I expect," he answered her, -"nor people as they really are." - -She moved restlessly. - -"Now we're getting preachy. I expect you get preachy rather easily -just as you used to. All I know is that I'm tired--tired to death. -Do you remember how frightened I used to be twenty years ago? Well, -I'm not frightened any longer. There's nothing left to be frightened -of. Nothing could be worse than what I've had already. But I'm -tired--damnably, damnably tired. And now I think I'll just turn over -and go to sleep if you'll leave me for a bit." - -He kissed her and left her, and at some moment between then and the -morning she left him. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE RESCUE - - -At the very moment that Millie was knocking on Peter's door Henry -was sitting, a large bump on his forehead, looking at a dirty -piece of paper. Only yesterday he had fought Baxter in Piccadilly -Circus; now Baxter and everything and every one about him was as -far from his consciousness as Heaven was from 1920 London. The Real -had departed--the coloured life of the imagination had taken its -place. . . . The appeal for which all his life he had been waiting had -come--it was contained in that same dirty piece of paper. - -The piece of paper was of the blue-grey kind, torn in haste from a -washing bill; the cheap envelope that had contained it lay at Henry's -feet. - -On the piece of paper in a childish hand was scrawled this ill-spelt -message: "Please come as quikley as you can or it will be to late." - -Mr. King's factotum, a long, thin young man with carroty hair, had -brought the envelope five minutes before. The St. James' church clock -had just struck five; it was raining hard, the water running from the -eaves above Henry's attic window across and down with a curious little -gurgling chuckle that was all his life afterwards to be connected with -this evening. - -There was no signature to the paper; he had never seen Christina's -handwriting before; it might be a blind or a decoy or simply a -practical joke. Nevertheless, he did not for a moment hesitate as to -what he would do. He had already that afternoon decided in the empty -melancholy of the deserted Hill Street library that he must that same -evening make another attack on Peter Street. He was determined that -this time he would discover once and for all the truth about Christina -even though he had to wring Mrs. Tenssen's skinny neck to secure it. - -He had returned to Panton Street fired with this resolve; five minutes -later the note had been delivered to him. - -He washed his face, put on a clean collar, placed the note carefully in -his pocket-book and started out on the great adventure of his life. The -rain was driving so lustily down Peter Street that no one was about. -He moved like a man in a dream, driven by some fantastic force of his -imagination as though he were still sitting in Panton Street and this -were a new chapter that he was writing in his romance--or as though his -body were in Panton Street and it was his soul that sallied forth. And -yet the details about Mrs. Tenssen were real enough--he could still -hear her crunching the sardine-bones, and Peter Street was real enough, -and the rain as it trickled inside his collar, and the bump on his -forehead. - -Nevertheless in dreams too details were real. - -As though he had done all this before (having as it were rehearsed it -somewhere), he did not this time go to the little door but went rather -to the yard that had seen his first attack. He stumbled in the dusk -over boxes, planks of wood and pieces of iron, hoops and wheels and -bars. - -Once he almost fell and the noise that he made seemed to his anxious -ears terrific, but suddenly he stumbled against the little wooden -stair, set his foot thereon and started to climb. Soon he felt the -trap-door, pushed it up with his hand and climbed into the passage. -Once more he was in the gallery, and once more he had looked through -into the courtyard beyond, now striped and misted with the driving rain. - -No human being was to be seen or heard. He moved indeed as in a dream. -He was now by the long window, curtained as before. This time no voices -came from the other side; there was no sound in all the world but the -rain. - -Again, as in dreams, he knew what would happen: that he would push at -the window, find it on this occasion fastened, push again with his -elbow, then with both hands shove against the glass. All this he did, -the doors of the window sprang apart and it was only with the greatest -difficulty that he saved himself from falling on to his knees as he had -done on the earlier occasion. - -He parted the curtains and walked into the room. He found a group -staring towards the window. At the table, her hands folded in front of -her, sat Christina, wearing the hat with the crimson feather as she -had done the first time he had seen her. On a chair sat Mrs. Tenssen, -dressed for a journey; she had obviously been bending over a large bag -that she was trying to close when the noise that Henry made at the -window diverted her. - -Near the door, his face puckered with alarm, a soft grey hat on his -head and very elegant brown gloves on his hands, was old Mr. Leishman. - -Henry, without looking at the two of them, went up to Christina and -said: - -"I came at once." - -Mrs. Tenssen, her face a dusty chalk-colour with anger, jumped up and -moved forward as though she were going to attack Henry with her nails. -Leishman murmured something; with great difficulty she restrained -herself, paused where she was and then in her favourite attitude, -standing, her hands on her hips, cried: - -"Then it is jail for you after all, young man. In two minutes we'll -have the police here and we'll see what you have to say then to a -charge of house-breaking." - -"See, Henry," said Christina, speaking quickly, "this is why I have -sent for you. My uncle has come to London at last and is to be here -to-morrow morning to see us. My mother says I am to go with her now -into the country to some house of his," nodding with her head towards -Leishman, "and I refuse and----" - -"Yes," screamed Mrs. Tenssen, "but you'll be in that cab in the next -ten minutes or I'll make it the worse for you and that swollen-faced -schoolboy there." There followed then such a torrent of the basest -abuse and insult that suddenly Henry was at her, catching her around -the throat and crying: "You say that of her! You dare to say that of -her! You dare to say that of her!" - -This was the third physical encounter of Henry's during the months of -this most eventful year: it was certainly the most confused of the -three. He felt Mrs. Tenssen's finger-nails in his face and was then -aware that she had escaped from him, had snatched the pin from her hat -and was about to charge him with it. He turned, caught Christina by -the arm, moved as though he would go to the window, then as both Mrs. -Tenssen and Leishman rushed in that direction pushed Christina through, -the door, crying: "Quick! Down the stairs! I'll follow you!" - -As soon as he saw that she was through he stood with his back to the -door facing them. Again the dream-sensation was upon him. He had the -impression that when just now he had attacked Mrs. Tenssen his hands -had gone through her as though she had been air. - -He could hear Leishman quavering: "Let them go. . . . This will be bad -for us. . . . I didn't want . . . I don't like . . ." - -Mrs. Tenssen said nothing, then she had rushed across at him, had one -hand on his shoulder and with the other was jabbing at him with the -hatpin, crying: "Give me my daughter! Give me my daughter! Give me my -daughter!" - -With one hand he held off her arm, then with a sudden wrench, he was -free of her, pushing her back with a sharp jerk, was through the door -and down the stairs. - -Christina was waiting for him; he caught her hand and together they ran -through the rain-driven street. - -Down Peter Street they ran and down Shaftesbury Avenue, across the -Circus and did not stop until they were inside Panton Street door. The -storm had emptied the street but, maybe, there are those alive who can -tell how once two figures flew through the London air, borne on the -very wings of the wind. . . . In such a vision do the miracles of this -world and the next have their birth! - -Up the stairs, through the door, the key turned, the attic warm and -safe about them, and at last Henry, breathless, his coat torn, his back -to the door: - -"Now nobody shall take you! . . . Nobody in all the world!" - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE MOMENT - - -The miracle had been achieved. She was sitting upon his bed, her hands -in her lap, looking with curiosity about her. She was very calm and -quiet, as she always was, but she suddenly turned and smiled at him as -though she would say: "I do like you for having brought me here." - -His happiness almost choked him, but he was determined to be severely -practical. He found out from her the name of her uncle and the hotel at -which he was staying. He wrote a few lines saying that Miss Christina -Tenssen was here in his room, that it was urgently necessary that she -should be fetched by her uncle as soon as possible for reasons that he, -Henry, would explain later. He got Christina herself to write a line at -the bottom of the page. - -"You see if we went on to your uncle's hotel now at once he might not -be in and we would not be able to go up to his room. It is much better -that we should stay here. Your mother may come on here, but they shall -only take you from this room over my dead body." He laughed. "That's a -phrase," he said, "that comes naturally to me because I'm a romantic -novelist. Nevertheless, this time it's true. All the most absurd things -become true at such a time as this. If you knew what nights and days -I've dreamt of you being just like this, sitting alone with me like -this. . . . Oh, Gimini! I'm happy. . . ." He pressed the bell that -here rang and there did not. For the first time in history (but was -not to-day a fairy tale?) the carroty-haired factotum arrived with -marvellous promptitude, quite breathless with unwonted exertion. Henry -gave him the note. He looked for an instant at Christina, then stumbled -away. - -"If your uncle is in he should be here in half an hour. If he is out, -of course, it will be longer. At least I have half an hour. For half -an hour you are my guest in my own palace, and for anything in the -world that you require I have only to clap my hands and it shall be -brought to you!" - -"I don't want anything," she said; "only to sit here and be quiet and -talk to you." She took off her hat and it reposed with its scarlet -feather on Henry's rickety table. - -She looked about her, smiling at everything. "I like it -all--everything. That picture--those books. It is so like you--even the -carpet!" - -"Won't you lie down on the bed?" he said. "And I'll sit here, quite -close, where I can see you. And I'll take your hand if you don't mind. -I suppose we shan't meet for a long time again, and then we shall -be so old that it will all be quite different. I shall never have a -moment like this again, and I want to make the very most of it and then -remember every instant so long as I live!" - -She lay down as he had asked her and her hand was in his. - -"You don't know what it is," she said, "to be away from that place at -last. All this last fortnight my mother has been hesitating what she -was to do. She has been trying to persuade Leishman to take me away -himself, but there has been some trouble about money. There has been -some other man too. All she has wanted lately is to get the money; she -has wanted, I know, to leave the country--she has been cursing this -town every minute--but she was always bargaining for me and could not -get quite what she wanted. Then suddenly only this morning she had a -letter from my uncle to say that he had arrived. She is more afraid -of him than of any one in the world. She and the old man have been -quarrelling all the morning, but at last they came to some decision. We -were to leave for somewhere by the six o'clock train. She had hardly -for a moment her eyes off me, but I had just a minute when I could give -that note to Rose, the girl who comes in in the morning to work for us. -I was frightened that you might not be here, away from London, but it -was all I could do. . . . I was happy when I saw you come." - -"This is the top moment of my life," said Henry, "and for ever -afterwards I'm going to judge life by this. Just for half an hour you -are mine and I am yours, and I can imagine to myself that I have only -to say the word and I can carry you off to some island where no one can -touch you and where we shall be always together." - -"Perhaps that's true," she said, suddenly looking at him. "I have -never liked any one as I like you. My father and my uncles were quite -different. If you took me away who knows what would come?" - -He shook his head, smiling at her. "No, my dear. You're grateful just -now and you feel kind but you're not in love with me and you never, -never will be. I'm not the man you'll be in love with. He'll be some -one fine, not ugly and clumsy and untidy like me. I can see him--one -of your own people, very handsome and strong and brave. I'm not brave -and I'm certainly not handsome. I lose my temper and then do things on -the spur of the moment--generally ludicrous things--but I'm not really -brave. But I believe in life now. I know what it can do and what it can -bring, and no one can take that away from me now." - -"I believe," she said, looking at him, "that you're going to do fine -things--write great books or lead men to do great deeds. I shall be -so proud when I hear men speaking your name and praising you. I shall -say to myself: 'That's my friend whom they're speaking of. I knew him -before they did and I knew what he would do.'" - -"I think," said Henry, "that I always knew that this moment would -come. When I was a boy in the country and was always being scolded for -something I did wrong or stupidly I used to dream of this. I thought it -would come in the War but it didn't. And then when I was in London I -would stop sometimes in the street and expect the heavens to open and -some miracle to happen. And now the miracle _has_ happened because I -love you and you are my friend, and you are here in my shabby room and -no one can ever prevent us thinking of one another till we die." - -"I shall always think of you," she answered, "and how good you have -been to me. I long for home and Kjöbenhaven and Langlinir and Jutland -and the sand-dunes, but I shall miss you--now I know how I shall miss -you. Henry, come back with me--if only for a little while. Come and -stay with my uncle, and see our life and what kind of people we are." - -His hand shook as it held hers. He stayed looking at her, their eyes -lost in one another. It seemed to him an eternity while he waited. Then -he shook his head. - -"No. . . . It may be cowardice. . . . I don't know. But I don't want to -spoil this. It's perfect as it is. I want you always to think about me -as you do now. You wouldn't perhaps when you knew me better. You don't -see me as I really am, not all the way round. For once I know where to -stop, how to keep it perfect. Christina darling, I love you, love you, -love you! I'll never love any one like this again. Let me put my arms -around you and hold you just once before you go." - -He knelt on the floor beside the bed and put his arms around her. Her -cheek was against his. She put up her hand and stroked his hair. - -They stayed there in silence and without moving, their hearts beating -together. - - * * * * * - -There was a knock on the door. - -"Give me something," he said. "Something of yours before you go. The -scarlet feather!" - -She tore it from her hat and gave it to him. Then he went to the door -and opened it. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR - - -It was the morning of November 11, 1920, the anniversary of the -Armistice, the day of the burial of the Unknown Warrior. - -Millie, who was to watch the procession with Henry, was having -breakfast with Victoria in her bedroom. Last night Victoria had given -a dinner-party to celebrate her engagement, and she had insisted that -Millie should sleep there--"the party would be late, a little dancing -afterwards, and no one is so important for the success of the whole -affair as you are, my Millie." - -Victoria, sitting up in her four-poster in a lace cap and purple -kimono, was very fine indeed. She felt fine; she held an imaginary -reception, feeling, she told Millie, exactly like Teresia Tallien, -whose life she had just been reading, so she said to Millie. - -"Not at all the person to feel like," said Millie, "just before you're -married." - -"If you're virtuous," said Victoria, "and are never likely to be -anything else to the end of your days it is rather a luxury to imagine -yourself grand, beautiful and wicked." - -"You have got on rather badly with Tallien," said Millie, "and you -wouldn't have liked Barras any better." - -"Well, I needn't worry about it," said Victoria, "because I've got -Mereward, who is quite another sort of man." She drank her tea, and -then reflectively added: "Do you realize, Millie, darling, that you've -stuck to me a whole eight months, and that we're more 'stuck' so to -speak than we were at the beginning?" - -"Is that very marvellous?" asked Millie. - -"Marvellous! Why, of course it is! You don't realize how many I had -before you came. The longest any one stayed was a fortnight." - -"I've very nearly departed on one or two occasions," said Millie. - -"Yes, I know you have." Victoria settled herself luxuriously. "Just -give me that paper, darling, before you go and some of the letters. -Pick out the nicest ones. You've seen me dear, at a most turbulent -point of my existence, but I'm safe in harbour now, and even if it -seems a little dull I daresay I shall be able to scrape up a quarrel or -two with Mereward before long." Millie gave her the papers; she caught -her hand. "You've been happier these last few weeks, dear, haven't -you? I'd hate to think that you're still worrying. . . . That--that -man. . . ." She paused. - -"Oh, you needn't be afraid to speak of him." Millie sat down on the -edge of the bed. "I don't know whether I'm happier exactly, but I'm -quiet again--and that seems to be almost all I care about now. It's -curious though how life arranges things for you. I don't think that I -should ever have come out of that miserable loneliness if I hadn't met -some one--a woman--whose case was far worse than mine. There's always -some one deeper down, I expect, however deep one gets. She took me -out of myself. I seem somehow suddenly to have grown up. Do you know, -Victoria, when I look back to that first day that I came here I see -myself as such a child that I wonder I went out alone." - -Victoria nodded her head. - -"Yes, you are older. You've grown into a woman in these months; we've -all noticed it." - -Millie got up. She stretched out her arms, laughing. "Oh! life's -wonderful! How any one can be bored I can't think. The things that go -on and the people and these wonderful times! Bunny hasn't killed any of -that for me. He's increased it, I think. I see now what things other -people have to stand. That woman, Victoria, that I spoke of just now, -her life! Why, I'm only at the beginning--at the beginning of myself, -at the beginning of the world, at the beginning of everything! What a -time to be alive in!" - -Victoria sighed. "When you talk like that, dear, and look like that -it makes me wish I wasn't going to marry Mereward. It's like closing a -door. But the enchantment is over for me. Money can't bring it back nor -love--not when the youth's gone. Hold on to it, Millie--your youth, my -dear. Some people keep it for ever. I think you will." - -Millie came and flung her arms round Victoria. - -"You've been a dear to me, you have. Don't think I didn't notice how -good and quiet you were when all that trouble with Bunny was going -on. . . . I love you and wish you the happiest married life any woman -could ever have." - -A tear trickled down Victoria's fat cheek. "Stay with me, Millie, until -you're married. Don't leave us. We shall need your youth and loveliness -to lighten us all up. Promise." - -And Millie promised. - -In the hall she met Ellen. - -"Ellen, come with my brother and me to see the procession." - -Ellen regarded her darkly. - -"No, thank you," she said. - -Then as she was turning away, "Have you forgiven me?" - -"Forgiven you?" - -"Yes, for what I did. Finding out about Mr. Baxter." - -"There was nothing to forgive," said Millie. "You did what you thought -was right." - -"Right!" answered Ellen. "Always people like you are thinking of what -is right. I did what I wanted to because I wanted to." She came close -to Millie. "I'm glad though I saved you. You've been kind to me after -your own lights. It isn't your fault that you don't understand me. I -only want you to promise me one thing. If you're ever grateful to me -for what I did be kind to the next misshapen creature you come across. -Be tolerant. There's more in the world than your healthy mind will ever -realize." She went slowly up the stairs and out of the girl's sight. - -Millie soon forgot her; meeting Henry at Panton Street, pointing out to -him that he must wear to-day a black tie, discussing the best place for -the procession, all these things were more important than Ellen. - -Just before they left the room she looked at him. "Henry," she said, -"what's happened to you?" - -"Happened?" he asked. - -"Yes. You're looking as though you'd just received a thousand pounds -from a noble publisher for your first book--both solemn and sanctified." - -"I'll tell you all about it one day," he said. He told her something -then, of the rescue, the staying of Christina in his room, the arrival -of the uncle. - -He spoke of it all lightly. "He was a nice fellow," he said, "like a -pirate. He said the mother wouldn't trouble us again and she hasn't. -He carried Christina off to his hotel. He asked me to dinner then, but -I didn't go . . . yes, and they left for Denmark two days later. . . . -No, I didn't see them off. I didn't see them again." - -Millie looked in her brother's eyes and asked no more questions. -But Henry had grown in stature; he was hobbledehoy no longer. More -than ever they needed one another now, and more than ever they were -independent of all the world. - -They found a place in the crowd just inside the Admiralty Arch. It was -a lovely autumn day, the sunlight soft and mellow, the grey patterns of -the Arch rising gently into the blue, the people stretched like long -black shadows beneath the walls. - -When the procession came there was reverence and true pathos. For -a moment the complexities, turmoils, selfishnesses, struggles that -the War had brought in its train were drawn into one simple issue, -one straightforward emotion. Men might say that that emotion was -sentimental, but nothing so sincerely felt by so many millions of -simple people could be called by that name. The coffin passed with the -admirals and the generals; there was a pause and then the crowd broke -into the released space, voices were raised, there was laughter and -shouting, every one pushing here and there, multitudes trying to escape -from the uneasy emotion that had for a moment caught them, multitudes -too remembering some one lost for a moment but loved for ever, typified -by that coffin, that tin hat, that little wailing tune. - -Millie's hand was through Henry's arm. "Wait a moment," she said. -"There'll be the pause at eleven o'clock. Let's stay here and listen -for it." - -They stood on the curb while the crowd, noisy, cheerful, exaggerated, -swirled back and forwards around them. Suddenly eleven o'clock boomed -from Big Ben. Before the strokes were completed there was utter -silence; as though a sign had flashed from the sky, the waters of the -world were frozen into ice. The omnibuses in Trafalgar Square stayed -where they were; every man stood his hat in his hand. The women held -their children with a warning clasp. The pigeons around the Arch -rose fluttering and crying into the air, the only sound in all the -world. The two minutes seemed eternal. Tears came into Millie's eyes, -hesitated, then rolled down her cheeks. For that instant it seemed -that the solution of the earth's trouble must be so simple. All men -drawn together like this by some common impulse that they all could -understand, that they would all obey, that would force them to forget -their individual selfishnesses, but would leave them, in their love for -one another, individuals as they had never been before. "Oh! it can -come! It _must_ come!" Millie's heart whispered. "God grant that I may -live until that day." - -The moment was over; the world went on again, but there were many there -who would remember. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE BEGINNING - - -They were to lunch with Peter in Marylebone. Millie had some commission -to execute for Victoria and told Henry that she would meet him in -Peter's room. - -When she was gone he felt for a moment lost. He had been in truth -dreaming ever since that last sight of Christina. He had no impulse -to follow her--he knew that in that he had been wise--but he was busy -enthroning her so that she would always remain with every detail of -every incident connected with her until he died. - -In this perhaps he was sentimental; nevertheless clearer-sighted than -you would suppose. He knew that he had all his life before him, that -many would come into it and would go out again, that there would be -passions and desires satisfied and unsatisfied. But he also knew that -nothing again would have in it quite the unselfish devotion that his -passion for Christina had had. The first love is not the only love, but -it is often the only love into which self does not enter. - -His feet led him to Peter Street. The barrows were there with their -apples and oranges and old clothes and boots and shoes and gimcrack -china. The old woman with the teary eye was there, the policeman -good-humouredly watching. It was all as it had been on that first -afternoon now so long, long, long ago! - -Henry looked at the yard, at the little blistered door, at the balcony. -No sign of life in any of them. - -The Peter Street romance had just begun, but it had passed away from -Peter Street. - -He walked to Marylebone in a dream, and when he was there he had to -pull himself together to listen with sympathy to Peter's excitement -about this new monthly paper of which Peter was to be editor, the paper -that was to transform the world. - -He left Peter and Millie talking at the table, went to the window and -looked out. As he saw the people passing up and down below them of a -sudden he loved them all. - -The events of the last month came crowding to him--everything that -had happened: the first sight of Christina in the Circus, the first -visit to Duncombe, the Hill Street library and his love for it, his -interviews with Mrs. Tenssen, the day when he had given Christina -luncheon in the little Spanish restaurant, Duncombe and the garden and -Lady Bell-Hall, his struggles with his novel, his recovery of the old -Edinburgh life, Sir Walter and his smile, the row with Tom Duncombe, -the meals and the theatres and the talks with Peter. Millie's trouble -and Peter's wife, his fight with Baxter, Duncombe's last talk with -him and his death, the last time with Christina, to-day's Unknown -Warrior--yes, and smaller things than these: sunsets and sunrises, -people passing in the street, the wind in the Duncombe orchard, books -new and old, his little room in Panton Street, the vista of Piccadilly -Circus on a sunlit afternoon, all London and beyond it, England whom -he loved so passionately, and beyond her the world to its furthest and -darkest fastnesses. What a time to be alive, what a time to be young -in, the enchantment, the miraculous enchantment of life! - -"_I am he attesting sympathy (shall I make my list of things in the -house and ship the house that supports them?)._ - -"_I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet -of wickedness also._ - - * * * * * - -"_My gait is no fault-finder's or rejector's gait, I moisten the roots -of all that has grown._ - - * * * * * - -"_This minute that comes to me over the past decillions._ - -"_There is no better than it and now. What behaved well in the past or -behaves well to-day is not such a wonder._ - -"_The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an -infidel._" - -He turned round to speak to Peter, then saw that he had his hand on -Millie's shoulder, she seated at the table, looking up and smiling at -him. - -Millie and Peter? Why not? Only that would be needed to complete his -happiness, his wonderful, miraculous happiness. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Enchanted, by Hugh Walpole - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG ENCHANTED *** - -***** This file should be named 60324-0.txt or 60324-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/3/2/60324/ - -Produced by David T. Jones, Al Haines, Paul Ereaut & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - -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 Young Enchanted - A Romantic Story - -Author: Hugh Walpole - -Release Date: September 19, 2019 [EBook #60324] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG ENCHANTED *** - - - - -Produced by David T. Jones, Al Haines, Paul Ereaut & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="381" height="600" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter border" style="width: 376px; height: 600px;"> -<img src="images/title_page.jpg" width="376" height="600" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h5> -COPYRIGHT, 1921,<br /> -<br /> -BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY<br /> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></h5> -<h6>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<br /> -<br /> -</h6> - - -<h4>TO MY FRIEND<br /></h4> - -<h3>LAURITZ MELCHIOR<br /></h3> - -<h5>AND, THROUGH HIM,<br /> - -TO ALL MY FRIENDS<br /> - -IN DENMARK<br /> - -THIS BOOK<br /> - -IS DEDICATED<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></h5> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">MOTTO<br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 37%;">to me over the past<br /> -Decillions.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">There is no better than it</span><br /> -And now. What behaves well<br /> -In the past or behaves well<br /> -To-day is not such a wonder.<br /> -The wonder is always and<br /> -Always how there can be<br /> -A mean man or an infidel."<br /></p> -<p style="margin-left: 47%;"><span class="smcap">Walt Whitman.</span><br /> -<br /><br /></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - - - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="right"></td><td align="center">BOOK I: TWO DAYS</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right">CHAPTER</td><td align="left"></td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Ia">I</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Scarlet Feather</span></td><td align="right">13</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIa">II</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Henry Himself</span></td><td align="right">28</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIIa">III</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Millie</span></td><td align="right">49</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVa">IV</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Henry's First Day</span></td><td align="right">64</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Va">V</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Three Friends</span></td><td align="right">74</td></tr> -<tr><td></td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"></td><td align="center">BOOK II: HIGH SUMMER</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Ib">I</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Second Phase of the Adventure</span></td><td align="right">83</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIb">II</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Millie and Peter</span></td><td align="right">97</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIIb">III</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Letters</span></td><td align="right">113</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVb">IV</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Cauldron</span></td><td align="right">129</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Vb">V</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Millie in Love</span></td><td align="right">138</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIb">VI</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Henry at Duncombe</span></td><td align="right">156</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIb">VII</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">And Peter in London</span></td><td align="right">163</td></tr> -<tr><td></td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"></td><td align="center">BOOK III: FIRST BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Ic">I</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Romance and Cladgate</span></td><td align="right">175</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIc">II</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Life, Death and Friendship</span></td><td align="right">195</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIIc">III</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Henry in Love</span></td><td align="right">212</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVc">IV</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Death of Mrs. Trenchard</span></td><td align="right">222</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Vc">V</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Nothing is Perfect</span></td><td align="right">229</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIc">VI</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Return</span></td><td align="right">236</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIc">VII</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Duncombe Says Good-Bye</span></td><td align="right">247</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIIc">VIII</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Here Courage is Needed</span></td><td align="right">259</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IXc">IX</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Quick Growth</span></td><td align="right">268</td></tr> -<tr><td></td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"></td><td align="center">BOOK IV: KNIGHT ERRANT</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Id">I</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Tenssen's Mind is Made Up at Last</span></td><td align="right">281</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IId">II</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Henry Meets Mrs. Westcott</span></td><td align="right">286</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IIId">III</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Death and a Battle</span></td><td align="right">292</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IVd">IV</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Millie Recovers Her Breath</span></td><td align="right">302</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Vd">V</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">And Finds Someone Worse Off Than Herself</span></td><td align="right">309</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VId">VI</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Clare Goes</span></td><td align="right">317</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIId">VII</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Rescue</span></td><td align="right">320</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIIId">VIII</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Moment</span></td><td align="right">324</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IXd">IX</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Unknown Warrior</span></td><td align="right">328</td></tr> -<tr><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_Xd">X</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Beginning</span></td><td align="right">333</td></tr> -</table></div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h2>BOOK I</h2> - -<h3>TWO DAYS</h3> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ia" id="CHAPTER_Ia">CHAPTER I</a></h2> - -<h3>THE SCARLET FEATHER</h3> - -<h4>I</h4> - - -<p>Young Henry Trenchard, one fine afternoon in the Spring of 1920, had an -amazing adventure.</p> - -<p>He was standing at the edge of Piccadilly Circus, just in front of Swan -and Edgar's where the omnibuses stopped. They now stop there no longer -but take a last frenzied leap around the corner into Regent Street, -greatly to the disappointment of many people who still linger at the -old spot and have a vague sense all the rest of the day of having been -cheated by the omnibus companies.</p> - -<p>Henry generally paused there before crossing the Circus partly because -he was short-sighted and partly because he never became tired of the -spectacle of life and excitement that Piccadilly Circus offered to him. -His pince-nez that never properly fitted his nose, always covered one -eye more than the other and gave the interested spectator a dramatic -sense of suspense because they seemed to be eternally at the crisis of -falling to the ground, there to be smashed into a hundred pieces—these -pince-nez coloured his whole life. Had he worn spectacles—large, -round, moon-shaped ones as he should have done—he would have seen -life steadily and seen it whole, but a kind of rather pathetic -vanity—although he was not really vain—prevented him from buying -spectacles. The ill-balancing of these pince-nez is at the back of all -these adventures of his that this book is going to record.</p> - -<p>He waited, between the rushing of the omnibuses, for the right moment -in which to cross, and while he waited a curious fancy occurred to him. -This fancy had often occurred to him before, but he had never confessed -it to any one—not even to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> Millicent—not because he was especially -ashamed of it but because he was afraid that his audience would laugh -at him, and if there was one thing at this time that Henry disliked it -was to be laughed at.</p> - -<p>He fancied, as he stood there, that his body swelled, and swelled; he -grew, like 'Alice in her Wonderland,' into a gigantic creature, his -neck shot up, his arms and his legs extended, his head was as high -as the barber's window opposite, then slowly he raised his arm—like -Gulliver, the crowds, the traffic, the buildings dwindled beneath him. -Everything stopped; even the sun stayed in its course and halted. The -flower-women around the central statue sat with their hands folded, -the policemen at the crossings waited, looking up to him as though for -orders—the world stood still. With a great gesture, with all the sense -of a mighty dramatic moment he bade the centre of the Circus open. The -Statue vanished and in the place where it had been the stones rolled -back, colour flamed into the sky, strange beautiful music was heard and -into the midst of that breathless pause there came forth—what?</p> - -<p>Alas, Henry did not know. It was here that the vision always stayed. -At the instant when the ground opened his size, his command, his force -collapsed. He fell, with a bang to the ground, generally to find that -some one was hitting him in the ribs, or stepping on his toes or -cursing him for being in the way.</p> - -<p>Experience had, by this time, taught him that this always would be so, -but he never surrendered hope. One day the vision would fulfil itself -and then—well he did not exactly know what would happen then.</p> - -<p>To-day everything occurred as usual, and just as he came to ground -some one struck him violently in the back with an umbrella. The jerk -flung his glasses from his nose and he was only just in time to put -out his hands and catch them. As he did this some books that he was -carrying under his arm fell to the ground. He bent to pick them up and -then was at once involved in the strangest medley of books and ankles -and trouser-legs and the fringes of skirts. People pushed him and -abused him. It was the busiest hour of the day and he was groping at -the busiest part of the pavement. He had not had time to replace his -pince-nez on his nose—they were reposing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> in his waistcoat pocket—and -he was groping therefore in a darkened and confusing world. A large -boot stamped on his fingers and he cried out; some one knocked off his -hat, some one else prodded him in the tenderest part of his back.</p> - -<p>He was jerked on to his knees.</p> - -<p>When he finally recovered himself and was once more standing, a man -again amongst men, his pince-nez on his nose, he had his books under -his arm, but his hat was gone, gone hopelessly, nowhere to be seen. It -was not a very new hat—a dirty grey and shapeless—but Henry, being in -the first weeks of his new independence, was poor and a hat was a hat. -He was supremely conscious of how foolish a man may look without a hat, -and he hated to look foolish. He was also aware, out of the corner of -his eye, that there was a smudge on one side of his nose. He could not -tell whether it were a big or a little smudge, but from the corner of -his eye it seemed gigantic.</p> - -<p>Two of the books that he was carrying were books given him for review -by the only paper in London—a small and insignificant paper—that -showed interest in his literary judgment, and but a moment ago they had -been splendid in their glittering and handsome freshness.</p> - -<p>Now they were battered and dirty and the corner of one of them was -shapeless. One of the sources of his income was the sum that he -received from a bookseller for his review copies; he would never now -receive a penny for either of these books.</p> - -<p>There were tears in his eyes—how he hated the way that tears would -come when he did not want them! and he was muddy and hatless and -lonely! The loneliness was the worst, he was in a hostile and jeering -and violent world and there was no one who loved him.</p> - -<p>They did not only not love him, they were also jeering at him and this -drove him at once to the determination to escape their company at all -costs. No rushing omnibuses could stop him now, and he was about to -plunge into the Piccadilly sea, hatless, muddy, bruised as he was, when -the wonderful adventure occurred.</p> - -<p>All his life after he would remember that moment, the soft blue sky -shredded with pale flakes of rosy colour above him, the tall buildings -grey and pearl white, the massed colour of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> the flowers round the -statue, violets and daffodils and primroses, the whir of the traffic -like an undertone of some symphony played by an unearthly orchestra far -below the ground, the moving of the people about him as though they -were all hurrying to find their places in some pageant that was just -about to begin, the bells of St. James' Church striking five o'clock -and the soft echo of Big Ben from the far distance, the warmth of the -Spring sun and the fresh chill of the approaching evening, all these -common, everyday things were, in retrospect, part of that wonderful -moment as though they had been arranged for him by some kindly -benignant power who wanted to give the best possible setting to the -beginning of the great romance of his life.</p> - -<p>He stood on the edge of the pavement, he made a step forward and at -that moment there arose, as it were from the very heart of the ground -itself, a stout and, to Henry's delicate sense, a repulsive figure.</p> - -<p>She was a woman wearing a round black hat and a black sealskin jacket; -her dress was of a light vivid green, her hair a peroxide yellow and -from her ears hung large glittering diamond earrings.</p> - -<p>To a lead of the same bright green as her dress there was attached -a small sniffing and supercilious Pomeranian. She was stout and -red-faced: there was a general impression that she was very tightly -bound about beneath the sealskin jacket. Her green skirt was shorter -than her figure requested. Her thick legs showed fairly pink beneath -very thin silk black stockings; light brown boots very tightly laced -compressed her ankles until they bulged protestingly. All this, -however, Henry did not notice until later in the day when, as will soon -be shown, he had ample opportunity for undisturbed observation.</p> - -<p>His gaze was not upon the stout woman but upon the child who attended -her. Child you could not perhaps truthfully call her; she was at any -rate not dressed as a child.</p> - -<p>In contrast with the woman her clothes were quiet and well made, a -dark dress with a little black hat whose only colour was a feather of -flaming red. It was this feather that first caught Henry's eye. It was -one of his misfortunes at this time that life was always suggesting to -him literary illusions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> - -<p>When he saw the feather he at once thought of Razkolnikov's Sonia. -Perhaps not only the feather suggested the comparison. There was -something simple and innocent and a little apprehensive that came at -once from the girl's attitude, her hesitation as she stood just in -front of Henry, the glance that she flung upon the Piccadilly cauldron -before she stepped into it.</p> - -<p>He saw very little of her face, although in retrospect, it was -impossible for him to believe that he had not seen her exactly as she -was, soul and body, from the first instant glimpse of her; her face was -pale, thin, her eyes large and dark, and even in that first moment very -beautiful.</p> - -<p>He had not, of course, any time to see these things. He filled in the -picture afterwards. What exactly occurred was that the diamond earrings -flashed before him, the thick legs stepped into the space between two -omnibuses, there was a shout from a driver and for a horrible moment -it seemed that both the girl and the supercilious Pomeranian had -been run over. Henry dashed forward, himself only narrowly avoided -instant death, then, reaching, breathless and confused, an island, -saw the trio, all safe and well, moving towards the stoutest of the -flower-women. He also saw the stout woman take the girl by the arm, -shake her violently, say something to her in obvious anger. He also saw -the girl turn for an instant her head, look back as though beseeching -some one to help her and then follow her green diamond-flashing dragon.</p> - -<p>Was it this mute appeal that moved Henry? Was it Fate and Destiny? Was -it a longing that justice should be done? Was it the Romantic Spirit? -Was it Youth? Was it the Spirit of the Age? Every reader of this book -must make an individual decision.</p> - -<p>The recorded fact is simply that Henry, hatless, muddy, battered and -dishevelled, his books still clutched beneath his arm, followed. -Following was no easy matter. It was, as I have already said, the most -crowded moment of the day. Beyond the statue and the flower-woman a -stout policeman kept back the Shaftesbury Avenue traffic. Men and women -rushed across while there was yet time and the woman, the dog and the -girl rushed also. As Henry had often before noticed, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> was the little -things in life that so continually checked his progress. Did he search -for a house that he was visiting for the first time, the numbers in -that street invariably ceased just before the number that he required. -Was anything floating through the air in the guise of a black smut -or a flake of tangible dust, certainly it would settle upon Henry's -unconscious nose: was there anything with which a human body might at -any moment be entangled, Henry's was the body inevitably caught.</p> - -<p>So it was now. At the moment that he was in the middle of the crossing, -the stout policeman, most scornfully disregarding him, waved on the -expectant traffic. Down it came upon him, cars and taxi-cabs, omnibuses -and boys upon bicycles, all shouting and blowing horns and screaming -out of whistles. He had the barest moment to skip back into the safe -company of the flower-woman. Skip back he did. It seemed to his -over-sensitive nature that the policeman sardonically smiled.</p> - -<p>When he recovered from his indignant agitation there was of course no -sign of the flaming feather. At the next opportunity he crossed and -standing by the paper-stall and the Pavilion advertisements gazed all -around him. Up the street and down the street. Down the street and up -the street. No sign at all. He walked quickly towards the Trocadero -restaurant, crossed there to the Lyric Theatre, moved on to the -churchyard by the entrance to Wardour Street and then gazed again.</p> - -<p>What happened next was so remarkable and so obviously designed by a -kindly paternal providence that for the rest of his life he could not -quite escape from a conviction that fate was busied with him! a happy -conviction that cheered him greatly in lonely hours. Out from the upper -Circle entrance to the Apollo Theatre, so close to him that only a -narrow unoccupied street separated him, came the desired three, the -woman and the dog first, the girl following. They stood for a moment, -then the woman once more said something angrily to the girl and they -turned into Wardour Street. Now was all the world hushed and still, -the graves in the churchyard slept, a woman leaning against a doorway -sucked an orange,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> the sun slipped down behind the crooked chimneys, -saffron and gold stole into the pale shadows of the sky and the morning -and the evening were the First Day.</p> - -<p>Henry followed.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Around Wardour Street they hung all the shabby and tattered traditions -of the poor degraded costume romance, but in its actual physical -furniture there are not even trappings. There is nothing but Cinema -offices, public houses, barber shops, clothes shops and shops with -windows so dirty that you cannot tell what their trade may be. It is a -romantic street in no sense of the word; it is not a kindly street nor -a hospitable, angry words are forever echoing from wall to wall and -women scream behind shuttered windows.</p> - -<p>Henry had no time to consider whether it were a romantic street or -no. The feather waved in front of him and he followed. He had by now -forgotten that he was hatless and dirty. A strangely wistful eagerness -urged him as though his heart were saying with every beat: "Don't count -too much on this. I know you expect a great deal. Don't be taken in."</p> - -<p>He did expect a great deal; with every step excitement beat higher. -Their sudden reappearance when he had thought that he had lost them -seemed to him the most wonderful omen. He believed in omens, always -throwing salt over his left shoulder when he spilt it (which he -continually did), never walking under ladders and of course never -lighting three cigarettes with one match.</p> - -<p>Some way up Wardour Street on the left as you go towards Oxford Street -there is a public house with the happy country sign of the Intrepid -Fox. No one knows how long the Intrepid Fox has charmed the inhabitants -of Wardour Street into its dark and intricate recesses—Tom Jones may -have known it and Pamela passed by it and Humphrey Clinker laughed in -its doorway—no one now dare tell you and no history book records its -name. Only Henry will never until he dies forget it and for him it will -always be one of the most romantic buildings in the world.</p> - -<p>It stood at the corner of Wardour Street and a little thoroughfare -called Peter Street. Henry reached the Intrepid Fox<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> just as the -Flaming Feather vanished beyond the rows of flower and vegetable stalls -that thronged the roadway. Peter Street it seemed was the market of -the district; beneath the lovely blue of the evening the things on -the stall are picturesque and touching, even old clothes, battered -hats, boots with gaping toes and down-trodden heels, and the barrow -of all sorts with dirty sheets of music and old paper-covered novels -and tin trays and cheap flower-painted vases. In between these booths -the feather waved. Henry pursuing stumbled over the wooden stands of -the barrows, nearly upset an old watery-eyed woman from her chair—and -arrived just in time to see the three pursued vanish through a high -faded green door that had the shabby number in dingy red paint of -Number Seven.</p> - -<p>Number Seven was, as he at once perceived, strangely situated. At its -right was the grimy thick-set exterior of "The City of London" public -house, on its left there was a yard roofed in by a wooden balcony -like the balcony of a country inn, old and rather pathetic with some -flower-pots ranged along it and three windows behind it; the yard and -the balcony seemed to belong to another and simpler world than the -grim ugliness of the "City of London" and her companions. The street -was full of business and no one had time to consider Henry. In this -neighbourhood the facts that he was without a hat and needed a wash -were neither so unusual nor so humorous as to demand comment.</p> - -<p>He stood and looked. This was the time for him to go home. His romantic -adventure was now logically at an end. Did he ring the bell of Number -Seven he had nothing whatever to say if the door were opened.</p> - -<p>The neighbourhood was not suited to his romantic soul. The shop -opposite to him declaring itself in large white letters to be the -"Paris Fish Dinner" and announcing that it could provide at any moment -"Fish fried in the best dripping" was the sort of shop that destroyed -all Henry's illusions. He should, at this point, have gone home. He -did not. He crossed the road. The black yard, smelling of dogs and -harness, invited him in. He stumbled in the dusk against a bench and -some boxes but no human being seemed to be there. As his eyes grew -accustomed to the half light he saw at the back of the yard a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> wooden -staircase that vanished into blackness. Still moving as though ordered -by some commanding Providence he walked across to this and started to -climb. It turned a corner and his head struck sharply a wooden surface -that suddenly, lifting with his pressure a little, revealed itself as -a trap-door. Henry pushed upwards and found himself, as Mrs. Radcliffe -would say "in a gloomy passage down which the wind blew with gusty -vehemence."</p> - -<p>In truth the wind was not blowing nor was anything stirring. The -trap-door fell back with a heavy swaying motion and a creaking sigh as -though some one quite close at hand had suddenly fainted. Henry walked -down the passage and found that it led to a dusky thick-paned window -that overlooked a square just behind the yard through which he had -come. This was a very small and dirty square, grimy houses overlooking -it and one thin clothes-line cutting the light evening sky now light -topaz with one star and a cherry-coloured baby moon. To the right of -this window was another heavily curtained and serving no purpose as -it looked out only upon the passage. Beside this window Henry paused. -It was formed by two long glass partitions and these were not quite -fastened. From the room beyond came voices, feminine voices, one raised -in violent anger. A pause—from below in the yard some one called. A -step was ascending the stair.</p> - -<p>From within voices again and then a sound not to be mistaken. Some -one was slapping somebody's face and slapping it with satisfaction. A -sharp cry—and Henry pushing back the window, stepped forward, became -entangled in curtains of some heavy clinging stuff, flung out his arms -to save himself and fell for the second time within an hour and on -this occasion into the heart of a company that was most certainly not -expecting him.</p> - - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>He had fallen on his knees and when he stumbled to his feet his left -heel was still entangled with the curtain. He nearly fell again, but -saved himself with a kind of staggering, sud<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>denly asserted dignity, a -dignity none the easier because he heard the curtain tear behind him as -he pulled himself to his feet.</p> - -<p>When he was standing once more and able to look about him the scene -that he slowly collected for himself was a simple one—a very ugly room -dressed entirely it seemed at first sight in bright salmon pink, the -walls covered with photographs of ladies and gentlemen for the most -part in evening dress. There were two large pink pots with palms, an -upright piano swathed in pink silk, a bamboo bookcase, a sofa with pink -cushions, a table on which tea was laid, the Pomeranian and—three -human beings.</p> - -<p>The three human beings were in various attitudes of transfigured -astonishment exactly as though they had been lent for this special -occasion by Madame Tussaud. There was the lady with the green dress, -the girl with the flaming feather and the third figure was a woman, -immensely stout and hung with bracelets, pendants, chains and lockets -so that when her bosom heaved (it was doing that now quite frantically) -the noise that she made resembled those Japanese glass toys that you -hang in the window for the wind to make tinkling music with them. The -only sounds in the room were this deep breathing and this rattling, -twitting, tittering agitation.</p> - -<p>Even the Pomeranian was transfixed. Henry felt it his duty to speak and -he would have spoken had he not been staring at the girl as though his -eyes would never be able to leave her face again. It was plain enough -that it was she who had been slapped a moment ago. There was a red mark -on her cheek and there were tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>To Henry she was simply the most beautiful creature ever made in heaven -and sent down to this sinful earth by a loving and kindly God. He had -thought of her as a child when he first saw her, he thought of her -as a child again now, a child who had, only last night, put up her -hair—under the hat with the flaming feather, that hair of a vivid -shining gold was trying to escape into many rebellious directions. The -slapping may have had something to do with that. It was obvious at the -first glance that she was not English—Scandinavian perhaps with the -yellow hair, the bright blue eyes and the clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> pink-and-white skin. -Her dress of some mole-coloured corduroy, very simple, her little dark -hat, set off her vivid colour exquisitely. She shone in that garish -vulgar room with the light and purity of some almost ghostly innocence -and simplicity. She was looking at Henry and he fancied that in spite -of the tears that were still in her eyes a smile hovered at the corners -of her mouth.</p> - -<p>"Well, sir?" said the lady in green. She was not really angry Henry -at once perceived and afterwards he flattered himself because he had -from the very first discovered one of the principal features of that -lady's "case"—namely, that she would never feel either anger or -disapproval—at any member of the masculine gender entering any place -whatever, in any manner whatever, where she might happen to be. No, it -was not anger she showed, nor even curiosity—rather a determination to -turn this incident, bizarre and sudden though it might be, to the very -best and most profitable advantage.</p> - -<p>"You see," said Henry, "I was in the passage outside and thought I -heard some one call out. I did really."</p> - -<p>"Well you were mistaken, that's what you were," said the green lady. "I -must say——! Of all the things!"</p> - -<p>"I'm really very sorry," said Henry. "I've never done such a thing -before. It must seem very rude."</p> - -<p>"Well it is rude," said the green lady. "If you were to ask me to be as -polite as possible and not to hurt anybody's feelings, I couldn't say -anything but that. All the same there's no offence taken as I see there -was none meant!"</p> - -<p>She smiled; the gleam of a distant gold tooth flashed through the air.</p> - -<p>"If there's anything I can do to apologize," said Henry, encouraged by -the smile, but hating the smile more than ever.</p> - -<p>"No apologies necessary," said the green lady. "Tenssen's my name. -Danish. This is Mrs. Armstrong—My daughter Christina——"</p> - -<p>As she spoke she smiled at Henry more and more affectionately. Had it -not been for the girl he would have fled long before; as it was, with a -horrible sickening sensation that in another moment she would stretch -out a fat arm and draw him towards her, he held his ground.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What about a cup of tea?" she said. At that word the room seemed to -spring to life. Mrs. Armstrong moved heavily to the table and sat down -with the contented abandonment of a cow safe at last in its manger. The -girl also sat down at the opposite end of the table from her mother.</p> - -<p>"It's very good of you," said Henry, hesitating. "The fact is that I'm -not very clean. I had an accident in Piccadilly and lost my hat."</p> - -<p>"That's nothing," said Mrs. Tenssen, as though falling down in -Piccadilly were part of every one's daily programme.</p> - -<p>"Come along now and make yourself at home."</p> - -<p>He drew towards her, fascinated against his will by the shrill green -of her dress, the red of her cheeks and the strangely intimate and -confident stare with which her eyes, slightly green, enveloped him. As -he had horribly anticipated her fat boneless fingers closed upon his -arm.</p> - -<p>He sat down.</p> - -<p>There was a large green teapot painted with crimson roses. The tea was -very strong and had been obviously standing for a long time.</p> - -<p>Conversation of a very bright kind began between Mrs. Tenssen and Mrs. -Armstrong.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure you'll understand," said Mrs. Tenssen, smiling with a rich -and expensive glitter, "that Mrs. Armstrong is my oldest friend. My -oldest and my best. What I always say is that others may misunderstand -me, but Ruby Armstrong never. If there's one alive who knows me through -and through it's Mrs. Armstrong."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't believe all the kind things she says about me. One's -partial to a friend of a lifetime, of course, but what I always say is -if one isn't partial to a friend, who is one going to be partial to?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Armstrong spoke, and Henry almost jumped from his chair so -unexpectedly base and masculine was her voice.</p> - -<p>"Ada expresses my feelings exactly," she said.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure that some," went on Mrs. Tenssen, "would say that it's -strange, if not familiar, asking a man to take tea with one when one -doesn't even know his name, and his entrance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> into one's family was so -peculiar; but what I always say is that life's short and there's no -time to waste."</p> - -<p>"My name's Henry Trenchard," said Henry, blushing.</p> - -<p>"I had a friend once" (Mrs. Tenssen always used the word "friend" with -a weight and seriousness that gave it a very especial importance), "a -Mr. William Trenchard. He came from Beckenham. You remember him, Ruby?"</p> - -<p>"I do," said Mrs. Armstrong. "And how good you were to him too! No -one will ever know but myself how truly good you were to that man, -Ada. Your kind heart led you astray there, as it has done often enough -before."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen nodded her head reminiscently. "He wasn't all he should -have been," she said. "But there, one can't go on regretting all the -actions of the past, or where would one be?"</p> - -<p>She regarded Henry appreciatively. "He's a nice boy," she said to -Mrs. Armstrong. "I like his face. I'm a terrible woman for first -impressions, and deceived though I've been, I still believe in them."</p> - -<p>"He's got kind eyes," said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea to cool -it.</p> - -<p>"Yes, they're what I'd call thinking eyes. I should say he's clever."</p> - -<p>"Yes, he looks clever," said Mrs. Armstrong.</p> - -<p>"And I like his smile," said Mrs. Tenssen.</p> - -<p>"Good-natured I should say," replied Mrs. Armstrong.</p> - -<p>This direct and personal comment floating quite naturally over his -self-conscious head embarrassed Henry terribly. He had never been -discussed before in his own presence as though he didn't really exist. -He didn't like it; it made him extremely uneasy. He longed to interrupt -and direct the conversation into a safer channel, but every topic of -interest that occurred to him seemed unsuitable. The weather, the -theatres, politics, Bolshevism, high prices, food, house decoration, -literature and the Arts—all these occurred to him but were dismissed -at once as unlikely to succeed. Moreover, he was passionately occupied -with his endeavour to catch the glimpses of the girl at the end of the -table. He did not wish to look at her deliberately lest that should -embarrass her. He would not, for the world bring her into any kind of -trouble. The two women whom he hated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> with increasing vehemence with -every moment that passed were watching like vultures waiting for their -prey. (This picture and image occurred quite naturally to Henry.) -The glimpses that he did catch of the soft cheek, the untidy curls, -the bend of the head and the curve of the neck fired his heart to a -heroism, a purity of purpose, a Quixotism that was like wine in his -head, so that he could scarcely hear or see. He would have liked to -have the power to at that very instant jump up, catch her in his arms -and vanish through the window. As it was he gulped down his tea and -crumbled a little pink cake.</p> - -<p>As the meal proceeded the air of the little room became very hot and -stuffy. The two ladies soon fell into a very absorbing conversation -about a gentleman named Herbert whose salient features were that he -had a double chin and was careless about keeping engagements. The -conversation passed on then to other gentlemen, all of whom seemed -in one way or another to have their faults and drawbacks, and to all -of whom Mrs. Tenssen had been, according to Mrs. Armstrong, quite -marvellously good and kind.</p> - -<p>The fool that Henry felt!</p> - -<p>Here was an opportunity that any other man would have seized. He could -but stare and gulp and stare again. The girl sat, her plate and cup -pushed aside, her hands folded, looking before her as though into some -mirror or crystal revealing to her the strangest vision—and as she -looked unhappiness crept into her eyes, an unhappiness so genuine that -she was quite unconscious of it.</p> - -<p>Henry leant across the table to her.</p> - -<p>"I say, don't . . . don't!" he whispered huskily.</p> - -<p>She turned to him, smiling.</p> - -<p>"Don't what?" she asked. There was the merest suggestion of a foreign -accent behind her words.</p> - -<p>"Don't be miserable. I'll do anything—anything. I followed you here -from Piccadilly. I heard her slapping you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I want to get away!" she whispered breathlessly. "Do you think I -can?"</p> - -<p>"You can if I help you," Henry answered. "How can I see you?"</p> - -<p>"She keeps me here . . ."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> - -<p>Their whispers had been low, but the eager conversation at the other -end of the table suddenly ceased.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid I must be going now," said Henry rising and facing Mrs. -Tenssen. "It was very good of you to give me tea."</p> - -<p>"Come again," said Mrs. Tenssen regarding him once more with that -curiously fixed stare, a stare like a glass of water in which floated a -wink, a threat, a cajoling, and an insult.</p> - -<p>"We'll be glad to see you. Just take us as you find us. Come in the -right way next time. There's a bell at the bottom of the stairs."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Armstrong laughed her deep bass laugh.</p> - -<p>He shook hands with the two women, shuddering once more at Mrs. -Tenssen's boneless fingers. He turned to the girl. "Good-bye," he said. -"I'll come again."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she answered, not looking at him but at her mother at the -other side of the table. The stairs were dark and smelt of fish and -patchouli. He stumbled down them and let himself out into Peter Street. -The evening was blue with a lovely stir in it as in running water. The -booths were crowded, voices filled the air. He escaped into Shaftesbury -Avenue as Hänsel and Gretel escaped from the witch's cottage. He was in -love for the first time in his young, self-centred life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>. . . .</p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIa" id="CHAPTER_IIa">CHAPTER II</a></h2> - -<h3>HENRY HIMSELF</h3> - - -<p>In the fifth chapter of the second part of Henry Galleon's <i>Three -Magicians</i> there is this passage (<i>The Three Magicians</i> appeared in -1892):</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>When he looked at the Drydens, father, daughter, and son, he would -wonder, as he had often in earlier days wondered, why writers -on English character so resolutely persisted in omitting the -Dryden type from their definitions? These analyses were perhaps -too sarcastic, too cynical to include anything as artless, as -simple as the Dryden character without giving the whole case -away . . . and yet it was, he fancied in that very character that -the whole strength and splendour of the English spirit persisted. -Watching Cynthia and Tony Dryden he was reminded of a picture in a -fairy-tale book read and loved by him in his youth, now forgotten -to the very name of its author, lingering only with a few faded -colours of the original illustration. He fancied that it had been -a book of Danish fairy romances. . . . This picture of which he -thought was a landscape—Dawn was breaking over a great champigné -of country, country that had hills and woods and forests, streams -and cottages all laid out in that detailed fancy that, as a child, -he had loved so deeply. The sun was rising over the hill; heavy -dark clouds were rolling back on to the horizon and everywhere the -life of the day, fresh in the sparkling daylight was beginning. -The creatures of the night were vanishing; dragons with scaly -tails were creeping back reluctantly into their caves, giants were -brandishing their iron clubs defiantly for the last time before -the rising sun; the Hydras and Gryphons and Five-Headed Tortoises -were slinking into the dusky forests, deep into the waters of the -green lakes the slimy Three-Pronged Alligators writhed deep down -into the filth that was their proper home.</p> - -<p>The flowers were thick on the hills, and in the valleys, the birds -sang, butterflies and dragon-flies flashed against the blue, the -smoke curled up from the cottage chimneys and over all the world -was hung a haze of beauty, of new life and the wonder of the -coming day.</p> - -<p>In the foreground of this picture were two figures, a girl and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> a -boy, and the painter, clumsy and amateurish, though his art may -have been, had with the sincerity and fervour of his own belief -put into their eyes all their amazement and wonder at the beauty -of this new world.</p> - -<p>They saw it all; the dragons and the gryphons, the heavy clouds -rolling back above the hill were not hidden from them; that they -would return they knew. The acceptance of the whole of life was in -their eyes. Their joy was in all of it; their youth made them take -it all full-handed. . . .</p> - -<p>I have thought of them sometimes—I think of the Drydens now—as -the Young Enchanted. And it seems to me that England is especially -the country of such men and women as these. All the other peoples -of the world carry in their souls age and sophistication. They -are too old for that sense of enchantment, but in England that -wonder that is so far from common sense and yet is the highest -kind of common sense in the world has always flourished. It is -not imagination; the English have less imagination than any other -race, it is not joy of life nor animal spirits, but the child's -trust in life before it has grown old enough for life to deceive -it. I think Adam and Eve before the Fall were English.</p> - -<p>That sense of Enchantment remains with the English long after it -dies with the men and women of other nations, perhaps because -the English have not the imagination to perceive how subtle, how -dangerous, how cynical life can be. Their art comes straight from -their Enchantment. The novels of Fielding and Scott and Thackeray -and Dickens and Meredith, the poetry of Wordsworth and Keats and -Shelley, the pictures of Hogarth and Constable and Turner. The -music of Purcell, the characters of Nelson and Wellington and -Gordon. . . .</p> - -<p>And think what that sense of Enchantment might do for them if -only their background would change. For generations gone that has -not moved. One day when the earthquake comes and the upheaval and -all the old landmarks are gone and there is a new world of social -disorder and tumbling indecency for their startled gaze to rest -upon then you will see what these children of Enchantment will do!</p></blockquote> - -<p>So much, for Galleon who is already now so shortly after his death -looked upon as an old sentimental fogy. Sentimental? Why certainly. -What in the world could be more absurd than his picture of the English -gazing wide-eyed at the wonder of life? They of all peoples!</p> - -<p>And yet he was no fool. He was a Cosmopolitan. He had lived as much -in Rome, in Paris, in Vicenza, as in London.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> And why should I -apologize for one of the greatest artists England possesses? Other -times, other names . . . and you can't catch either Henry Trenchard or -Millicent—no, nor Peter either—and I venture to say that you cannot -catch that strange, restless, broken, romantic, aspiring, adventurous, -disappointing, encouraging, enthralling, Life-is-just-beginning-at-last -Period in which they had these adventures simply with the salt of sheer -Realism—not salt enough for <i>that</i> Bird's tail.</p> - -<p>I should like to find that little picture of Henry Galleon's fairy -book and place it as a frontispiece to this story. But Heaven alone -knows where that old book has gone to! It was perhaps Galleon's own -invention; he was a queer old man and went his own way and had his own -fancies, possessions that many writers to-day are chary of keeping -because they have been told on so many occasions by so many wise -professors that they've got to stick to the Truth. Truth? Who knows -what Truth may be? Platitudinous Pilate failed over that question many -years ago, and to-day we are certainly as far as ever from an answer. -There are a million Truths about Henry and Millicent and the times they -lived in. Galleon's is at least one of them, and it's the one I've -chosen because it happens to be the way I see them. But of course there -are others.</p> - -<p>"The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth." What absurdity for any -story-teller in the world to think that he can get that—and what -arrogance! This book is the truth about these children as near as I -can get to it, and the truth about that strange year 1920 in that -strange town, London, as faithfully as I can recollect, but it isn't -everybody's Truth. Far from it—and a good thing too.</p> - -<p>Henry's rooms were at the top of 24 Panton Street. To get to them you -placed a Yale key in the lock of an old brown door, brushed your way -through a dim passage, climbed a shabby staircase past the doors of -the Hon. Nigel Bruce, Captain D'Arcy Sinclair, Claude Bottome, the -singer, and old Sir Henry Bristow, who painted his face and wore stays. -This was distinguished company for Henry who was at the beginning of -his independent life in London, and the knowledge that he was in the -very centre of the Metropolis, that the Comedy Theatre was nearly -opposite his door and Piccadilly only a minute away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> gratified him so -much that he did not object to paying three guineas a week for a small -bed-sitting room <i>without</i> breakfast. It was a <i>very</i> small room, -just under the roof, and Henry who was long and bony spent a good -deal of his time in a doubled-up position that was neither aesthetic -nor healthy. Three guineas a week is twelve pounds twelve shillings -a month, and one hundred and fifty-one pounds four shillings a year. -He had a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own, left to him by -his old grandfather, and by eager and even optimistic calculation he -reckoned that from his literary labours he would earn at least another -hundred pounds in his London twelve months. Even then, however, he -would not have risked these handsome lodgings had he not only a month -ago, through the kind services of his priggish brother-in-law, Philip -Mark, obtained a secretaryship with Sir Charles Duncombe, Bart., at -exactly one hundred and fifty pounds per annum.</p> - -<p>With inky fingers and a beating heart he produced this estimate:</p> - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="budget chart"> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="left">£</td><td align="left">s.</td><td align="left">d.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Income from Grandfather </td><td align="left">150</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Literary Earnings</td><td align="left">100</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Sir Ronald D.</td><td align="left">150</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="left">_____</td><td align="left">_____</td><td align="left">_____</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Grand Total</td><td align="left">£400</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p>And against this he set:</p> - - - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="budget chart"> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="left">£</td><td align="left">s.</td><td align="left">d.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Rooms</td><td align="left">163</td><td align="left">16</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Food</td><td align="left">100</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Clothes</td><td align="left">50</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Etceteras</td><td align="left">50</td><td align="left">0</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="left">______</td><td align="left">______</td><td align="left">_____</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="left">363</td><td align="left">16</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left">Saved in first year in London </td><td align="left">36</td><td align="left">4</td><td align="left">0</td></tr> -</table></div> - - - -<p>There were certain risks about this estimate. For one thing literature -might, conceivably, not contribute her hundred pounds quite so -completely as he hoped. On the other hand, she might contribute -more. . . .</p> - -<p>Again Henry was on trial with Sir Charles, was going into his -service the day after to-morrow for the first time, had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> been -secretary to any one in his life before, and was not by temperament -fitted entirely for work that needed those two most Damnable and Soul -Destroying of attributes, Accuracy and Method. He had seen Sir Charles -only once, and the grim austerity of that gentleman's aristocratic -features had not been encouraging.</p> - -<p>Never mind. It was all enchanting. What was life for if one did not -take risks? Every one was taking risks, from Mr. Lloyd George down to -(or possibly up to) Georges Carpentier and Mr. Dempsey—Henry did not -wish to be behind the rest.</p> - -<p>Mr. King, his landlord, had suggested to him that he might possibly be -willing to lay a new wall-paper and a handsome rug or carpet. There -was no doubt at all that the room needed these things; the wall-paper -had once been green, was now in many places yellow and gave an exact -account of the precise spots where the sporting prints of the last -tenant (young Nigel Frost Bellingham) had hung. The carpet, red many -years ago, resembled nothing so much as a map of Europe with lakes, -rivers, hills, and valleys clearly defined in grey and brown outline. -Henry explained to Mr. King that he would wish to wait for a month -or two to see how his fortunes progressed before he made further -purchases, upon which Mr. King, staring just over Henry's shoulder at -the green wall-paper, remarked that it was usual for gentlemen to pay -a month's rent in advance, upon which Henry, blushing, suggested that -an improvement in his fortunes was perfectly certain and that he was -private secretary to Sir Charles Duncombe, Bart., of whom Mr. King had -doubtless heard. Mr. King, bowing his head as of one who would say -that there was no Baronet in the United Kingdom of whom he had not -heard, nevertheless regretted that the rule concerning the month's rent -was constant, unchanging and could, in no circumstances whatever, be -altered.</p> - -<p>This Mr. King was little in stature, but great in demeanour. His head -was bald save for a few black hairs very carefully arranged upon it, -as specimens are laid out in the Natural History Museum. His face also -was bald, in the strictest sense of the word; that is, not only did no -hairs grow upon it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> but it seemed impossible that any hairs ever had -grown upon it. His eyes were sharp, his mouth deprecating and his chin -insignificant. He wore, it seemed, the same suit of black, the same -black tie, the same stiff white shirt from year's end to year's end. -He showed no human emotion whether of anger, regret, disappointment, -expectation or sorrow.</p> - -<p>He told no jolly stories of other tenants nor of life about town such -as Henry would have liked him to tell. He had, Henry was sure, a great -contempt for Henry. He was not, from any point of view, a lovable human -being.</p> - -<p>Henry did what he could for his room, he was proud of it, felt very -kindly towards it and wanted to clothe it with beauty. It is difficult, -however, to make a room beautiful unless the wall-paper and the carpet -contribute something. Henry had a nice writing-table that his Uncle -Timothy had given him, a gate-legged table from his sister Katherine -and a fine Regency bookcase stolen by him from his Westminster home. He -had three pictures, a Japanese print, a copy of Mr. Belcher's drawing -of Pat O'Keefe, "The Wild Irishman," and a little water-colour by Lovat -Frazer of a king and queen marching into a banquet-hall and attended -by their courtiers. This last, splendid in gold and blue, green and -red was the joy of Henry's heart and had been given him by his sister -Millicent on his last birthday.</p> - -<p>In the bookcase there were, on the whole, the books that you would -expect—the poems of Swinburne, Dowson, and Baudelaire, some of the -1890 novelists and one or two moderns. But he was also beginning to -collect a few rare editions, and he had <i>Clarissa</i> and <i>The Mysteries -of Udulpho</i> and <i>The Monk</i> in their original bindings, and an early -<i>Pilgrim's Progress</i>, a rather rare Donne and a second <i>Vicar of -Wakefield.</i> These were his greatest treasures. He had only two -photographs in his room—his sisters and that of his greatest and -perhaps his only friend. These stood one on either side of the very -plain alarm-clock that took the middle of the mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>Henry, as he sat on his bed, looking before him out of the little -window across to the corner gables of the Comedy Theatre, appeared very -much the same crude and callow youth that he had seemed on going up to -Oxford just before the war.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> - -<p>He had not yet caught up to his size which had leapt ahead of his years -when he was about sixteen. He was still long, lean, and untidy, his -black hair refusing any kind of control, his complexion poor with a -suspicion of incipient pimple, his ears too red, his hands never quite -clean. The same and yet not at all the same.</p> - -<p>The hint of beauty that there had been when he was nineteen in the -eyes and mouth and carriage of neck and shoulders was now, when he was -twenty-six, more clearly emphasized. At first sight Henry seemed an -untidy and rather uncleanly youth; look again and you would see quite -clearly that he would be, one day, a distinguished man. His untidiness, -the way that his trousers bagged at the knee, that he carried, like -some knight with his lady's favour, the inevitable patch of white on -his sleeve, that his boots were not rightly laced and his socks not -sufficiently "suspended"—these things only indicated that he was in -the last division of the intermediate class, between youth and manhood.</p> - -<p>The war had very nearly made him a man, and had not the authorities -discovered, after his first wound in 1915, that he was quite hopeless -in command of other men but not at all a fool at intelligence he would -have been a man complete by this time. The war smartened him a little -but not very much, and the moment he was free he slipped back into his -old ways and his old customs with a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>But there again not entirely. Like his cousin John, who was killed in -Galicia in 1915, stretcher-bearing for the Russians, he was awkward in -body but clean in soul. The war had only emphasized something in him -that was there before it, and the year and a half that he spent with -his family in the Westminster house after the Armistice was the most -terrible time of his life. No one knew what to do with him. His mother -had had a stroke in the spring of 1917 and now lay like a corpse at -the top of the old house, watching, listening, suffering an agony of -rebellion in her proud and obstinate soul. With her influence gone, -his grandfather and his great-aunt Sarah dead, his two aunts Betty and -Anne living in the country down at Walton-on-Thames, his father more -and more living his own life in his study, his sister Katherine married -and involved now entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> in her own affairs, Henry felt the big house -a mausoleum of all his hopes and ambitions. Return to Oxford he would -not. Strike out and live on his one hundred and fifty pounds he would -at the first possible moment, but one thing after another prevented -him. He remained in that grim and chilly house mainly because of his -sister Millicent, whom he loved with all his heart and soul, and for -whom he would do anything in the world.</p> - -<p>She also had a little money of her own, but the striking out was a -little difficult for her. Her father and mother, all the relations -said, needed her, and it wanted all the year and a half to prove to -the relations that this was not so. Her father scarcely saw her except -at breakfast and, although he regarded her with a kindly patronage, he -preferred greatly his books, his club, and his daily newspaper. Her -mother did not need her at all, having been angered before the war at -the action that Millie took in the great family quarrel of Katherine v. -Mrs. Trenchard, and being now completely under the control of a hard -and tyrannical woman, Nurse Bennett, whose word now was law in the -house, whose slightest look was a command.</p> - -<p>Millicent and Henry determined that when they escaped it should be -together. Millicent had her own plans, and after some months of -mysterious advertising in the newspaper, of interviews and secret -correspondences, she secured the post of secretary companion to a -certain Miss Victoria Platt who lived at 85 Cromwell Road, Kensington. -At the very same time Philip found for Henry the secretaryship of which -I have already spoken. They escaped then together—Millicent to rooms -at the top of Baker Street that she shared with a girl friend, Mary -Cass, and Henry to the hospitality of Mr. King. Their engagements also -were to begin together, Millicent going to Miss Platt for the first -time on the morning after the day of which I am writing, Henry to go to -his Baronet on the day after that.</p> - -<p>They were beginning the world together. There was surely a fine omen -in that. Apart they would do great things—but, together, was there -anything they could not do?</p> - -<p>At 7.15 that evening, bathed in the blue dusk that filtered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> in -through the little attic window Henry was sitting on his bed staring, -wide-eyed, in front of him.</p> - -<p>At 8.15 on that same evening, hidden now by the purple shades of -night he was still sitting there, his mouth open, staring in front of -him. It is desperately platitudinous—it is also desperately true, -that there is no falling in love like the first falling in love. And -Henry was fortunate in this—that he had fallen in love for the first -time at a comparatively ripe age. To some it is the governess or the -music-master, to some even the nurse or the gardener's boy. But Henry -had in the absolute truth of the absolute word never been in love -before to-night.</p> - -<p>He had loved—yes. First his mother, then his sister Katherine, then -his sister Millicent, then his friend Westcott. These affections had -been loyal and true and profound but they had been of the heart and the -brain, and for true love the lust of the flesh must be added to the -lust of the mind and the heart.</p> - -<p>He had tumbled in then, to-day, head foremost, right in, with all his -hero-worship, his adoration, his ignorance, his purity, his trust and -confidence, fresh, clean, unsullied to offer as acceptable gifts. He -could not, sitting on his bed, think it out clearly at all. He could -only see everything in a rosy mist and in the heart of the mist a -flaming feather, and Piccadilly boiling and bubbling and Mrs. Tenssen -with her bright green dress and the stable-yard and the teapot with -the flowers and there—somewhere behind these things—that girl with -her fair hair, her unhappy gaze beyond him, far far beyond him, into -worlds that were not as yet his but that one day might be. And with -all this his heart pounding in a strange suffocating manner, his eyes -burning, his throat choking, his brain refusing to bring before him two -connected thoughts.</p> - -<p>At last, when St. James's Church struck half-past eight a thought <i>did</i> -penetrate.</p> - -<p>He had promised to go to the Hunters' evening party. Never less did he -want to go to a party than to-night. He would wish to continue to sit -on his bed and study the rosy mist. "I will sit here," he said, "and -perhaps soon the face will come to me just as it was. I can't see it -now, but if I wait. . . ." Then he had cramp in his leg and the sudden -jerk shot him from the bed and forced him to stand in the middle of the -floor in an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> extraordinary attitude with one leg stiff and the other -bent as though he were Nijinsky practising for the "Spectre de la Rose."</p> - -<p>The shock of his agony drove him to consider two very good reasons for -going to the Hunters' party. One was material—namely, that he had -had nothing to eat since Mrs. Tenssen's pink cake, that he was very -hungry in spite of his love and that there would be free sandwiches at -the Hunters. The other reason was a better one—namely, that it was -possible that his friend Westcott would be there and to Westcott, above -all human beings, save only Millicent, he wished to confide the history -of his adventure.</p> - -<p>Concerning his friendship with Westcott a word must be said. About a -year ago at the house of a friend of Philip's he had been introduced -to a thick-set saturnine man who had been sitting by himself in a -corner and appearing entirely bored with the evening's proceedings. -His host had thrown Henry at this unattractive guest's head as though -he would say: "I dare not offer up any of my more important guests to -this Cerberus of a fellow, but here's a young ass who doesn't matter -and I don't care whether his feelings are hurt or no." Henry himself -was at this time cultivating a supercilious air in public, partly -from shyness and partly because he did not wish to reveal how deeply -pleased he was at being invited to parties. He liked at once Westcott's -broad shoulders, close-cropped hair and nonchalant attitude. The first -ten minutes of their conversation was not a success, and then Henry -discovered that Westcott had, in the days of his youth, actually -known, spoken to, had tea with the God of his, Henry's, idolatry, -Henry Galleon. Westcott was perhaps touched by young Henry's ingenuous -delight, his eager questions, his complete forgetfulness of himself -and his surroundings at this piece of information. He in his turn -launched out and talked of the London of fifteen years ago and of the -heroes of that time, a time that the war had made historic, curious, -picturesque, a time that was already older than crinolines, almost -as romantic as the Regency. Their host left them together for the -remainder of the evening, feeling that he had most skilfully killed two -dull birds with one stone. They departed together, walked from Hyde -Park Corner together and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> by the time that they parted were already -friends. That friendship had held firm throughout the succeeding year. -As a friendship it was good for both of them. Westcott was very lonely -and too proud to go out and draw men in. Henry needed just such an -influence as Westcott's, the influence of a man who had known life at -its hardest and bitterest, who had come through betrayal, disappointed -ambition, poverty and loneliness without losing his courage and belief -in life, a man whose heart was still warm towards his fellowmen -although he kept it guarded now lest he should too easily be again -betrayed.</p> - -<p>There was no need to keep it guarded from Henry whose transparent -honesty could not be mistaken. Henry restored something of Westcott's -lost confidence in himself. Henry believed profoundly in what he -insisted on calling Westcott's "genius," and that even the simplest -soul on earth should believe in us gives some support to our doubting -hopes and wavering ambitions. Henry admitted quite frankly to Westcott -that he had not heard of him before he met him. Peter's novels—<i>Reuben -Hallard</i>, <i>The Stone House</i>, <i>Mortimer Stant</i> and two others—had been -before Henry's time and the little stir that <i>Reuben</i> had made had not -penetrated the thick indifference of his school-days. Westcott was -not at all sensitive to this ignorance. Before the war he had broken -entirely with the literary life and his five years' war service abroad -had not encouraged him to renew that intimacy. He had had hard starving -days since the Armistice and had been driven back almost against his -will to some reviewing and writing of articles.</p> - -<p>All men had not forgotten him he discovered with a strange dim pleasure -that beat like a regret deep into his soul—the younger men especially -because he had been a commercial failure were inclined to believe that -he had been an artistic success. Mysterious allusions were made in -strange new variegated publications to <i>Reuben Hallard</i> and <i>Mortimer -Stant</i>.</p> - -<p>He began to review regularly for <i>The Athenæum</i> and <i>The New -Statesman</i>, and he did some dramatic criticism for <i>The Nation</i>. He -soon found to his own surprise that he was making income enough to -live without anxiety in two small rooms in the Marylebone High Street, -where he was cared for by a kindly widow, Mrs. Sunning, who found that -he resembled her son<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> who was killed in the war and therefore adored -him. Even, against his will, all his hopes, there were faint stirrings -of a novel in his brain. He did not wish to revive <i>that</i> ambition -again, but the thing would come and settle there and stir a little and -grow day by day, night by night, in spite of his reluctance and even -hostility.</p> - -<p>Perhaps in this Henry had some responsibility. Henry was so sure that -Peter had only to begin again and the world would be at his feet. One -night, the two of them sitting over a small grumbling fire in the -Coventry Street attic, Peter spoke a little in detail of his book.</p> - -<p>After that Henry never left him alone. The book was born now in Henry's -brain as well as in Peter's; it knew its own power and that its time -would come.</p> - -<p>Peter had by no means confided all his life's history to Henry. The -boy only knew that there had been a great tragedy, that Westcott was -married but did not know where his wife was or even whether she were -still alive. Of all this he spoke to no man.</p> - -<p>Gabriel Hunter was a painter of the new and extravagant kind; his wife -wore bobbed hair, wrote poetry and cultivated a little Salon in Barton -Street, Westminster, where they lived.</p> - -<p>The Hunters were poor and their house was very small and quite a small -number of people caused it to overflow, but to Henry during the last -year the Hunter gatherings had stood to him for everything in life that -was worth while. It was one of his real griefs that Millicent wouldn't -go to that house, declaring that she hated the new poets and the new -painters and the new novelists, that she liked Tennyson and Trollope -and John Everett Millais and that as soon as she had a house of her own -she was going to collect wax flowers and fruit and horsehair sofas. She -said many of these things to irritate Henry and irritate him she did, -being able to separate him from his very volcanic temper within the -space of two minutes if she tried hard enough.</p> - -<p>On every other occasion going to the Hunter's had been synonymous to -Henry with going to Paradise. To-night for the first time it seemed to -be simply going to Westminster. At last, however, hunger drove him, and -at a quarter-past nine he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> found himself in the Hunters' little hall, -all painted green with red stripes and a curtain covered with purple -bananas and bright crimson oranges hanging in front of the kitchen -stairs.</p> - -<p>The noise above was deafening and had that peculiarly shrill sound -which the New literature seems to carry with it in its train, just as -a new baby enjoys its new rattle. When Henry peered into the little -drawing-room he could see very little because of the smoke. The scene -outlined from the doorway must have seemed to an unprepared stranger -to resemble nothing so much as a little study in the Inferno painted -by one of the younger artists. Behind and through the smoke there were -visions of a wall of bright orange and curtains of a brilliant purple. -On the mantelpiece staring through the room and grinning malevolently -was the cast of a negro's head.</p> - -<p>A large globe hanging from the ceiling concealed the electric light -behind patterns of every conceivable colour. The guests were sitting on -the floor, on a crimson sofa, and standing against the wall. Henry soon -discovered that to-night's was a very representative gathering.</p> - -<p>Standing just inside the door he felt for the first time in the -Hunters' house perfectly detached from the whole affair. Always before -he had loved the sensation of plunging in, of that sudden immersion in -light and colour and noise, of swimming with all the others towards -some ideally fantastic island of culture that would be entirely, -triumphantly their own. But to-night the intense personal experience -that he had just passed through kept him apart, led him to criticize -and inspect as though he were a visitor from another planet. Was -that in itself a criticism of the whole world of Art and Literature -proving to him that that must always crumble before real life, or -was it simply a criticism of some of the crudity and newness of this -especial gathering? Peering through the smoke and relieved that no -one appeared to take the slightest notice of him, he saw that this -was indeed a representative gathering because all the Three Graces -were here together. Never before had he seen them all at one time in -the same place. Whether it were because of the exhaustion that five -years' war had entailed upon the men of the country or simply that the -complete emancipation of women during the last decade had brought many -new positions within women's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> power it was certain that just at this -period, that is at the beginning of 1920, much of the contemporary -judgement on art and letters was delivered by women—and in letters by -three women especially, Miss Talbot, Miss Jane Ross and Miss Martha -Proctor. These three ladies had certain attributes in common—a healthy -and invigorating contempt for the abilities of the opposite sex, a -sure and certain confidence in their own powers and a love of novelty -and originality. Miss Talbot, seated now upon the red sofa, was the -reviewer of fiction in <i>The Planet</i>. She was the most feminine of the -three, slight in stature, fair-haired and blue-eyed, languid and even -timid in appearance. Her timidity was a disguise; week after week did -she destroy the novels before her, adroitly, dispassionately and with a -fine disregard for the humaner feelings. In her there burnt, however, -a truer and finer love of literature than either Jane Ross or Martha -Proctor would ever know. She had ever before her young vision her -picture of the perfect novel, and week after week she showed her scorn -in italicized staccato prose for the poor specimens that so brazenly -ventured to interfere between her vision and herself.</p> - -<p>Had she her way no novelist alive should remain ungoaded, so vile a sin -had he committed in thus with his soiled and clumsy fingers desecrating -the power, beauty and wisdom of an impossible ideal.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile she made a very good income out of her unending -disappointment.</p> - -<p>Far other Jane Ross.</p> - -<p>Jane Ross was plain, pasty-faced, hook-nosed, squat-figured, -beetle-browed, and she was the cleverest journalist at that time alive -in England. Originally, ten years ago when she came from the Midlands -with a penny in her pocket and a determination to make her way, it -may have been that she cared for literature with a passion as pure -and undeviating as Grace Talbot's own. But great success, a surprised -discovery of men's weakness and sloth, a talent for epigrams unequalled -by any of her contemporaries had led her to sacrifice all her permanent -standards for temporary brilliance. She was also something of a cat, -being possessed suddenly to her own discontent by little personal -animosities and grievances that she might have con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>trolled quite easily -had not her tongue so brilliantly led her away. She had, deep down in -her soul, noble intentions, but the daily pettinesses of life were too -strong fer her; she won all her battles so easily that she did not -perceive that she was meanwhile losing the only battle that really -mattered. As her journalism grew more and more brilliant her real -influence grew less and less. When her brain was inactive her heart, -suddenly released, could be wonderfully kind. A little more stupidity -and she would have been a real power.</p> - -<p>For both Grace Talbot and Jane Ross the new thing was the only thing -that mattered. When you listened to them, or read them you would -suppose that printing had been discovered for the first time somewhere -about 1890 and in Manchester. Martha Proctor, less brilliant than the -other two, had a wider culture than either of them. The first glance -at her told you that she was a journalist, tall, straight-backed, her -black hair brushed back from a high forehead, dressed in tweeds, stiff -white collars, and cuffs, wearing pince-nez, she seemed to have nothing -to do with the prevalent fashion. And she had not. Older than the other -two she had come in with the Yellow Book and promised to go out with -Universal Suffrage. She had fought her battles; in politics her finest -time had been in the years just before the war when she had bitten a -policeman's leg in Whitehall and broken a shop-window in Bond Street -with her little hammer. In literature her great period had been during -the Romantic Tushery of 1895 to 1905. How she had torn and scarified -the Kailyard novelists, how the Cloak and Sword Romances had bled -beneath her whip. Now none of these remained and the modern Realism had -gone far beyond her most confident anticipations. She knew in her heart -that her day was over; there was even, deep down within her, a faint -alarm at the times that were coming upon the world. She knew that she -seemed old-fashioned to Jane Ross and her only comfort was that in ten -years' time Jane Ross would undoubtedly in her turn seem old-fashioned -to somebody else. Because her horizon was wider than that of her -two companions she was able to judge in finer proportion than they. -Fashions passed, men died, kingdoms fell. What re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>mained? Not, as she -had once fondly imagined, Martha Proctor.</p> - -<p>Two children and a cottage in the country might after all be worth more -than literary criticism. She was beginning to wonder about many things -for the first time in her life. . . .</p> - -<p>I have outlined these ladies in some detail because for the past year -and a half Henry had worshipped at their shrines. How he had revelled -in Grace Talbot's cynical judgments, in Jane Ross's epigrams, in -Martha Proctor's measured comparisons! To-night for the first time -a new vision was upon him. He could only see them, as he stared at -them through the smoke, with physical eyes—Grace Talbot's languid -indifference, white hands and faint blue eyes. Jane Ross's sallow -complexion and crinkled black hair; Martha Proctor's pince-nez and -large brown boots.</p> - -<p>Then, as his short-sighted eyes penetrated yet more clearly he saw—— -Could it be? Indeed it was. His heart beat quickly. There seated -uncomfortably upon an orange chair from Heal's was no less a person -than the great K. Wiggs himself. Henry had seen him on two other -occasions, had once indeed spoken to him.</p> - -<p>That earlier glorious moment was strong with him now, the thrill of it, -the almost passionate excitement of touching that small podgy hand, the -very hand that had written <i>Mr. Whippet</i> and <i>Old Cain and Abel</i> and -<i>The Slumber Family</i>.</p> - -<p>What then to-night had happened to Henry? Why was it that with every -longing to recover that earlier thrill he could not? Why was it that -again, as just now with the Three Graces, he could see only Mr. Wiggs's -physical presence and nothing at all of his splendid and aspiring soul? -Mr. Wiggs certainly did not look his best on an orange chair with a -stiff back.</p> - -<p>And then surely he had fattened and coarsened, even since Henry's last -vision of him? His squat figure perched on the chair, his little fat -legs crossed, his bulging stomach, his two chins, his ragged moustache, -his eyes coloured a faint purple, his thin whispy hair—these things -did not speak for beauty. Nor did the voice that penetrated through the -clamour to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> Henry's corner, with its shrill piping clamour, give full -reassurance.</p> - -<p>It was not, no alas, it was not the voice of a just soul; there was, -moreover, a snuffle behind the pipe—that spoke of adenoids—it is very -hard to reconcile adenoids with greatness.</p> - -<p>And yet Wiggs <i>was</i> a great man! You knew that if only by the virulence -with which certain sections of the press attacked him whenever he made -a public appearance.</p> - -<p>He <i>was</i> a great man. He <i>is</i> a great man. Henry repeated the words -over to himself with a desperate determination to recover the earlier -rapture. He had written great books; he was even then writing them. -He was, as Henry knew, a kindly man, a generous man, a man with noble -and generous ambitions, a man honest in his resolves and courageous in -his utterances. Why then did he look like that and why was Henry so -stupidly conscious of his body and of his body only? Could it be that -the adventure of the afternoon had filled his young soul with so high -and splendid an ideal of beauty that everything else in the world was -sordid and ugly? He moved restlessly. He did not want to think life -sordid and ugly. But <i>was</i> this life? Or at any rate was it not simply -a very, very small part of life? Was he moving at last from a small -ante-room into a large and spacious chamber? (I have said before that -picturesque images occurred to him with the utmost frequency.)</p> - -<p>He caught fragments of conversation. A lady quite close to him was -saying—"But there's no Form in the thing—no Form at all. He hadn't -thought the thing out—it's all just anyhow. . . ."</p> - -<p>Somewhere else he heard a man's deep bass voice—"Oh, he's no good. -He'll always be an amateur. Of course it's obvious you miss truth the -moment you go outside the narrator's brain. Now Truth . . ."</p> - -<p>And Wigg's shrill pipe—"Ow, no. <i>That</i> isn't History. That's fable. -What do <i>facts</i> matter?"</p> - -<p>There was a little stir by the door. Henry turned and found Peter -Westcott standing at his side.</p> - -<p>He was instantly delighted to perceive that the change that had crept -over him since the afternoon did not include Peter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> His feeling for -Peter was the same that it had ever been, intensified if possible. He -<i>loved</i> Peter as he stood there, strong, apart, independent, resolute. -<i>That</i> was the kind of independence that Henry himself must achieve so -that he would not be swayed by every little emotional and critical wind -that blew.</p> - -<p>"Hallo, Peter," he said, "I was looking for you."</p> - -<p>"You haven't been looking very hard," said Peter. "I've been here a -long time."</p> - -<p>"There's so much smoke," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Yes, there is. And I've had enough of it. And I'm going."</p> - -<p>"I'm going too," said Henry. "Mrs. Hunter has looked at me twice and I -don't believe that she's the least idea who I am."</p> - -<p>"You're going?" said Westcott astonished. "Why, you <i>love</i> these -parties. I expected you to be here all night."</p> - -<p>"I don't love it to-night," said Henry solemnly. "It all seems silly. -Let's go."</p> - -<p>They went down into the Hall, found their coats and passed into the -serenity and peace of Barton Street.</p> - -<p>"Do you mind walking a bit?" asked Henry.</p> - -<p>"As a matter of fact," said Westcott, "I'm going to walk all the way -home. I'll take you up through Coventry Street if you like and drop you -at your Palace."</p> - -<p>"I only went there to-night to see you," said Henry. "I've got -something very important to tell you."</p> - -<p>They walked in silence into Whitehall. Henry found it difficult to -begin and Westcott never spoke unless he had something that he really -wanted to say—a reason sufficient for the reputation of sulkiness that -many people gave him. The beauty of the night too kept them silent. -After that hot, over-coloured room London was like some vast, gently -moving lake upon whose bosom floated towers and lamps and swinging -barges—myriads of stars were faint behind a spring mist that veiled, -revealed and veiled again an orange moon.</p> - -<p>Only the towers of the Houses of Parliament were sharp and distinct and -they too seemed to move with the gentle rhythm as though they were the -bulwarks of some giant ship sailing towards some certain destination.</p> - -<p>So quiet was the world that all life seemed to be hypnotized into -wondering expectation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well now, Henry, what is it?" asked Peter at last.</p> - -<p>"It's the most extraordinary thing," said Henry. "I suppose you'll -laugh at me. Anybody would. But I just couldn't help myself. It didn't -seem like myself doing it."</p> - -<p>"Doing what?"</p> - -<p>"Why, before I knew I was following them. And I hadn't any reason to -follow them. That's the funny thing. Only I'd just fallen down."</p> - -<p>Peter turned upon him. "For God's sake, Henry, get it straight, whom -were you following and where? And where did you fall down?"</p> - -<p>"In Piccadilly Circus. I was just staring around and some one pushed me -and I fell on to my knees and when I'd picked myself up again they'd -got half-way across——"</p> - -<p>"They? Who?"</p> - -<p>"Why the woman and her daughter. At least of course I didn't know she -was her daughter then. It was only afterwards——"</p> - -<p>Peter was irritable. "Look here, if you don't straighten everything out -and tell me it all quite simply from the beginning with names and dates -and everything I leave you instantly and never see you again."</p> - -<p>Henry tried again and, staring in front of him so that he stumbled and -walked like a man in a dream, he recovered it all, seeing freshly as -though he were acting in it once more and giving it to Westcott with -such vivid drama that they had arrived outside the door in Panton -Street as though they had been carried there on a magic carpet. "And -after that," finished Henry, "I just came home and I've been thinking -about her ever since."</p> - -<p>The street was very quiet. Within the theatre rows and rows of human -beings were at that moment sitting, their mouths open and their knees -pressed together while "The Ruined Lady" went through incredible antics -for their benefit. Outside the theatre a few cars were standing, a man -or two lounged against the wall, and the stars and the orange moon -released now from their entangling mist, shone like lights through a -tattered awning down upon the glassy surface of the street. Peter put -his hand upon Henry's shoulder; the boy was trembling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Take my advice," he said, "and drop it."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" asked Henry fiercely.</p> - -<p>"Of course you won't follow my advice, but I'm older than you are. You -asked me to advise you and I'm going to. Don't you see what those two -women are? If you don't you're even more of an ass than I know you to -be."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" said Henry again.</p> - -<p>"Well, just ask yourself, what kind of a woman is it who when a strange -man bursts in through her window smiles and asks him to tea?"</p> - -<p>"If she's like that," said Henry angrily, "then all the more I've got -to get the girl out of it."</p> - -<p>Peter shrugged his shoulders, "I bet the girl knows what she's about," -he said.</p> - -<p>Henry laughed scornfully. "That's the worst of you, Peter," he said. -"You're a cynic. You don't believe in anybody or in anything. You -always see things at their worst."</p> - -<p>Peter smiled. "That's as may be," he said. "I believe in you anyway. -You know quite well that if you get in a mess I've got to pull you out -of it. I'm only warning you. If you like, I'll go with you next time -and see the girl."</p> - -<p>Henry looked up at the moon. "I know I'm an ass about some things," he -said. "But I'm not an ass about this. I'll save her if I die for it."</p> - -<p>Peter was touched.</p> - -<p>"You're bewitched," he said, "I was once. I don't want to wake you up. -The only trouble with these things is that the enchantment doesn't last -but the things we do under the enchantment do.</p> - -<p>"However, it's better to have been enchanted, whatever comes of it, -than never to have been enchanted at all. Will you promise me one -thing?"</p> - -<p>"What's that?" asked Henry.</p> - -<p>"To tell me everything, exactly, truthfully."</p> - -<p>"Yes, if you don't laugh at me."</p> - -<p>"No, I won't—unless you can laugh as well. But you're going to get -into a mess over this as sure as you're Henry Trenchard, and if I don't -know all about it, I shan't be able to help you when the time comes -that you need me."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'll tell you everything," said Henry fervently.</p> - -<p>"When do you go to your old Baronet?"</p> - -<p>"The day after to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll come in and see you here that afternoon about five and get -your news. Is that all right?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry. "Isn't it a wonderful night? I think I'll walk about -a bit."</p> - -<p>"You're going to look up at her window?"</p> - -<p>Henry blushed, a thing he did very easily. "You can't see her window -from the street," he said. "It's quite true I might go round that way."</p> - -<p>Westcott went off laughing. The moon and Henry were left alone -together.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIa" id="CHAPTER_IIIa">CHAPTER III</a></h2> - -<h3>MILLIE</h3> - - -<p>Millicent Trenchard was at this time twenty-five years of age.</p> - -<p>She had been pretty at eighteen, she was beautiful now, beautiful -in the real sense of that terribly abused word, because she aroused -interest as well as admiration in the beholder. The questions asked -about her would be always different ones, depending for their impulse -on the private instincts and desires of the individual.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were large, dark, her figure slender, her colouring fair, -her hair (she had a mass of it) dark brown with some shadow of dull -gold in its threads, her neck and shoulders lovely with a pure healthy -whiteness of colour and form that only youth could give her, her chin -strong and determined but not exaggerated—all this catalogue is -useless. Her beauty did not lie in these things, but in the vitality, -the freedom, the humour, the wildness of her spirit. Her eyes, the -dimple in her cheek, the high, clear forehead spoke of kindness, -generosity, love of her fellowmen, but it was the quality behind those -things, the quality of a soul absolutely free and independent but not -selfish, open-minded and honest but neither dogmatic nor impertinent, -young and ignorant perhaps but ready for any discovery, fearless and -excited but tender and soft-hearted, unsentimental but loyal-hearted, -that finally told. Although her means were so slender she dressed -admirably, liking bright colours, crimson and purple and orange, but -never looking so well as when she was in the simplest black.</p> - -<p>She knew everything about dress by natural instinct, could make clothes -out of nothing at all (not so difficult in 1920), was able to buy -things in the cheapest way at the smartest shops, and really spent -less time and thought over all these things<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> than most of the clumsily -dressed girls of her acquaintance. She was always neat; her gloves and -her shoes and her stockings were as fine as those of any lady in the -land. She was never extravagant in the fashion of the moment nor was -she outside it; when women of sixty wore skirts that belonged more -properly to their granddaughters, she who might with pride have been -short-skirted was not.</p> - -<p>And, just at this time, she was so happy that it made you afraid to -watch her. Mary Cass, her friend, was often afraid.</p> - -<p>Miss Cass was five years older than Millicent and had seen a great deal -of life. She had driven an ambulance in France, and it was afterwards, -when nursing in a hospital in Boulogne, that she and Millicent had made -friends. She had nursed with the same quiet capacity with which she had -driven her ambulance, and now she was studying at the Women's College -of Medicine and at the end of her five years' course was going to be -one of the most efficient women surgeons in Europe. That was what she -set in front of her, and the things that she set in front of her she -obtained. She was a little, insignificant, mild-eyed mouse of a woman -with a very determined chin; she had none of Millicent's gaiety and -wild zest for life. Life seemed to her rather a poor thing at best; -she had no great expectations of it, but, on the other hand, bore no -one a grudge because she was in the midst of it. So long as she was -working at something she was happy; she was fond of Millicent but not -extravagant about her.</p> - -<p>Her work was more to her than any human being, and she would have liked -Millicent to look on work with a deeper seriousness. This was their -one deep difference of opinion, that to Mary Cass work was more than -human nature and that to Millicent people were everything. "I'd rather -live with people I love than write the greatest book in the world," -Millicent said. "I believe, Mary, that you only make a friend because -you hope one day to be able to cut his or her leg off."</p> - -<p>"I'd do it very nicely," said Mary gravely.</p> - -<p>There was a further little trouble between them that Mary was -rather impatient of Henry. She thought him untidy, careless, -inaccurate, clumsy and sentimental; he was undoubtedly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> all of these -things—Millicent, of course, adored Henry and would not hear a word -against him from anybody.</p> - -<p>"He's only careless because he's a genius," she said.</p> - -<p>"When's he going to begin his genius?" asked Mary. "He's twenty-six -now."</p> - -<p>"He has begun it. He's written ten chapters of a novel."</p> - -<p>"What's it about?" asked Mary, with an irritating little sniff that she -used on occasions.</p> - -<p>"It's about the Eighteenth Century," said Millie, "and a house in a -wood——"</p> - -<p>"People want something more real nowadays," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"He hasn't got to think of what people want," answered Millie hotly. -"He's got to write what he feels."</p> - -<p>"He's got to make his bread and butter," said Miss Cass grimly.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it may be suspected that she liked Henry more than she -allowed; only her fingers itched to be at him, at his collar and his -socks and his boots and his tie. But she believed about this, as she -did about everything else, that her day would come.</p> - -<p>On the morning that Millie was to go to Miss Platt's for the first time -she dressed with the greatest care. She put on a plain black dress -and designed to wear with it a little round red hat. She also wore a -necklace of small pearls that her father had once given her in a sudden -swiftly vanishing moment of emotion at her surprising beauty. When she -came into the little sitting-room to breakfast she was compelled to -confess to herself that she was feeling extremely nervous, and this -amazed her because she so seldom felt nervous about anything. But it -would be too awful if this Platt affair went wrong! To begin all over -again with those advertisements, those absurd letters, that sudden -contact with a world that seemed to be entirely incapacitated and -desperately to need help without in the least being willing to pay for -it!</p> - -<p><i>That</i> was the real point about Miss Platt, that she was willing to -pay. The brief interview had shown Millicent a middle-aged, rather -stout woman, with a face like a strawberry that is afraid that at -any moment it may be eaten, over-dressed, nervous and in some as -yet undefined way, a little touching. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> had taken, it seemed, -to Millicent at once, calling her "my dear" and wanting to pay her -anything in reason. "I'm so tired," she said, "and I've seen so many -women. They are all so pale. I want some one bright about the house."</p> - -<p>Upon this foundation the bargain had been struck, and Millicent, -looking back at it, was compelled to admit that it was all rather -slender. She had intended to talk to Mary Cass about it at breakfast, -to drive her into reassuring her, but discovered, as so many of us -have discovered before now, that our nearest and dearest have, and -especially at breakfast, their own lives to lead and their own problems -to encounter. Mary's brain was intent upon the dissection of a frog, -and although her heart belonged to Millie, medical science had for -the moment closed it. Millie therefore left the house in a mood of -despondency, very rare indeed with her. She travelled on the top of a -succession of omnibuses to Cromwell Road. She had time to spare and it -was a lovely spring morning; she liked beyond all things to look down -over the side of the omnibus and see all the scattered fragmentary life -that went on beneath her. This morning every one was clothed in sun, -the buildings shone and all the people seemed to be dressed in bright -colours. London could look on such a morning so easy and comfortable -and happy-go-lucky, like a little provincial town, in the way that -butchers stout and rubicund stood in front of their shops, and the -furniture shops flung sofas and chairs, coal-scuttles and bookcases -right out into the pavement with a casual, homely air, and flower-shops -seemed to invite you to smell their flowers without paying for it, and -women walked shopping with their hand-bags carefully clutched, and boys -dashed about on bicycles with a free, unrestrained ecstasy, as though -they were doing it simply for their amusement. Other cities had surely -acquired by now a more official air, but London would be casual, untidy -and good-natured to the last trump, thank God!</p> - -<p>Millie soon recovered her very best spirits, and was not in the least -offended when a seedy young man stared at her from an opposite seat and -wetted his lips with his tongue as though he were tasting something -very good indeed.</p> - -<p>She had, however, to summon all her spirits to her aid when Cromwell -Road encompassed her. Rows and rows of houses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> all the same, wearing -the air, with their white steps, their polished door-handles and the -ferns in the window, of a middle-aged business man dressed for church -on a Sunday morning. They were smug and without personality. They were -thinking about nothing but themselves. No. 85 was as smug as the others.</p> - -<p>She rang the bell, and soon a small boy dressed in a blue uniform -and brass buttons stared at her and appeared to be incapable of -understanding a word that she said.</p> - -<p>He stared at her with such astonishment that she was able to push past -him into the hall before he could prevent her.</p> - -<p>"You can't see Miss 'Toria," he was heard at last to say in a hoarse -voice. "She don't see any one before she's up."</p> - -<p>"I think she'll see me," said Millie quietly. "She's expecting me."</p> - -<p>He continued to stare, and she suggested that he should go and inquire -of somebody else. He was away for so long a time that she was able to -observe how full the hall was of furniture, and how strangely confused -that furniture was. Near the hall-door was a large Jacobean oak chest -carved with initials and an old date 1678, and next to this a rickety -bamboo table; there were Chippendale chairs and a large brass gong, and -beyond these a glass case with stuffed birds. Millie, whose fingers -were always itching to arrange things in her own way, could see at -once that this might be made into a very jolly house. From the window -at the stair-corner came floods of sunlight, she could hear cheerful -voices from the kitchen; the house was alive even though it were in a -mess. . . .</p> - -<p>A tall dark woman in very stiff cap and apron appeared; she -"overlooked" Millie scornfully, and then said in a voice aloof and -distant that Miss Platt would see Miss Trenchard upstairs.</p> - -<p>Millie followed the woman and, receiving the same impression of light -and confusion as she went up, reached the third floor and was led into -a room on the right of the stairs.</p> - -<p>Here the sun was pouring in, and for a moment it was difficult to -see, then through the sunlight certain things declared themselves: -item an enormous, four-poster bed hung with bright curtains, item a -whole row of long becking and bowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> looking-glasses, item many open -drawers sprayed with garments of every kind, item Miss Victoria Platt -rising, like Venus from the sea, out of the billowy foam of scattered -underclothing, resplendent in a Japanese kimono and pins falling out -of her hair. The tall woman said sharply, "Miss Trenchard, miss," -and withdrew. Miss Platt, red-faced and smiling, her naked arms like -crimson rolling-pins, turned towards her.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my dear, isn't it too sweet of you to come so punctually? Never -did I need anybody more. I always say I'll be down by nine-thirty -sharp. Mrs. Brockett, I say, you can come into the morning-room at -nine-thirty precisely. I shall be there. But I never am, you know. -Never. Well, my dear, I <i>am</i> glad to see you. Come and give me a kiss."</p> - -<p>Millie stepped carefully over the underclothing, found herself warmly -encircled, two very wet and emphatic kisses implanted on her cheek and -then a voice hissing in her ear—</p> - -<p>"I do want us to be friends, I do indeed. We shall be, I know."</p> - -<p>There was a little pause because Millie did not know quite what to say. -Then Miss Platt made some masculine strides towards a rather faded -rocking-chair, swept from it a coat and skirt and pointing to it said:</p> - -<p>"There, sit down! I'm sure you must be wanting a rest after your -journey."</p> - -<p>"Journey!" said Millie laughing, "I haven't had a journey! I've only -come from Baker Street."</p> - -<p>"Why, of course," said Miss Platt, "it was another girl altogether who -was coming from Wiltshire. I didn't like her, I remember, because she -had a slight moustache, which father always told us implied temper." -She stood back and regarded Millie.</p> - -<p>"Why, my dear, how pretty you are! Aren't you the loveliest thing -ever? And that little hat! How well you dress!" She sighed, struggling -with her corsets. (The kimono was now a dejected heap upon the floor.) -"Dress is so easy for some people. It seems to come quite naturally -to them. Perhaps my figure's difficult. I don't know. It's certainly -simpler for slim people."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, do let me help you," cried Millie, jumping up. She came over to -her and in a moment the deed was done.</p> - -<p>"Thank you a thousand times," said Miss Platt. "How kind you are. I -have a maid, you know, but she's going at the end of the week. I simply -couldn't bear her superior manner, and when she went off one Saturday -afternoon from my very door in a handsome motor-car that was too much -for me. And she wanted to practise on my piano. Servants! You'll have -to help there, my dear. Change them as often as you like, but they must -be willing and have some kind of friendly feeling for one. I can't bear -to have people in the house who look as though they'd poison your soup -on the first opportunity. Why can't we all like one another? I'm sure -I'm ready enough."</p> - -<p>Millie said: "I suppose it doesn't do to spoil them too much."</p> - -<p>"You're right, dear, it doesn't. But as soon as I speak severely to -them they give notice, and I <i>am</i> so tired of registry offices. I just -go in and out of them all day. I do hope you're good with servants."</p> - -<p>"I'll do my best," said Millie, smiling bravely, although her heart was -already sinking at the sense of her inexperience and ignorance.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure you will," said Miss Platt, who was now arrayed in bright -blue. "Method is what this house wants. You look methodical. The very -way you put your clothes on shows me that. My sister Ellen has method, -but household affairs don't interest her. She lives in a world of -her own. Clarice, my younger sister, has no method at all. She's the -most artistic of us. She paints and sings too delightfully. Are you -artistic?"</p> - -<p>"No, I'm not," said Millie. "Not a little bit."</p> - -<p>Miss Platt seemed for a moment disappointed. "I'm sorry for that. I -do <i>love</i> the Arts, although I don't do anything myself. But I do -encourage them wherever I can." Then she brightened again. "It's much -better you shouldn't be artistic. You're more likely to have method."</p> - -<p>"I have a brother who writes," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Now, isn't that wonderful!" Miss Platt was delighted. "You must bring -him along. I do think I'd rather be able to write than anything. What -kind of thing does he write?"</p> - -<p>"Well, he's rather young and of course the war kept him back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> but he's -in the middle of a novel and he reviews books for the papers."</p> - -<p>"Why, how splendid!" Miss Platt was ready now to depart. "How clever he -must be to write a novel! All those conversations they put in! I'm sure -I don't know where they get it all from. What a gift! Mind you bring -him to see me, dear, as soon as ever you can."</p> - -<p>"I will," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"I do love to have literary and artistic people round me. We do have -quite delightful musical parties here sometimes. And dances too. Do you -dance?"</p> - -<p>"I love it," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"That's splendid. Now come along. We'll go downstairs and start the -morning's work."</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was just such a place as Millie had expected, a -perfect menagerie of odds and ends of furniture and the walls covered -with pictures ranging from the most sentimental of Victorian to the -most symbolic and puzzling of Cubists. But what a nice room this could -be did it contain less! Wide, high windows welcomed the sun and a -small room off the larger one could have the most charming privacy -and cosiness. But the smaller room was at the moment blocked with a -huge roller-top desk and a great white statue of a naked woman holding -an apple and peering at it as though she were expecting it to turn -into something strange like a baby or a wild fowl at the earliest -possible moment. This statue curved in such a way that it seemed to -hang above the roller-top desk in an inquiring attitude. It was the -chilliest-looking statue Millie had ever seen.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Miss Platt, seeing that Millicent's eyes were directed -towards this, "that is the work of a very rising young sculptor, -an American, Ephraim Block. You'll see him soon; he often comes to -luncheon here. I do love to encourage the newer art, and Mr. Block is -one of the very newest."</p> - -<p>"What is the subject?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Eve and the Apple," said Miss Platt. "It was originally intended -that there should be a Tree and a Serpent as well, but Mr. Block very -wisely saw that very few Art Galleries would be large enough for a tree -such as he had designed, so they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> are to come later when he has some -open-air commissions. He is a very agreeable young man; you'll like him -I'm sure. Some of my friends think the statue a little bold, but after -all in the service of art we must forget our small pruderies, must we -not? Others see a resemblance in Eve to myself, and Mr. Block confessed -that he had me a little in mind when he made his design. Poor man, he -has a wife and children, and life is a great struggle for him, I'm -afraid. These Americans will marry so young. Now this," she went on, -turning to the roller-top desk, "is where I keep my papers, and one of -the very first things I want you to do is to get them into something -like order.</p> - -<p>"They are in a perfect mess at present and I never can find anything -when I want it. I thought you might begin on that at once. I have to go -out for an hour or two to see a friend off to America. What she's going -to America for I can't imagine. She's such a nice woman with two dear -little boys, but she had a sudden passion to see Chicago and nothing -could keep her. I shall be back by twelve, and if there's anything you -want just ring the bell by the fireplace there and Beppo will attend to -you."</p> - -<p>"Beppo?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he's the page-boy. After dear father died I had a butler, but -he got on so badly with Mrs. Brockett that I thought it wiser to have -a boy. My sister, Clarice, suggested that he should be called Beppo. -He was a little astonished at first because he's really called Henry, -but he's quite used to it now. Well, good-bye, dear, for the moment. I -can't tell you what a relief it is to me to have you here. It simply -makes the whole difference."</p> - -<p>Millie was left alone in her glory.</p> - -<p>At first she wandered about the room, looking at the pictures, glancing -out of the windows at the bright and flashing colour that flamed on -the roofs and turned the chimney-pots into brown and gold and purple, -gazed at a huge picture over the marble mantelpiece of three girls, -obviously the Miss Platts twenty years ago, modest and giggling under -a large green tree, then unrolled the desk. She gave a little gasp -of despair at what she saw. The papers were piled mountain-high, and -the breeze that come from the rolling back of the desk stirred them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> -like live things and blew many of them on to the floor. How was she -ever to do anything with these? Where was she to begin? She gathered -them up from the floor, and looking at the first fist-full discovered -bills, letters, invitation cards, theatre programmes, advertisements, -some of them months old, many of them torn in half, and many more of -them, as she quickly discovered, requests for money, food and shelter. -She felt an instant's complete despair, then her innate love of order -and tidiness came to her rescue. She felt a real sense of pity and -affection for Miss Platt. Of reassurance too, because here obviously -was a place where she was needed, where she could be of real assistance -and value. She piled them all on to the floor and then started to -divide them into sections, invitations in one heap, begging letters -into another, advertisements into another.</p> - -<p>Strange enough, too, this sudden plunging into the intimacies of a -woman whom until an hour ago she had not known at all! Many of the -letters were signed with Christian names, but through all there ran an -implicit and even touching belief that certainly "Victoria," "dearest -Viccy," "my darling little Vic," "dear Miss Platt" would find it -possible to "grant this humble request," "to loan the money for only a -few weeks when it should faithfully be repaid," "to stump up a pound or -two—this really the last time of asking."</p> - -<p>Half-an-hour's investigation among these papers told Millie a great -deal about Miss Platt. Soon she was deep in her task. The heavy marble -clock in the big room muttered on like an irritable old man who hopes -to get what he wants by asking for it over and over again.</p> - -<p>She was soon caught into so complete an absorption in her work that she -was unaware of her surroundings, only conscious that above her head -Venus leered down upon her and that all the strange, even pathetic -furniture of the room was accompanying her on her voyage of discovery, -as though it wanted her to share in their own kindly, protective sense -of their mistress. The clock ticked, the fire crackled, the sun fell in -broad sheets of yellow across the hideous carpet of blue and crimson, -quenching the fire's bright flames.</p> - -<p>Ghosts rose about her—the ghosts of Victoria Platt's confused,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> -greedy, self-seeking world. Millie soon began to long to catch some of -these pirates by their throats and wring their avaricious necks. How -they dared! How they could ask as they did, again and again and again! -Ask! nay, demand! She who was of too proud a spirit to ask charity of -any human being alive—unless possibly it were Henry, who, poor lamb, -was singularly ill-fitted to be a benefactor—seemed, as she read on, -to be receiving a revelation of a new world undreamt of before in her -young philosophy. Her indignation grew, and at last to relieve her -feelings she had to spring up from the desk and pace the room.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as she faced the windows to receive for a moment the warmth -and friendliness of the sunlight, the door opened behind her and, -turning, she saw a woman enter.</p> - -<p>This was some one apparently between thirty and forty years of age, -dressed in rather shabby black, plain, with a pale face, black hair -brushed severely from a high forehead, cross, discontented eyes and an -air of scornful severity.</p> - -<p>The two women made a strange, contrast as they faced one another, -Millicent with her youth, beauty and happiness, the other scowling, -partly at the sudden sunlight, partly at the surprise of finding a -stranger there.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," said Millie smiling. "Do you want any one?"</p> - -<p>"Do I want any one?" said the other, in a voice half-snarl, half-irony; -"that's good! In one's own house too!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Millie again blushing. "I didn't know. -I've only been here an hour. I'm Miss Platt's new secretary."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you are, are you? Well, I'm Miss Platt's old sister, and when I -said it was my house I made of course the greatest possible mistake, -because it isn't <i>my</i> house and never will be. You can call me a guest -or a companion or even a prisoner if you like. Anything that it pleases -you."</p> - -<p>This was said with such extreme bitterness that Millie thought that the -sooner she returned to her work at the roll-top desk the better.</p> - -<p>"You're Miss Ellen Platt?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I am. And what's your name?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Millicent Trenchard."</p> - -<p>"What on earth have you taken up this kind of work for?"</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't I?" asked Millie with spirit.</p> - -<p>"Well, you're pretty and you're young and your clothes don't look -exactly as though you're hard up. However if you want to be imprisoned -before your time there's no reason why I should prevent you!"</p> - -<p>"I want to work!" said Millie, then, laughing, she added: "And there -seems to be plenty for me to do here!"</p> - -<p>Ellen Platt seemed to be suddenly arrested by her laugh. She stared -even more closely than she had done before. "Yes, there's plenty of -work," she said. "If Victoria will let you do it. If you last out a -month here you'll do well."</p> - -<p>"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"You can't be very observant if it isn't enough for you to cast a -glance around this room and tell yourself what's the matter. But I'll -leave you to make your own discoveries. Six years ago we hadn't a penny -to bless ourselves with and thought ourselves ill-used. Now we have -more money than we know what to do with—or at least Victoria has—and -we're worse off than we were before."</p> - -<p>She said those words "Or at least Victoria has" with such concentrated -anger and bitterness that Millie turned her head away.</p> - -<p>"Yes I expect having a lot of money suddenly is a trouble," she said. -"I must be getting on with my work."</p> - -<p>She moved into the little room; Ellen Platt followed her as though -determined to fire her last shot at close quarters.</p> - -<p>"Victoria's had five secretaries in the last month," she said. "And -they've none of them been able to stand it a week, and they were older -women than you," then she went out, banging the door behind her.</p> - -<p>"What an unpleasant woman," thought Millie, then buried herself again -in her work.</p> - -<p>Her other interruption came half an hour later. The door opened and -there came in a man of medium height, bald and with a bushy moustache -so striking that it seemed as though he should have either more hair on -his head or less over his mouth. He had twinkling eyes and was dressed -in grey. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> came across the room without seeing Millie, then started -with surprise.</p> - -<p>"Good heavens!" he said. "A girl!"</p> - -<p>"I'm Miss Platt's new secretary," she said.</p> - -<p>"And I'm Miss Platt's family physician," he said through his moustache. -"My name's Brooker." He added smiling, "You seem in a bit of a mess -there."</p> - -<p>She must have looked in a mess, the papers lying in tangled heaps on -every side of her; to herself she seemed at last to be evoking order.</p> - -<p>"I'm not in so much of a mess as I was an hour ago," she said.</p> - -<p>"No, I daresay." He nodded his head. "You look more efficient than the -last secretary who cried so often that all Miss Platt's correspondence -looked as though it had been out in the rain."</p> - -<p>"What did she cry about?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Homesickness and indigestion and general confusion," he answered. "You -don't look as though you'll cry."</p> - -<p>"I'm much more likely to smash Eve," said Millie. "Don't you think I -might ask Miss Platt to have her moved back a little this afternoon? -It's so awful feeling that she's watching everything you do."</p> - -<p>"There's nowhere very much to have her moved back to," said the Doctor. -"She's back as far as she will go now. You're very young," he added -quite irrelevantly.</p> - -<p>"I'm not," said Millie. "I'm twenty-five."</p> - -<p>"You don't look that. I don't want to be inquisitive, but—did you know -anything about these people before you came here?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Millie. "No more than one knows from a first impression. -Why? You look concerned about me. Have I made a mistake?"</p> - -<p>The doctor laughed. "Not if you have a sense of humour and plenty of -determination. The last four ladies lacked both those qualities. Mind -you, I'm devoted to the family. Their father, poor old Joe, was one of -my greatest friends."</p> - -<p>"Why do you pity him?" asked Millie quickly.</p> - -<p>"Because he was one of those most unfortunate of human<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> beings—a -man who had one great ambition in life, worked for it all his days, -realized it before he died and found it dust in the mouth. The one -thing he wanted from life was money. He was a poor man all his days -until the War—then he made a corner in rum and made so much money he -didn't know what to do with himself. The confusion and excitement of it -all was too much for him and he died of apoplexy.</p> - -<p>"Only the day before he died he said to me: 'Tom, I've put my money on -the wrong horse. I've been a fool all my life.'"</p> - -<p>"And he left his money to his daughters?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"To Victoria, always his favourite. And he left it to her to do just as -she liked with and to behave as she pleased to her sisters."</p> - -<p>He had never cared about Clarice and Ellen. He was disappointed because -they weren't boys.</p> - -<p>"So Victoria's King of the Castle and knows she is, too, for all that -she's a good, kind-hearted woman. Are you interested in human beings, -Miss——?"</p> - -<p>"Trenchard," said Millie. "I am."</p> - -<p>"Well if you really are you've come to the right place. You won't -find anything more interesting in the whole of London. Here you -have right in front of your nose that curious specimen of the human -family, the New Rich, and you have it in its most touching and moving -aspect—frightened, baffled, confused, bewildered and plundered.</p> - -<p>"Plundered! My God! you'll have plenty of opportunity of discovering -the Plunderers in the next few weeks if you stay. There are some -prime specimens here. If you're a good girl—and you don't look a bad -one—you'll have a chance of saving Victoria. Another year like the one -she's just gone through and I think she'll be in an asylum!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, poor thing!" cried Millie. "Indeed I'm going to do my very best."</p> - -<p>"Mind you," he went on, "she's foolish—there never was a more foolish -woman. And she can be a tyrant too. Clarice and Ellen have a hard -time of it. But they take her the wrong way. They resent it that she -should hold the purse and they show her that they resent it. You can do -anything you like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> with her if you make her fond of you. There never -was a warmer-hearted woman."</p> - -<p>He went over to Millie's desk and stood close to her. "I'm telling you -all this, Miss Trenchard," he said, "because I like the look of you. -I believe you're just what's needed in this house. You've got all the -enchantment of youth and health and beauty if you'll forgive my saying -so. The Enchanted Age doesn't last very long, but those who are in it -can do so much for those who are outside, and generally they are so -taken up with their own excitement that they've no time to think of -those others. You'll never regret it all your life if you do something -for this household before you leave it."</p> - -<p>Millie was deeply touched. "Of course I will," she said, "if I can. And -you really think I can? I'm terribly ignorant and inexperienced."</p> - -<p>"You're not so inexperienced as they are." He held out his hand. "Come -to me if you're disheartened or bewildered. There'll be times when you -will be. I've known these women since they were babies so I can help -you."</p> - -<p>They shook hands on it.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVa" id="CHAPTER_IVa">CHAPTER IV</a></h2> - -<h3>HENRY'S FIRST DAY</h3> - - -<p>Meanwhile Henry's plunge into a cold and hostile world was of quite -another kind.</p> - -<p>One of the deep differences between brother and sister was that while -Millie was realistic Henry was romantic. He could not help but see -things in a coloured light, and now when he started out for his first -morning with his Baronet London was all lit up like a birthday cake. -He had fallen during the last year under the spell of the very newest -of the <i>Vers Librists</i>, and it had become a passion with him to find -fantastic images for everything that he saw. Moreover, the ease of -it all fascinated him. He was, God knows, no poet, but quite simply, -without any trouble at all, lines came tumbling into his head:</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The chimneys, like crimson cockatoos,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fling their grey feathers<br /></span> -<span class="i16">Wildly.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>or</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The washing<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Billowing—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Frozen egg-shells<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Crimson pantaloons<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Skyline<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Flutter.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>or</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The omnibuses herd together<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the dirty autumn weather<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Elephants in jungle town<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Monkey-nuts come pattering down.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>and so on and so on. . . .</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> - -<p>He got deep pleasure from these inspirations; he had sent three to an -annual anthology <i>Hoops</i>, and one of them, "Railway-Lines—Bucket-shop," -was to appear in the 1920 volume.</p> - -<p>But the trouble with Henry was that cheek by jowl with this modern -up-to-date impulse ran a streak of real old-fashioned, entirely -out-of-date Romance. It was true, as Millie had informed Miss Platt, -that he had written ten chapters of a story, <i>The House in the Lonely -Wood</i>.</p> - -<p>How desperately was he ashamed of his impulse to write this romance and -yet how at the same time he loved doing it! Was ever young literary -genius in a more shameful plight! A true case of double personality! -With the day he pursued the path of all the young 1920 Realists, -believing that nothing matters but "the Truth, the calm, cold, -unaffected Truth," thrilling to the voices of the Three Graces, loving -the company of the somewhat youthful editor of <i>Hoops</i>, reading every -word that fell from the pen of the younger realistic critics.</p> - -<p>And then at night out came the other personality and Henry, hair on -end, the penny bottle of ink in front of him, pursued, alas happily -and with the divine shining behind his eyelids, the simple path of -unadulterated, unashamed Romance!</p> - -<p>What would the Three Graces say, how would the editor of <i>Hoops</i> regard -him, did they know what he did night after night in the secrecy of his -own chamber, or rather of Mr. King's chamber? Perhaps they would not -greatly care—they did not in any case consider him as of any very real -importance. Nevertheless he could not but feel that he was treating -them to double-dealing.</p> - -<p>And then his trouble was suddenly healed by the amazing, overwhelming -adventure of Piccadilly Circus. As he had discovered at the Hunters' -party, nothing now mattered but the outcome of that adventure. He -worked at his Romance with redoubled vigour; it did not seem to him -any longer a shameful affair, simply because he had now in his own -experience a Romance greater and wilder than any fancy could give him. -Also images and similes occurred to him more swiftly than ever, and -they were no longer modern, no longer had any connection with <i>Hoops</i> -or the new critics, but were simply the attempts that his own soul -was making to clothe Her and everything about Her, even Her horrible -mother, with all the beauty and colour that his genius could provide. -(Henry did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> really, at this time, doubt that he had genius—the -doubting time was later.)</p> - -<p>It will be seen then that he started for Sir Charles Duncombe's house -in a very romantic spirit.</p> - -<p>The address was No. 13 Hill Street, Berkeley Square, so that Henry had -a very little way to go from his Panton Street room. Hill Street is a -bright, cheerful place enough with a sense of dignity and age about it -and a consciousness that it knows only the very best people. Even the -pillar-boxes and the lamp-posts call for decorum and are accustomed, -you can see, to butlers, footmen and very superior ladies'-maids. -But it cannot be denied that many of the Hill Street houses are dark -inside and No. 13 is no exception to that rule. Unlike most of the -Hill Street houses which all often change masters, No. 13 had been in -the possession of the Duncombe family for a great many years, ever -since the days of Queen Anne, in fact, the days of the famous Richard -Duncombe who, being both the most desperate gambler and the astutest -brain for a bargain in all London, made and lost fortunes with the -greatest frequency.</p> - -<p>Henry on this first morning knew nothing about the family history of -the Duncombes, but if he had known he might have readily believed that -so far as the hall and the butler went no change whatever had been made -since those elegant polished Queen Anne days. The hall was so dark and -the butler so old that Henry dared neither to move, lest he should -fall over something, nor to speak lest it should seem irreverent. He -stood, therefore, rooted to the stone floor and muttered something so -inaudibly that the old man courteously waiting could not hear at all.</p> - -<p>"Henry Trenchard," he said at last, looking wildly about him. How the -cold seemed to strike up through the stone flags into his very marrow!</p> - -<p>"Quite so, sir," said the old man. "Sir Charles is expecting you."</p> - -<p>Up an enormous stone staircase they went, Henry's boots making a great -clatter, his teeth against his will chattering. Portraits looked down -upon him, but so dark it was that you could only catch a glimmer of -their old gold frames.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - -<p>To Henry, modern though he might endeavour to be, there would recur -persistently that picture—the most romantic picture perhaps in all -his childish picture-gallery—of Alan Fairford, sick and ill, dragged -by Nanty Ewart through the dying avenues of Fairladies, having at long -last that interview with the imperious Father Bonaventure in the long -gallery of the crumbling house—the interview, the secret letter, the -mysterious lady "whose step was that of a queen." "Whose neck and bosom -were admirably formed, and of a dazzling whiteness"—the words still -echoed in Henry's heart calling from that far day when a tiny boy in -his attic at Garth he read by the light of a dipping candle the history -of <i>Redgauntlet</i> from a yellowing closely-printed page.</p> - -<p>Here, in the very heart of London was Fairladies once again and who -could tell? . . . Might not the spring in the wall be touched, a -bookcase step aside and a lady, "her neck and bosom of a startling -whiteness," appear? For shame! He had now his own lady. The time had -gone by for dreams. He came to reality with a start, finding himself in -a long dusky library so thickly embedded with old books that the air -was scented with the crushed aroma of old leather bindings. A long oak -table confronted him and behind the table, busily engaged with writing, -was his new master.</p> - -<p>The old man muttered something and was gone. Sir Charles did not -look up and Henry, his heart beating fast, was able to study his -surroundings. The library was all that the most romantic soul could -have wished it. The ceiling was high and stamped with a gold pattern. -A gallery about seven feet from the ground ran round the room, and a -little stairway climbed up to this; except for their high diamond-paned -windows on one side of the room the bookcases completely covered the -walls; thousands upon thousands of old books glimmered behind their -gold tooling, the gold running like a thin mist from wall to wall.</p> - -<p>Above the wide stone fireplace there was a bust of a sharp-nosed -gentleman in whig and stock, very supercilious and a little dusty.</p> - -<p>With all this Henry also took surreptitious peeps at Sir Charles, and -what he saw did not greatly reassure him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> was a very thin man, -dressed in deep black and a high white collar that would in other days -have been called Gladstonian, bald, tight-lipped and with the same -peaked bird-like nose as the gentleman above the fireplace. He gave an -impression of perfect cleanness, neatness and order. Everything on the -table, letter-weight, reference-books, paper knife, silver ink-bottle, -pens and sealing-wax, was arranged so definitely that these things -might have been stuck on to the table with glue. Sir Charles's hands -were long, thin and bird-shaped like his nose. Henry, as he snatched -glimpses of this awe-inspiring figure, was acutely conscious of his own -deficiencies; he felt tumbled, rumpled, and crumpled. Whereas, only a -quarter of an hour ago walking down Hill Street, he had felt debonair, -smart and fashionable (far of course from what he really was), so -unhappily impressionable was he.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the hand was raised, the pen laid carefully down, the nose -shot out across the table.</p> - -<p>"You are Mr. Trenchard?" asked a voice that made Henry feel as though -he were a stiff sheet of paper being slowly cut by a very sharp knife.</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir," he said.</p> - -<p>"Very well. . . . We have only corresponded hitherto. Mr. Mark is your -cousin, I think?"</p> - -<p>"My brother-in-law, sir."</p> - -<p>"Quite. A very able fellow. He should go far."</p> - -<p>Henry had never cared for Philip who, in his own private opinion, -should have never gone any distance at all, but on the present occasion -he could only offer up a very ineffective "Yes."</p> - -<p>"Very well. You have never been anybody's secretary before?"</p> - -<p>"No, sir."</p> - -<p>"And you understand that I am giving you a month's trial entirely on -your brother-in-law's recommendation?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>"And what"—here the nose shot out and forward in most alarming -fashion—"do you understand a secretary's duties to be?"</p> - -<p>Henry smiled rather to give himself confidence than for any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> other -very definite reason. "Well, sir, I should say that you would want to -me to write letters to your dictation and keep your papers in order -and, perhaps, to interview people whom you don't wish to see yourself -and—and,—possibly to entrust me with missions of importance."</p> - -<p>"Hum. . . . Quite. . . . I understand that you can typewrite and that -you know shorthand?"</p> - -<p>"Well, sir"—here Henry smiled again—"I think I had better be frank -with you from the beginning. I don't typewrite very well. I told Philip -not to lay much emphasis on that. And my shorthand is pretty quick, but -I can't generally read it afterwards."</p> - -<p>"Indeed! And would you mind telling me why, with these deficiencies, -you fancied that you would make me a good secretary?"</p> - -<p>Henry's heart sank. He saw himself within the next five minutes -politely ushered down the stone staircase, through the front door and -so out into Hill Street.</p> - -<p>"I don't think," he said, "that I will make you a very good secretary, -not in the accepted sense. I know that I shall make mistakes and be -clumsy and forgetful, but I will do my very best and you can trust me, -and—I am really not such a fool as I often look."</p> - -<p>These were the very last words that Henry had intended to say. It was -as though some one else had spoken them for him. Now he had ruined his -chances. There was nothing for it but to accept his dismissal and go.</p> - -<p>However, Sir Charles seemed to take it all as the most natural thing in -the world.</p> - -<p>"Quite," he said. "Your brother-in-law tells me that you are an author."</p> - -<p>"I'm not exactly one yet," said Henry. "I hope to be one soon, but of -course the war threw me back."</p> - -<p>"And what kind of an author do you intend to be?"</p> - -<p>"I mean to be a novelist," said Henry, feeling quite sure that this was -the very last thing that Sir Charles would ever consider any one ought -to be.</p> - -<p>"Exactly. And you will I suppose be doing your own work when you ought -to be doing mine?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, I won't," said Henry eagerly. "I can't pretend that I won't -sometimes be thinking of it. It's very hard to keep it out of one's -head sometimes. But I'll do my best not to."</p> - -<p>"Quite. . . . Won't you sit down?" Henry sat down on a stiff-backed -chair.</p> - -<p>"If you will kindly listen I will explain to you what I shall wish -you to do for me. As you have truly suggested I shall need some help -with my letters; some typing also will be necessary. But the main -work I have in hand for you is another matter. My grandfather, Ronald -Duncombe, was a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh during the first -thirty years of the nineteenth century. He was a great letter-writer, -and knew all the most interesting personalities of his time. You, -doubtless, like all the new generation, despise your parents and laugh -at your grandparents." Sir Charles paused here as though he expected an -answer to a question.</p> - -<p>"Oh no," said Henry hurriedly. "My grandfather's dead—he died a few -years ago—but he was a very fine old man indeed. We all thought a -great deal of him."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad to hear it. That will make you perhaps the more sympathetic -to this work that I have for you. There are several black boxes in the -cupboard over there filled with letters. Walter Scott was an intimate -friend of his—of course, you despise Walter Scott?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," said Henry fervently, "I don't, I assure you."</p> - -<p>"Hum. Quite. When one of you young men writes something better than he -did I'll begin to read you. Not before."</p> - -<p>"No," said Henry, who nevertheless longed to ask Sir Charles how he -knew that the young men of to-day did not write better seeing that he -never read them.</p> - -<p>"In those boxes there are letters from Byron and Wordsworth and Crabbe -and Hogg and many other great men of the time. There are also many -letters of no importance. I intend to edit my grandfather's letters and -I wish you to prepare them for me."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"I wish you to be here punctually at nine every morning. I may say that -I consider punctuality of great importance. You will help me with my -own correspondence until ten-thirty;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> from ten-thirty until one you -will be engaged on my grandfather's letters. My sister will be very -glad that you should have luncheon with us whenever you care to. I -shall not generally require you in the afternoon, but sometimes I shall -expect you to remain here all day. I shall wish you always to be free -to do so when I need you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes I shall be at Duncombe Hall in Wiltshire and shall want -you to stay with me there at certain periods. I hope that you will -not ask more questions than are absolutely necessary as I dislike -being disturbed. You are of course at liberty to use any books in this -library that you please, but I hope that you will always put them back -in their right places. I dislike very much seeing books bent back or -laid face downwards."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry. "So do I."</p> - -<p>"Quite. . . . And now, are there any questions that you will like to -ask?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Henry. "If there are any questions that I want to ask would -you prefer that I asked them when I thought of them or kept them until -the end of the morning and asked them all together?"</p> - -<p>"That had better depend on your own judgment."</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>"That table over there," said Sir Charles, pointing to one near the -window, "is a good one for you to work at. I should suggest that -you begin this morning with the box labelled 1816-1820. That is the -cupboard to your right. It is not locked."</p> - -<p>The first movement across the floor to the cupboard was an agonizing -one. Henry felt as though everything in the room were listening to him, -as though the gentleman with the nose on the mantelpiece was saying -to him: "You'll never do here. Look at the noise your boots make. Of -course you won't do."</p> - -<p>However he got safely across, opened the cupboard which creaked -viciously, found the black boxes and the one that he needed. It was -very heavy, but he brought it to the table without much noise. Down -he sat, carefully opened it and looked inside. Pile upon pile of -old yellow letters lay there, packet after packet of them tied with -faded red tape. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>thing within him thrilled to their age, to their -pathos, to their humility, to the sense that they carried up to him -of the swift passing of time, the touching childishness of human -hopes, despair and ambitions. He felt suddenly like an ant crawling -laboriously over a gleaming and slippery globe of incredible vastness. -The letters seemed to rebuke him as though he had been boasting of his -pride and youth and his confidence in his own security. He took out the -first bundle, reverently undid the tape and began to read. . . .</p> - -<p>Soon he was absorbed even as his sister Millicent, at that same moment -in the Cromwell Road, was absorbed in a very different collection -of letters, on this her second Platt morning. The library with its -thousands of books enfolded Henry as though now it approved of him and -might love him did he stay reverently in its midst caring for the old -things and the old people—the old things that pass, the old people who -seem to die but do not. At first every letter thrilled him. The merest -note:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p> - -<span class="smcap">15 Castle St., Edinburgh</span>,<br /> -<br /> -<i>June 4, 1816</i>.<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Ronald</span>—What about coming in to see us? All -at Hartley well and easy—Mamma has been in Edinburgh after a -cook—no joking matter—and to see Benjie who was but indifferent, -but has recovered. . . . I will write a long letter soon, but my -back and eyes ache with these three pages. . . .</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then a note about a dinner-party, then about a parcel of books, then -a letter from Italy full of the glories of Florence; then (how Henry -shivered with pleasure as he saw it!) the hand and sign of the Magician -himself!</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir Ronald Duncombe</span>—I am coming to town I trust -within the fortnight, but my trees are holding me here for the -moment. I have been saddened lately by the death of my poor -brother, Major John Scott, who was called home after a long -illness. All here wish to be remembered to you.—Most truly yours,</p> - -<p> -<span class="smcap">Walter Scott</span>.<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p>A terrible temptation came to Henry—so swift that it seemed to be -suggested by some one sitting beside him—to slip the letter into his -pocket. This was the first time in all his days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> that he had had such -a letter in his hand, because, although his father had been for many -years a writer of books on this very period, his material had been -second-hand, even third-hand material. Henry felt a slight contempt for -his father as he sat there.</p> - -<p>Then, as the minutes swung past, he was aware that he should be doing -something more than merely looking at the old letters and complimenting -them on their age and pretty pathos. He should be arranging them. Yes, -arranging them, but how? He began helplessly to pick them up, look at -them and lay them on the table again. Many of them had no dates at -all, many were signed only with Christian names, some were not signed -at all. And how was he to decide on the important ones? How did he -know that he would not pass, through ignorance and inexperience, some -signature of world-significance? The letters began to look at him with -less approval, even with a certain cynical malevolence. They all looked -the same with their faded yellow paper and their confusing handwriting. -He had many of them on the table, unbound from their red tape, lying -loosely about him and yet the box seemed as full as ever. And there -were many more boxes! . . . Suddenly, from the very bowels of the -house, a gong sounded.</p> - -<p>"You can wash your hands in that little room to the right," said Sir -Charles, whose personality suddenly returned as though Henry had -pressed a button. "Luncheon will be waiting for us."</p> - -<p>And this was the conclusion of Henry's first appearance as a private -secretary.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Va" id="CHAPTER_Va">CHAPTER V</a></h2> - -<h3>THE THREE FRIENDS</h3> - - -<p>Upon the afternoon of that same day at five of the clock they were -gathered together in Mr. King's friendly attic—Henry, Millicent and -Westcott. Because there was so little room Henry and Millie sat on the -bed, Peter Westcott having the honour of the cane-bottomed chair, which -looked small enough under his large square body.</p> - -<p>The attic window was open and the spring afternoon sun came in, -bringing with it, so Henry romantically fancied, a whiff from the -flower-baskets in Piccadilly and the bursting buds of the St. James's -Church trees—also petrol from the garage next door and, as Peter -asserted, patchouli and orange-peel from the Comedy Theatre.</p> - -<p>At first, as is often the case with tea-parties, there was a little -stiffness. It was absurd that on this occasion it should be so; -nevertheless the honest fact was that Millie did not care very greatly -for Peter and that Henry knew this. She did not care for him, Henry -contended, because she did not know him, and this might be because -in all their lives they had only met once or twice, Millie generally -making some excuse when she knew that Peter would be present.</p> - -<p>Was this jealousy? Indignantly she would have denied it. Rather she -would have said that it was because she did not think that he made a -very good friend for her dear Henry. He was, in her eyes, a rather -battered, grumpy, sulky, middle-aged man who was here married and -there not married at all, distinctly a failure, immoral probably and -certainly a cynic. None of these things would she mind for herself of -course, but Henry was so much younger than she, so much more innocent, -she happily fancied, about the wicked ways of the world. Westcott would -spoil him, take the bloom off him, make him old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> before his time—that -is what she liked to tell him. And perhaps if they had not met on this -special afternoon that little barrier would never have been leaped, but -to-day they had so much to tell and to hear that restraint was soon -impossible, and Henry himself had so romantic a glow in his eyes, and -his very hair, that it made at once the whole meeting exceptional. This -glow was indeed the very first thing that Millie noticed.</p> - -<p>"Why, Henry," she said as soon as she sat down on the bed, "what <i>has</i> -happened to you?"</p> - -<p>He was swinging on the bed, hugging his knees.</p> - -<p>"There's nothing the matter," he said. "I'm awfully happy, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Happy because of the Baronet?"</p> - -<p>"No, not so much the Baronet although he's all right, and it's awfully -interesting if I can only do the work. No, it's something else. I'll -tell you all about it when we've had tea. I say, Millie, how stunning -you look in that orange jumper. You ought always to wear orange. -Oughtn't she, Peter?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Peter, his eyes fixed gravely upon her.</p> - -<p>Millie flushed a little. She didn't want Westcott's approval. A -nuisance that he was here at all! It would be so much easier to discuss -everything with Henry were he not here.</p> - -<p>Mr. King arrived, very solemn, very superior, very dead.</p> - -<p>He put down the tray upon the rather rickety little table. They all -watched him in silence. When he had gone Henry chuckled.</p> - -<p>"He thinks I'm awful," Henry said. "Too awful for anything. I don't -suppose he's ever despised any one before as he despises me, and it -makes him happy. He loves to have some one who's awful. And now about -Miss Platt—every bit about Miss Platt from her top to her toe!"</p> - -<p>He went to the tea-table and began to pour out the tea, wishing that -Millie and Peter would like one another better and not look so cross.</p> - -<p>Millie began. She had come that afternoon burning to tell everything -about the Platt household, and then when she saw Westcott there she was -closed like an oyster. However, for Henry's sake she must do something, -so she began because in her own way she was as truly creative as Henry -was in his. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> found that she was enjoying herself and it grew -under her hand, the Platt house, the Platt rooms, the Platt family, -Victoria and Ellen and Clarice, and the little doctor and Beppo and the -housekeeper and the statue of Eve and all the letters. . . .</p> - -<p>They began to laugh; she was laughing so that she could not speak and -Henry was laughing so that the two brazen and unsympathetic muffins -which Mr. King had provided fell on to the carpet, and then Peter -laughed and laughed more than that, and more again, and any ice that -there had ever been was cracked, riven, utterly smashed!</p> - -<p>They all fell into the Pond together and found it so warm and -comfortable that they decided to stay there for the rest of the -afternoon.</p> - -<p>"Of course," said Millie, "it entirely remains to be seen whether I'm -up to the job. I'm not even sure that I can manage the correspondence, -I'm almost certain that I can't manage the servants. The housekeeper -hates me already—and then there are the sisters."</p> - -<p>"Ellen and Clarice."</p> - -<p>Millie nodded her head. "They <i>are</i> queer. But then the situation's -queer. Victoria's got all the money and likes the power. They have to -do what she says or leave the house and start all alone in a cold and -unsympathetic world. They couldn't do that, they couldn't earn their -livings for five minutes. Clarice thinks she can sing and act. You -should hear her! Ellen does little but sulk. Victoria gives them fine -big allowances, but she likes to feel they are her slaves. They'd give -anything for their freedom, marry anybody anywhere—but they <i>won't</i> -plunge! How can they? They'd starve in a week."</p> - -<p>"And would their sister let them?" asked Peter.</p> - -<p>"No, I don't think she would," said Millie. "But she'd have them back -and they'd be no better off than before. She's a kind-hearted creature, -but just loves the power her money gives her—and hasn't the least idea -what to do with it! She's as bewildered as though, after being in a -dark room all her life, she were suddenly flung into the dancing-hall -in Hampstead. . . . Oh, it's a queer time!"</p> - -<p>Millie sprang up from the bed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Every one's bewildered, the ones that have money and didn't have it, -the ones that haven't money and used to have it, the ones with ideas -and the ones without, the ones with standards and the ones without, -the cliché ones and the old-fashioned ones, the ones that want fun -and the ones that want to pray, the ugly ones and the pretty ones, -the bold ones and the frightened ones. . . . Everything's breaking up -and everything's turning into new shapes and new colours. And I love -it! I love it! I love it! I oughtn't to, it's wrong to, I can't help -it! . . . . It's enchanting!"</p> - -<p>As she stood there, the sun streaming in upon her from the little -window and illuminating her gay colours and her youth and health and -beauty she seemed to Peter Westcott a sudden flame and fire burning -there, in that little attic to show to the world that youth never -dies, that life is eternal, that hope and love and beauty are stronger -than governments and wars and the changing of forms and boundaries. -It was an unforgettable moment to him, and even though it emphasized -all the more his own loneliness it seemed to whisper to him that that -loneliness would not be for ever.</p> - -<p>"Hold on!" said Henry. "Look out, Millie! The table's very shaky and if -the plates are broken King will make me pay at least twice what they're -worth. You know it's a funny thing, but I'm seeing just the other side -of the picture. Your people have just got all their money, my people -have just lost all theirs. Before the war, so far as I can make out, -Duncombe was quite well off. Most of it came from land, and that's gone -down and the Income Tax has come up, and there's hardly anything left. -They think they'll have to sell Duncombe Hall which has been in the -family for centuries, and that will pretty well break their hearts I -fancy."</p> - -<p>"They? Who's they?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"There's a sister," said Henry. "Lady Bell-Hall—Margaret She's the -funniest little woman you ever saw. She's a widow. Her husband died -in the war—of general shock I should fancy—air-raids and money and -impertinence from the lower classes. The widow nearly died from the -same thing. She always wears black and a bonnet, and jumps if any one -makes the least sound. At the same time she's as proud as Lucifer and -good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> too. She's just bewildered. She can't understand things at all. -The word written on her heart when she comes to die will be Bolshevist. -She talks all the time and it's from her I know all this!"</p> - -<p>"And Duncombe himself? What's he like?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Oh, he's queer! I like him but I can't make out what he thinks. He -never shows any sign. He will, I suppose, before long. I shall make so -many muddles and mistakes that I shall just be shown the door at the -end of the month. However, he can't say I didn't warn him. I told him -from the beginning just what I was. I know I'm going to have an awful -time with those letters. They all look so exactly alike, and many of -them haven't got any dates at all, and then I go off dreaming. It's -almost impossible not to in that library. It's full of ghosts, and the -letters are full of ghosts as well. And I'm sorry for those two. It -must be awful, everything that you believe in going, the only world -you've ever known coming to an end before your eyes, every one denying -all the things you've believed in and laughing at them. He's brave, old -Duncombe. He'll go down fighting."</p> - -<p>"And what's the other thing?" said Millie, sitting down on the bed -again, "that you were going to tell me?"</p> - -<p>Henry told his adventure. He did not look at Millie as he told it; he -did not want to see whether she approved or disapproved; he was afraid -that she would laugh. She laughed at so many things, and most of all he -was afraid lest she should say something about the girl. If she did say -anything he would have to stand it.</p> - -<p>After all Millie had not seen her. . . . So he talked, staring at -the little pink clouds that were now forming beyond the window just -over the "Comedy" roof—they were like lumps of coral against the -sky—three, four, five . . . then they merged into two billowing -pillows of colour, slowly fading into a deep crimson, then breaking -into long strips of orange lazily forming against a blue that grew -paler and paler and at last, as he ended, was white like water under -glass.</p> - -<p>He stopped.</p> - -<p>"How long ago was all this?" Millie asked at last.</p> - -<p>"Two days back."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Have you seen her since?"</p> - -<p>"No. I've been round that street several times. I know it by heart. I -haven't dared go up—not so soon again."</p> - -<p>"I wish I'd seen her," Millie said slowly. Then she added, "Anyway you -must go on with it, Henry. You've promised to help her and so of course -you must. If she's taking you in it will do you good to be taken in. It -will teach you not to be such an ass another time. If she's not taking -you in——"</p> - -<p>"Of course she's not taking me in," Henry answered hotly. "I know that -you and Peter think me a baby and that I haven't any idea of things. -You've always thought that, Millie, but I'm sure I don't know what you -base it on. I'm hardly ever wrong. Wasn't I right about Philip? Isn't -he just the prig I always thought him, and didn't he take Katherine -away from us and break us all up just as I said he would?</p> - -<p>"And as to girls you both look so learned as though you knew such a -lot, but when have I ever been foolish about girls? I've never cared -the least bit about them until now. I've been waiting, I think, until -she came along. Because I'm not always tidy and break things, you both -think I'm an ass. But I'm not an ass, as I'll show you."</p> - -<p>Millie went across to him and kissed him on the forehead.</p> - -<p>"Of course I don't think you an ass. But you are easily taken in by -people—you always believe what they say."</p> - -<p>Henry nodded his head. "Perhaps I don't so much as I mean to. But it's -the best thing to try to. You get far more that way."</p> - -<p>The three sat there in silence. At last Millicent said:</p> - -<p>"Isn't it queer? Here's the world on the very edge of every sort of -adventure, and here are we on the very edge too? I feel in my bones -that we shall go through great things this year—all of us. Unpleasant -and pleasant—all sorts. I don't believe that there's ever been in all -history such a time for adventure as now."</p> - -<p>Henry jumped up from behind the table.</p> - -<p>"That's true!" he cried. "And whatever happens we three will stick -together. Nothing shall separate us—nothing; and nobody. You and I and -Peter. We'll never let anybody come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> between us. We'll be the three -best friends the world has ever seen!"</p> - -<p>He caught Millie's hand. She looked up at him, smiling. He came across -and caught Peter's also. Suddenly Millicent put out hers and took -Peter's free one.</p> - -<p>"You're a sentimental donkey, Henry," she said. "But there's something -in what you say."</p> - -<p>Peter flushed. "I'm older than both of you," he said, "and I'm dull and -slow but I'll do what I can."</p> - -<p>There was a knock on the door and they sprang apart. It was Mr. King to -take away the tea.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="BOOK_II" id="BOOK_II">BOOK II</a></h2> - -<h3>HIGH SUMMER</h3> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a><br /><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ib" id="CHAPTER_Ib">CHAPTER I</a></h2> - -<h3>SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE</h3> - - -<p>Now might young Henry be considered by any observer of average -intelligence to be fairly launched into the world—he is in love, he -is confidential secretary to a gentleman of importance, he has written -ten chapters of a romantic novel and he is living in chambers all on -his own. It has been asserted again and again that the Great War of -1914 turned many thousands of boys into old men long before their time. -The exact contrary may also be proved to be true—namely that the -War caught many boys in their teens, held them in a sort of vise for -five years, keeping them from life as it is usually lived, teaching -them nothing but war and then suddenly flinging them out into a Peace -about which they were as ignorant as blind puppies. Boys of eighteen -chronologically supposed to be twenty-four and superficially disguised -as men of forty and disillusioned cynical men at that, those were to be -found in their thousands in that curious tangled year of 1920. Henry -thought he was a man; he was much less a man than he would have been -had no war broken out at all.</p> - -<p>On the afternoon following the tea party just now described he left -Hill Street about four o'clock, his head up and his chest out, a very -fine figure indeed had it not been that, unknown to himself, his tie -had stepped up to the top of his collar at the back of his neck and -there was a small smudge of ink just in the right corner of his nose. -He had had a very happy day, very quiet, very peaceful, and he was -encouraged to believe that he had been a great success. It was true -that Sir Charles had addressed very few words to himself and that Lady -Bell-Hall had addressed so many during luncheon that he had felt like -a canary peppered with bird-seed, but he did not expect Sir Charles -to speak very often, nor did he mind how fre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>quently the funny little -woman in the bonnet spoke, so long as she liked him. It had all been -very easy, and the letters had been entrancing, so entrancing that -Berkeley Square seemed to be Princes Street, and he could see through -the open door Sir Walter's hall and Maria Edgeworth announced and the -host's cheery welcome and glorious smile, and the laughter of the -children, and Maria dragged into the circle and forced to sing the -Highland song with the rest of them, and Honest John hurrying down -Castle Street wrapped up against the cold, and the high frosty sky and -the Castle frowning over all.</p> - -<p>He had been there—surely he had been there in an earlier incarnation, -and now this. . . . He was pulled up by a taxi ringing at him fiercely, -and by the press of carriages at the Piccadilly turning.</p> - -<p>He was swung suddenly on to the business of the moment, namely that he -was going to make his first serious attempt at breaking through into -the mysteries of Peter Street, then definitely to do or die—although -as a matter of honest fact he had no intention whatever of dying just -yet. He was borne into Shaftesbury Avenue before he knew where he -was, borne by the tide of people, men and women happy in the bright -purple-hued spring afternoon, happy in spite of the hard times and -the uncertain future, borne along, too, by the cries and sounds, the -roll of the omnibuses, the screams of the taxis, the shouting of -the newsboys, the murmur of countless voices, the restless rhythm -of the unceasing life beneath the brick and mortar, the life of the -primeval forests, the ghosts of the serpents and the lions waiting with -confident patience for the earth to return to them once more.</p> - -<p>He slipped into Peter Street as into a country marked off from the -rest of the world and known to him by heart. This afternoon the -barrows and stalls were away; no one was there, not even the familiar -policeman. It was like a back-water hidden from the main river, and its -traffic by the thick barrier of the forest trees, gleaming in its own -sunlight, happy in its solitude. He found the door-bell, listened to -it go tinkling into the depths of the house, and after its cessation -heard only the thumping of his own heart and the shattered beat of the -unresting town.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> - -<p>He waited, it seemed, an unconscionable time; then slowly the door -opened, revealing to his astonished gaze the girl herself. So staggered -was he by her appearance that for the moment he could only stare. The -passage behind her was dark in spite of the strong afternoon sun.</p> - -<p>"Oh!" he said at last. "I came. . . . I came. . . ."</p> - -<p>She looked at him.</p> - -<p>"Have you come to see my mother?" The tiny slur of the foreign accent -excited him as it had done before. It seemed suddenly that he had known -her for ever.</p> - -<p>"Because if you have," she went on. "Mother's out."</p> - -<p>"No," he said boldly, "I've come to see you."</p> - -<p>She looked back to the stairs as though she were afraid that some one -were lurking there and would overhear them. She dropped her voice a -little.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Mother." Then hurriedly, "Come up. Come -up. I don't like being alone and that's the truth. If mother's angry -when she comes in I don't care. Anything's better."</p> - -<p>She turned and led the way. He followed her, smelling the stuffiness -that was like dirty blankets pressed against the nose. There was -no window to the stairs, and at the corner it was so dark that he -stumbled. He heard her laugh in the distance, then an opened door threw -light down. He was in the room where he had been before, enwrapped -still in its heavy curtains, and lit even on this lovely day with -electric light heavily clouded under the pink silk shades. She was -still laughing, standing at the other side of the table.</p> - -<p>He stood awkwardly fingering his hat. He had nothing to say, and they -were both silent a long time. Then simply because he was expecting the -hated woman's arrival at any moment he began:</p> - -<p>"I've been wanting to come all these three days. I've thought of -nothing else, of how you said I could help you—and—get you out of -this. I will. I will—I'll do anything. You can come now if you like, -and I'll take you to my sister's—she's very nice and you'll like -her—and they can do anything they like, but they shan't take you -away. . . ."</p> - -<p>He was quite breathless with excitement. She stared at him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> gravely as -though not understanding what he said. When he saw the puzzle in her -eyes his eloquence was suddenly exhausted and he could only stammer out:</p> - -<p>"That's—that's what you said the other day—that you wanted to escape."</p> - -<p>"To escape?" she repeated.</p> - -<p>"You said that."</p> - -<p>She moved her hands impatiently, and her voice dropped until it was -almost a whisper.</p> - -<p>"When you came the other day I was foolish because mother had just been -angry. I was excited because she had been angry before that horrid fat -woman—you remember? I hate her to be angry when she's there because -she likes it. She hates me because I'm young and she's old. . . . Of -course I can't get away—and how could I go with you? I don't know you. -Why, you're only a boy!" Then she added reflectively, as though she -were giving the final conclusive argument, "and you've got ink on your -nose."</p> - -<p>Henry committed then what is always a foolish seeming act at the very -best, he took out a not very clean handkerchief, licked a corner of it -with his tongue and rubbed his nose.</p> - -<p>"It's on the right side in the corner," she said, regarding him.</p> - -<p>"Is it off now?" he asked her.</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>Henry then pulled himself together and behaved like a man.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what you mean now," he said, "about not wanting me to -help you, but you did say that the other day and you must take the -consequences. I don't want to help you in any way, of course, that you -don't want to be helped, but I am sure there is something I can do for -you. And in any case I'm going on coming to see you until I'm stopped -by physical force—even then I'm going on coming."</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you this," she said suddenly. "I don't want you to come -because mother wants you to, and every one whom mother wants me to like -is horrid. Why does <i>she</i> want you to come?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know," said Henry, surprised. "She can't know -anything about me at all."</p> - -<p>"She does. She's found out in these two days. She said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> yesterday -afternoon she wondered you hadn't come, and then this morning again."</p> - -<p>Henry said: "Won't you take me as I am? Your mother doesn't know me. I -want to be <i>your</i> friend. I've wanted to from the first moment I saw -you in Piccadilly Circus."</p> - -<p>"In Piccadilly Circus?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. That's where I first saw you the other afternoon and I followed -you here."</p> - -<p>That seemed to her of no importance. "Friend?" she said frowning and -staring in front of her. "I don't like that word. Two or three have -wanted to be friends. I won't have friends. I won't have anybody. I'd -rather be alone."</p> - -<p>"I can't hurt you," said Henry very simply. "Why every one laughs at -me, even my sister who's very fond of me. They won't laugh, one day, -of course, but you see how it is. There's always ink on my nose, or I -tumble down when I want to do something important. You'd have thought -the army would have changed that, but it didn't."</p> - -<p>She smiled then. "No, you don't look as though you'd hurt anybody. But -I don't want to trust people. It only means you're disappointed again."</p> - -<p>"You can't be disappointed in me," Henry said earnestly. "Because I'm -just what you see. Please let me come and see you. I want it more than -I've ever wanted anything in my life."</p> - -<p>They both heard then steps on the stair. They stopped and listened. The -room was at once ominous, alarmed.</p> - -<p>Henry felt danger approaching, as though he could see beyond the door -with his eyes and found on the stair some dark shape, undefined and -threatening. The steps came nearer and ceased. Two were there listening -on the other side of the door as two were listening within the room.</p> - -<p>He felt the girl's fear and that suddenly stiffened his own courage. It -was almost ludicrous then when the door opened and revealed the stout -Mrs. Tenssen, clothed now in light orange and with her an old man.</p> - -<p>Henry saw at once that however eagerly she had hitherto expected him -she was not easy at his presence just now. His further glance at the -old man showed him at once an enemy for life. In any case he did not -like old men. The War had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> carried him with the rest upon the swing of -that popular cry "Every one over seventy to the lethal chamber."</p> - -<p>Moreover, he personally knew no old men, which made the cry much -simpler. This old man was not over seventy, he might indeed be still -under sixty, but his small peak of a white beard, his immaculate -clothing and his elegantly pointed patent leather shoes were sufficient -for Henry. Immaculate old men! How dared they wear anything but -sackcloth and ashes?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen, whose orange garments shone with ill-temper, shook hands -with Henry as though she expected him instantly to say: "Well, I must -be going now," but he found himself with an admirable pugnacity and -defiant resolve.</p> - -<p>"I called as I said I would," he observed pleasantly. "And I came in by -the door and not by the window," he added, laughing.</p> - -<p>She murmured something, but did not attempt to introduce him to her -companion.</p> - -<p>He meanwhile had advanced with rather mincing steps to the girl, was -bowing over her hand and then to Henry's infinite disgust was kissing -it. Then Henry forgot all else in his adoration of the girl. He will -never forget, to the end of whatever life that may be granted him, -the picture that she made at that moment, standing in the garish, -overlighted room, like a queen in her aloofness from them all, from -everything that life could offer if that room, that old man, that -woman were truly typical of its gifts. "It wasn't only," Henry said -afterwards to Peter, "that she was beautiful. Millie's beautiful—more -beautiful I suppose than Christina. But Millie is flesh and blood. -You can believe that she has toothache. But it was like a spell, a -witchery. The beastly old man himself felt it. As though he had tried -to step on to sacred ground and was thrown back on to common earth -again. By gad, Peter, you don't know how stupid he suddenly looked—and -how beastly! She's remote, a vision—not perhaps for any one to -touch—ever . . .!"</p> - -<p>"That," said Peter, "is because you're in love with her—and Millie's -your sister."</p> - -<p>"No, there's more than that. It may be partly because she's a -foreigner—but you'd feel the same if you saw her. Her remoteness, as -though the farther towards her you moved the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> farther away she'd be. -Always in the distance and knowing that you can come no nearer. And yet -if she knew that really she wouldn't be so frightened as she is. . . ."</p> - -<p>"It's all because you're so young, Henry," Peter ended up.</p> - -<p>But young or no Henry just then wasn't very happy. The old man with -his shrill voice and his ironic, almost cynical determination to be -pleased with everything that any one did or said (it came, maybe, -from a colossal and patronizing arrogance)—reminded Henry of the old -"nicky-nacky" Senator in Otway's <i>Venice Preserved</i> which he had once -seen performed by some amateur society. He remained entirely unclouded -by Mrs. Tenssen's obvious boredom and ill-temper, moods so blatantly -displayed that Henry in spite of himself was crushed.</p> - -<p>The girl showed no signs of any further interest in the company.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen sat at the table, picking her teeth with a toothpick and -saying, "Indeed!" or "Well I never!" in an abstracted fashion when -the old man's pauses seemed to demand something. Her bold eyes moved -restlessly round the room, pausing upon things as though she hated -them and sometimes upon Henry who was standing, indeterminately, first -on one foot and then on another. Something the old man said seemed -suddenly to rouse her:</p> - -<p>"Well, that's not fair, Mr. Leishman—it's not indeed. That's as good -as saying that you think I'm mean—it is indeed. Oh, yes, it is. You -can accuse me of many things—I'm not perfect—but meanness! Well you -ask my friends. You ask my friend Mrs. Armstrong who's known me as -long as any one has—almost from the cradle you might say. Mean! You -ask her. Why, only the other day, the day Mr. Prothero was here and -that young nephew of his, she said, 'Of all the generous souls on this -earth, for real generosity and no half-and-half about it, you give me -Katie Tenssen.' Of course, she's a friend as you might say and partial -perhaps—but still that's what she said and——"</p> - -<p>The old man had been trying again and again to interrupt this flood. At -last, because Mrs. Tenssen was forced to take a breath, he broke in:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No. No. Indeed not. Dear, dear, what a mistake! The last thing I was -suggesting."</p> - -<p>"Well, I hope so, I'm sure." The outburst over, Mrs. Tenssen relapsed -into teeth-picking again.</p> - -<p>Henry saw that there was nothing more to be got from the situation just -then.</p> - -<p>"I must be going," he said. "Important engagement."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen shook him by the hand. She regarded him with a wider -amiability now that he was departing.</p> - -<p>"Come and see us again," she said. "Any afternoon almost."</p> - -<p>By the door he turned, and suddenly the girl, from the far end of the -room, smiled. It was a smile of friendship, of reassurance and, best of -all, of intimacy.</p> - -<p>Under the splendour of it he felt the blood rush to his head, his eyes -were dimmed, he stumbled down the stairs, the happiest creature in -London.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The smile accompanied him for the rest of that day, through the night, -and into the Duncombe library next morning. That morning was not an -easy one for Henry. He arrived with the stern determination to work -his very hardest and before the luncheon bell sounded to reduce at -least some of the letters to discipline and sobriety. Extraordinary the -personal life that those letters seemed to possess! You would suppose -that they did not wish to be made into a book, or at any rate, if that -had to be, that they did not wish the compiler of the work to be Henry. -They slipped from under his fingers, hid themselves, deprived him of -dates just when he most urgently needed them, gave him Christian names -when he must have surnames, and were sometimes so old and faded and -yellow that it was impossible to make anything out of them at all.</p> - -<p>Sir Charles had as yet shown no sign. Of what he was thinking it was -impossible to guess. He had not yet given Henry any private letters -to write, and the first experiment on the typewriter was still to be -made. One day soon he would spring, and with his long nose hanging -over the little tattered, disordered piles on Henry's table would peer -and finger and examine: Henry knew that that moment was approaching -and that he must have something ready, but this morning he <i>could</i> not -con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>centrate. The plunge into life had been too sudden. The girl was -with him in the room, standing just a little way from him smiling at -him. . . .</p> - -<p>And behind her again there were Millie and the Platts, and Peter -and the three Graces, and the Romantic Novel and even Mr. King—and -behind these again all London with its banging, clattering, booming -excitement, the omnibuses running, the flags flying, the Bolshevists -with their plots, and the shops with their jewels and flowers, the -actors and actresses rehearsing in the theatres, the messenger boys -running with messages, the policemen standing with hands outstretched, -the newspapers announcing the births and the deaths and the marriages, -D'Annunzio in Fiume, the Poles in Warsaw fighting for their lives, the -Americans in New York drinking secretly in little back bedrooms and the -sun rising and setting all over the place at an incredible speed.</p> - -<p>It was of no use to say that Henry had nothing to do with any of these -things. He might have something to do with any one of them at any -moment. Stop for an instant to see whether the ground is going to open -in Piccadilly Circus and you are lost!—or found!—at any rate, you -are taken, neck and crop, and flung into life whether you wish it or -no. And Henry did wish it! He loved this nearness and closeness, this -sense of being both one of the audience and the actors at one and the -same time! Meanwhile the letters, with their gentle slightly scornful -evocation of another world, only a little behind this one, and in its -own opinion at any rate, infinitely superior to it, were waiting for -his concentration.</p> - -<p>Then the Duncombe family itself was beginning to absorb him, with its -own dramatic possibilities. At luncheon that day he was made forcibly -aware of that drama.</p> - -<p>Lady Bell-Hall had from the first stirred his eager sympathies. He was -so very sorry for the poor little woman. He did so eagerly wish that he -could persuade her to be a little less frightened at the changes that -were going on around her. After all, if Duncombe Hall <i>had</i> to be sold -and if she <i>were</i> forced to live in a little flat and have only one -servant, did it matter so terribly? Even though Soviets were set up in -London and strange men with red handkerchiefs and long black beards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> -did sit at Westminster there would still be many delightful things -left to enjoy! Her health was good, her appetite quite admirable and -the Young Women's Christian Association and Society for the Comfort of -Domestic Servants and the League of Pity for Aged Widowers (some among -many of Lady Bell-Hall's interests) would in all probability survive -many Revolutions or, at least, even though they changed their names, -would turn into something equally useful and desirous of help. He -longed to say some of these things to her.</p> - -<p>His opportunity suddenly and rather uncomfortably arrived.</p> - -<p>Lady Bell-Hall in appearance resembled a pretty little pig—that -is, she had the features of a pig, a very young pig before time has -enveloped it in fat. And so soft and pink were her cheeks, so round her -little arms, of so delicate a white her little nose, so beseechingly -grey her eyes that you realised very forcibly how charming and -attractive sucklings might easily be. She sat at the end of the round -mahogany table in the long dark dining-room, talked to her unresponsive -brother and sometimes to Henry in a soft gentle voice with a little -plaint in it, infinitely touching and pathetic, hoping against hope for -the best.</p> - -<p>To-day there came to the luncheon an old friend of the family, whose -name Henry had once or twice heard, a Mr. Light-Johnson.</p> - -<p>Mr. Light-Johnson was a long, thin, cadaverous-looking man with black -sleek hair and a voice like a murmuring brook. He paid no attention to -Henry and very little to Duncombe, but he sat next to Lady Bell-Hall -and leaned towards her and stared into her face with large wondering -eyes that seemed always to be brimming with unshed tears.</p> - -<p>There are pessimists and pessimists, and it seems to be one of the -assured rules of life that however the world may turn, whatever -unexpected joys may flash upon the horizon, however many terrible -disasters may be averted from mankind, pessimists will remain -pessimists to the end. And such a pessimist as this Henry had never -before seen.</p> - -<p>He had an irritating, tantalizing habit of lifting a spoonful of soup -to his lips and then putting it down again because of his interest in -what he was saying.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What I feared last Wednesday," he said, "has already come true."</p> - -<p>"Oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "What is that?"</p> - -<p>"The Red Flag is flying in East Croydon. The Workers' Industrial Union -have commandeered the Y.M.C.A reading-room and have issued a manifesto -to the Croydon Parish Council."</p> - -<p>"Dear, dear! Dear, dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall.</p> - -<p>"It is a melancholy satisfaction," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "to think -how right one was last Wednesday. I hardly expected that my words would -be justified so quickly."</p> - -<p>"And do you think," said Lady Bell-Hall, "that the movement—taking -Y.M.C.A. reading-rooms I mean—will spread quickly over London?"</p> - -<p>"Dear Lady," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "I can't disguise from you that I -fear the worst. It would be foolish to do any other. I have a cousin, -Major Merriward—you've heard me speak of him—whose wife is a niece of -one of Winston Churchill's secretaries. He told me last night at the -Club that Churchill's levity!—well, it's scandalous—Nero fiddling -while Rome burns isn't in it at all! I must tell you frankly that I -expect complete Bolshevist rule in London within the next three months."</p> - -<p>"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "Do have a little of that -turbot, Mr. Johnson. You're eating nothing. I'm only too afraid you're -right. The banks will close and we shall all starve."</p> - -<p>"For the upper classes," said Mr. Johnson, "the consequences will be -truly terrible. In Petrograd to-day Dukes and Duchesses are acting as -scavengers in the streets. What else can we expect? I heard from a man -in the Club yesterday, whose son was in the Archangel forces that it is -Lenin's intention to move to London and to make it the centre of his -world rule. I leave it to you to imagine, Lady Bell-Hall, how safe any -of us will be when we are in the power of Chinese and Mongols."</p> - -<p>"Chinese!" cried Lady Bell-Hall. "Chinese!"</p> - -<p>"Undoubtedly. They will police London or what is left of it, because -there will of course be severe fighting first, and nowadays, with -aerial warfare what it is, a few days' conflict will reduce London to a -heap of ruins."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And what about the country?" asked Lady Bell-Hall. "I'm sure the -villagers at Duncombe are very friendly. And so they ought to be -considering the way that Charles has always treated them."</p> - -<p>"It's from the peasantry that I fear the worst," said Mr. -Light-Johnson. "After all it has always been so. Think of La Vendée, -think of the Russian peasantry in this last Revolution. No, there is -small comfort there, I'm afraid."</p> - -<p>Throughout this little conversation Duncombe had kept silent. Now he -broke in with a little ironic chuckle; this was the first time that -Henry had heard him laugh.</p> - -<p>"Just think, Margaret," he said, "of Spiders. Spiders is our gardener, -Light-Johnson, a stout cheery fellow. He will probably be local -executioner."</p> - -<p>Light-Johnson turned and looked at his host with reproachful eyes.</p> - -<p>"Many a true word before now has been spoken in jest, Duncombe," -he said. "You will at any rate not deny that this coming winter is -going to be an appalling one—what with strikes, unemployment and the -price of food for ever going up—all this with the most incompetent -Government that any country has ever had in the world's history. -I don't think that even you, Duncombe, can call the outlook very -cheerful."</p> - -<p>"Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," said -Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-Johnson. Perhaps this -is the end of the world. Who knows? And what does it matter if it is?"</p> - -<p>"Really, Charles!" Lady Bell-Hall was eating her cutlet with great -rapidity, as though she expected a naked Chinaman to jump in through -the window at any moment and snatch it from her. "But seriously, Mr. -Light-Johnson, do you see no hope anywhere?"</p> - -<p>"Frankly none at all. I don't think any one could call me a pessimist. -I simply look at things as they are—the true duty of every man."</p> - -<p>"And what do you think one ought to do?"</p> - -<p>"For myself," said Light-Johnson, helping himself to another cutlet, -"I shall spend the coming winter on the Riviera—Mentone, I think. The -Income Tax is so scandalous that I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> probably live in the south of -France during the next year or two."</p> - -<p>"And so shoulder your responsibilities like a true British citizen," -said Duncombe. "I'm sure you're right. You're lucky to be able to get -away so easily."</p> - -<p>Light-Johnson's sallow cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Of course, if -I felt that I could do any good I would remain," he said. "I'm not the -sort of man to desert a sinking ship, I hope. Sinking it is, I fear. -The great days of England are over. We must not be sentimentalists nor -stick our heads, ostrich-wise, in the sand. We must face facts."</p> - -<p>It was here that Henry made his great interruption, an interruption -that was, had he only known it, to change the whole of his future -career. He had realized thoroughly at first that it was his place to be -seen and not heard. Young secretaries were not expected to talk unless -they were definitely needed to make a party "go." But as Light-Johnson -had continued his own indignation had grown. His eyes, again and again, -in spite of himself, sought Lady Bell-Hall's face. He simply could not -bear to see the little lady tortured—for tortured she evidently was. -Her little features were all puckered with distress. Her eyes had the -wide staring expression of a child seeing a witch for the first time. -Every word that Light-Johnson uttered seemed to stab her like a knife. -To Henry this was awful.</p> - -<p>"They are not facts. They are not facts!" he cried. "After every war -there are years when people are confused. Of course there are. It can't -be otherwise. We shall never have Bolshevism here. Russian conditions -are different from everywhere else. They are all ignorant in Russia. -Millions of ignorant peasants. While prices are high of course people -are discontented and say they're going to do dreadful things. When -everybody's working again prices will go down and then you see how much -any one thinks about Russia! England isn't going to the dogs, and it -never will!"</p> - -<p>The effect of this outburst was astonishing. Light-Johnson turned round -and stared at Henry as though he were a small Pom that had hitherto -reposed peacefully under the table but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> had suddenly woken up and -bitten his leg. He smiled, his first smile of the day.</p> - -<p>"Quite so," he said indulgently. "Of course. One can't expect every one -to have the same views on these matters."</p> - -<p>But Lady Bell-Hall was astonishing. To Henry's amazement she was -angry, indignant. She stared at him as though he had offered a deadly -insult. Why, she wanted to be made miserable! She liked Mr. Johnson's -pessimism! She wished to be tortured! She preferred it! She hugged her -wound and begged for another turn on the wheel!</p> - -<p>"Really, Mr. Trenchard," she said, "I don't think you can know very -much about it. As Mr. Light-Johnson says, we should face facts." She -ended her sentence with a hint of indulgence as though she would say: -"He's very, very young. We must excuse him on the score of his youth."</p> - -<p>The rest of the meal was most uncomfortable. Light-Johnson would speak -no more. Henry was miserable and indignant. He had made a fool of -himself, but he was glad that he had spoken! Lady Bell-Hall would hate -him always now and would prejudice her brother against him—but he was -glad that he had spoken! Nevertheless his cheese choked him, and in -embarrassed despair he took a pear that he did not want, and because no -one else had fruit ate it in an overwhelming silence.</p> - -<p>Then in the library he had his reward. Light-Johnson had departed.</p> - -<p>"I shan't want you this afternoon, Trenchard," Duncombe said. Then he -added: "You spoke up well. That man's an ass."</p> - -<p>"I shouldn't," he stammered, "have said anything. I don't know enough. -I only——"</p> - -<p>"Nonsense. You know more than Light-Johnson. Speak up whenever you have -a mind to. It does my sister good."</p> - -<p>And this was the beginning of an alliance between the two.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIb" id="CHAPTER_IIb">CHAPTER II</a></h2> - -<h3>MILLIE AND PETER</h3> - - -<p>And here are some extracts from a diary that Millicent kept at this -time.</p> - -<p><i>April 14.</i>—Just a week since I started with the Platts and I feel -as though I'd been there all my life. And yet I haven't got the thing -going at all. I'm in nearly the same mess as I was the first morning. -I'm not proud of myself, but at the same time it isn't my fault. Look -at the Interruptions alone! (I've put a capital because really they -are at the heart of all my trouble.) Victoria herself doesn't begin -to know what letting any one alone is. I seem at present to have an -irresistible fascination for her. She sits and stares at me until I -feel as though I were some strange animal expected to change into -something stranger.</p> - -<p>And she doesn't know what silence means. She says: "I mustn't interrupt -your work, my Millie" (I do wish she wouldn't call me "my Millie"), and -then begins at once to chatter. All the same one can't help being fond -of her—at least at present. I expect I shall get very impatient soon -and then I'll be rude and then there'll be a scene and then I shall -leave. But she really is so helpless and so full of alarms and terrors. -Never again will I envy any one with money! I expect before the War she -was quite a happy woman with a small allowance from her father, living -in Streatham and giving little tea-parties. Now what with Income Tax, -servants, motor-cars, begging friends, begging enemies, New Art and her -sisters she doesn't know where to turn. Of course Clarice and Ellen -are her principal worries. I've really no patience with Clarice. I -hate her silly fat face, pink blanc-mange with its silly fluffy yellow -hair. I hate the way she dresses, always too young for her years and -always with bits stuck on to her clothes as though she picked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> pieces -of velvet and lace up from the floor and pinned them on just anywhere.</p> - -<p>I hate her silly laugh and her vanity and the way that she will recite -a poem about a horse (I think it is called something like "Lascar") -on the smallest opportunity. I suppose I can't bear seeing any one -make a fool of herself or himself and all the people who come to the -Platts' house laugh at her. All the same, she's the happiest of the -three women; that's because she's more truly conceited than the others. -It's funny to see how she prides herself on having learned how to -manage Victoria. She's especially sweet to her when she wants anything -and you can see it coming on hours beforehand. Victoria is a fool in -many things but she isn't such a fool as all that. I call Clarice the -Ostrich.</p> - -<p>Ellen is quite another matter. By far the most interesting of them. -I think she would do something remarkable if she'd only break away -from the family and get outside it. Part of her unhappiness comes, -I'm sure, from her not being able to make up her mind to do this. She -despises herself. And she despises everybody else too. Men especially, -she detests men, although she dresses rather like them. Victoria and -Clarice are both afraid of her because of the bitter things she says. -She glares at the people who come to lunch and tea as though she would -like to call fire down and burn them all. It's amusing to see one of -the new artists (I beg their pardon—New Artists) trying to approach -her, attempting flattery and then falling back aware that he has made -one enemy in the house at any rate. The funny thing is that she rather -likes me, and that is all the stranger because I understand from -Brooker, the little doctor, that she always disliked the secretaries. -And I haven't been especially sweet to her. Just my ordinary which Mary -says is less than civility. . . .</p> - -<p><i>April 16.</i>—Ephraim Block and his friend Adam P. Quinzey (that isn't -his real name but it's something like that) to luncheon. I couldn't -help asking him whether he didn't think the "Eve" rather too large. -And didn't he despise me for asking! He told me that when he gets a -commission for sculpting in an open space, the tree that goes with -the "Eve" will be large enough to shelter all the school children of -Europe.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> - -<p>Although he's absurd I can't help being sorry for him. He is so -terribly hungry and eats Victoria's food as though he were never going -to see another meal again. Ellen tells me that he's got a woman who -lives with him by whom he's had about eight children. Poor little -things! And I think Victoria's beginning to get tired of him. She's -irritated because he wants her to pay for the tree and the serpent -as well as Eve herself. He says it isn't <i>his</i> fault that Victoria's -house isn't large enough and <i>she</i> says that he hasn't even begun the -Tree yet and when he's finished it it will be time enough to talk. -Then there are the Balaclavas (the nearest I can get to their names). -She's a Russian dancer, very thin and tall and covered with chains and -beads, and he's very fat with a dead white face and long black hair. -They talk the strangest broken English and are very depressed about -life in general—as well they may be, poor things. He thinks Pavlowa -and Karsavina simply aren't in it with her as artists and I daresay -they're not, but one never has a chance of judging because she never -gets an engagement anywhere. So meanwhile they eat Victoria's food and -try to borrow money off any one in the house who happens to be handy. -You can't help liking them, they're so helpless. Of course I know that -Block and the Balaclavas and Clarice's friends are all tenth-rate as -artists. I've seen enough of Henry's world to see that. They are simply -plundering Victoria as Brooker says, but I'm rather glad all the same -that for a time at any rate they've found a place with food in it.</p> - -<p>I shan't be glad soon. I'm beginning to realize in myself a growing -quite insane desire to get this house straight—insane because I -don't even see how to begin. And Victoria's very difficult! She loves -Power and if you suggest anything and she thinks you're getting too -authoritative she at once vetoes it whatever it may be. On the other -hand she's truly warm-hearted and kind. If I can keep my temper and -stay on perhaps I shall manage it. . . .</p> - -<p><i>April 17.</i>—I've had thorough "glooms" to-day. I'm writing this in bed -whither I went as early as nine o'clock, Mary being out at a party and -the sitting-room looking grizzly. I feel better already. But a visit -to mother always sends me into the depths. It is terrible to me to see -her lying there like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> dead woman, staring in front of her, unable to -speak, unable to move. Extraordinary woman that she is! Even now she -won't see Katherine although Katherine tries again and again.</p> - -<p>And I think that she hates me too. That nurse (whom I can't abide) has -tremendous power over her. I detest the house now. It's so gloomy and -still and corpse-like. When you think of all the people it used to have -in it—so many that nobody would believe it when we told them. What fun -we used to have at Christmas time and on birthdays, and down at Garth -too. Philip finished all that—not that he meant to, poor dear.</p> - -<p>After seeing mother I had tea with father down in the study. He's jolly -when I'm there, but honestly, I think he forgets my very existence when -I'm not. He never asked a single question about Henry. Just goes from -his study to his club and back again. He says that his book <i>Haslitt -and His Contemporaries</i> is coming out in the Autumn. I wonder who cares?</p> - -<p>It makes me very lonely if one thinks about it. Of course there's dear -Henry—and after him Katherine and Mary. But Henry's got this young -woman he picked up in Piccadilly Circus and Katherine's got her babies -and Mary her medicine. And I've got the Platts I suppose. . . .</p> - -<p>All the same sometimes it isn't much fun being a modern girl. I daresay -liberty and going about like a man's a fine thing, but sometimes I'd -like to have some one pet me and make a fuss over me and care whether -I'm alive or not.</p> - -<p>On the impulse of this mood, I've asked Peter Westcott to come and -have tea with me. He seems lonely too and was really nice at Henry's -the other day. Now I shall go to sleep and dream about Victoria's -correspondence.</p> - -<p><i>April 18.</i>—A young man to luncheon to-day very different from the -others. Humphrey Baxter by name; none of the aesthete about <i>him</i>! -Clean, straight-back, decently dressed, cheerful young man. Item, dark -with large brown eyes. At first it puzzled me as to how he got into -this crowd at all, then I discovered that he's rehearsing in a play -that Clarice is getting up, <i>The Importance of Being Earnest</i>. He plays -Bunbury or has something to do with a man called Bunbury—anyway they -all call him Bunny. He's vastly amused by the aesthetes and laughs at -them all the time, the odd thing is that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> they don't mind. He also -knows exactly how to treat Victoria, taking her troubles seriously, -although his eyes twinkle, and being really very courteous to her.</p> - -<p>The only one of the family who hates him is Ellen. She can't abide him -and told him so to-day, when he challenged her. He asked her why she -hated him. She said, "You're useless, vain and empty-headed." He said, -"Vain and empty-headed I may be, but useless no. I oil the wheels." -She said hers didn't need oiling and he said that if ever they did -need it she was to send for him. This little sparring match was very -light-hearted on his side, deadly earnest on hers. The only other -person who isn't sure of him is Brooker—I don't know why.</p> - -<p>Of course <i>I</i> like him—Bunny I mean. What it is to have some one gay -and sensible in this household. He likes me too. Ellen says he goes -after every girl he sees.</p> - -<p>I don't care if he does. I can look after myself. <i>She's</i> a queer one. -She's always looking at me as though she wanted to speak to me. And -yesterday a strange thing happened. I was going upstairs and she was -going down. We met at the corner and she suddenly bent forward and -kissed me on the cheek. Then she ran on upstairs as though the police -were after her. I don't very much like being kissed by other women I -must confess; however, if it gives her pleasure, poor thing, I'm glad. -She's so unhappy and so cross with herself and every one else.</p> - -<p><i>April 20.</i>—Bunny comes every day now. He says he wants to tell me -about his life—a very interesting one he says. He complains that he -never finds me alone. I tell him I have my work to do.</p> - -<p><i>April 21.</i>—Bunny wants me to act in Clarice's play. I said I wouldn't -for a million pounds. Clarice is furious with me and says I'm flirting -with him.</p> - -<p><i>April 22.</i>—Bunny and I are going to a matinee of <i>Chu Chin Chow</i>. He -says he's been forty-four times and I haven't been once. He likes to -talk to me about his mother. He wants me to meet her.</p> - -<p><i>April 24.</i>—Clarice won't speak to me. I don't care. Why shouldn't I -have a little fun? And Bunny is a good sort. He certainly isn't very -clever, but he says his strong line is motor-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>cars, about which I know -nothing. After all, if some one's clever in one thing that's enough. -I'm not clever in anything. . . .</p> - -<p><i>April 25.</i>—Sunday, I went over to luncheon to see whether I could do -anything for Victoria and had an extraordinary conversation with Ellen. -She insisted on my going up to her bedroom with her after luncheon. A -miserable looking room, with one large photograph over the bed of a -girl, rather pretty. Mary Pickford prettiness—and nothing else at all.</p> - -<p>She began at once, a tremendous tirade, striding about the room, her -hands behind her back. Words poured forth like bath-water out of a -pipe. She said that I hated her and that every one hated her. That -she had always been hated and she didn't care, but liked it. That she -hoped that more people would hate her; that it was an honour to be -hated by most people. But that she didn't want <i>me</i> to hate her and -that she couldn't think why I did. Unless of course I'd listened to -what other people said of her—that I'd probably done that as every -one did it. But she had hoped that I was wiser. <i>And</i> kinder. <i>And</i> -more generous. . . . Here she paused for breath and I was able to get -in a word saying that I didn't hate her, that nobody had said anything -against her, that in fact I liked her—— Oh no, I didn't. Ellen burst -in. No, <i>no</i>, I didn't. Any one could see that. I was the only person -she'd ever wanted to like her and she wasn't allowed to have even that. -I assured her that I did like her and considered her my friend and that -we'd always be friends. Upon that she burst into tears, looking too -strange, sitting in an old rocking-chair and rocking herself up and -down. I can't bear to see any one cry; it doesn't stir my pity as it -ought to do. It only makes me irritated. So I just sat on her bed and -waited. At last she stopped and sniffing a good deal, got up and came -over. She sat down on the bed and suddenly put her arms round me and -stroked my hair. I <i>can't</i> bear to have my hair stroked by anybody—or -at least by almost anybody. However, I sat there and let her do it, -because she seemed so terribly unhappy.</p> - -<p>I suppose she felt I wasn't very responsive because suddenly she got -up very coldly and with great haughtiness as though she were a queen -dismissing an audience. "Well, now you'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> better go. I've made a -sufficient fool of myself for one day." So I got up too and laughed -because it seemed the easiest thing and said that I was her friend and -always would be and would help her anyway I could but that I wasn't -very sentimental and couldn't help it if I wasn't. And she said still -very haughtily that I didn't understand her but that that wasn't very -strange because after all no one else did, and would I go because she -had a headache and wanted to lie down. So I went.</p> - -<p>Wasn't I glad after this to find Bunny downstairs. He suggested a walk -and as Victoria was sleeping on the Sunday beef upstairs I agreed and -we went along all through the Park and up to the Marble Arch, and -the sun was so bright that it made the sheep look blue and the buds -were waxy and there were lots of dogs and housemaids being happy with -soldiers and babies in prams and all the atheists and Bolsheviks as -cheery as anything on their tubs. Bunny really is a darling. He sees -all the funny things, just as I do; I don't believe a word that Ellen -says about him. He assures me that he's only loved one girl in his -life and that he gave her up because she said that she wouldn't have -babies. He was quite right I think. He says that he's just falling in -love again with some one else now. Of course he may mean me and he -certainly looked as though he did. I don't care. I want to be happy and -people to like me and every one to love everybody. Why shouldn't they? -Not uncomfortably, making scenes like Ellen, but just happily with a -sense of humour and not expecting miracles. I said this to Bunny and he -agreed.</p> - -<p>We had tea in a café in Oxford Street. He wanted to take me to a Cinema -after that but I wouldn't. I went home and read <i>Lord Jim</i> until Mary -came in. That's the book Henry used to be crazy about. I think Bunny is -rather like Jim although, of course, Bunny isn't a coward. . . .</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Now Millie was seized with a strange and unaccountable -happiness—unaccountable to her because she did not try to account for -it. Simply, everything was lovely—the weather, the shops, the people -in the streets, Mary, Henry, the Platts (although Clarice pouted at her -and Ellen was sulky). Everything was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> lovely. She danced, she sang, she -laughed. Nothing and nobody could offend her. . . .</p> - -<p>In the middle of this happiness Peter Westcott came to tea. She had -asked him because she was sorry for him and because she felt that she -had not been quite fair to him in the past. Nevertheless as she waited -for him in her little sitting-room there was a little patronage and -contempt for him still in her heart. She had always thought of him -as old and gloomy and solemn. He seemed to her to be that to-day as -he came in, stayed awkwardly for a moment by the door and then came -forward with heavy rather lumbering steps towards her. But his hand was -warm and strong—a clean good grip that she liked. He sat down, making -her wicker chair creak—then there was an untidy pause. She gave him -his tea and something to eat and talked about the weather.</p> - -<p>At another time, it might be, the ice would never have been broken and -he would have gone away, leaving them no closer than they had been -before. But to-day her happiness was too much for her; she could not -see him without wanting to make him laugh.</p> - -<p>"Have you seen Henry?" she asked. It was so difficult to speak much -about Henry without smiling.</p> - -<p>"Not for a week," he answered, "he's very busy with his Baronet and his -strange young woman." Then he smiled. He looked straight across at her, -into her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Why did you ask me to come to tea?"</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, because you don't like me. You think me a tiresome middle-aged -bore and a bad influence for Henry." His eyes drew her own. Suddenly -she liked his face, his clear honest gaze, his strong mouth and -something there that spoke unmistakably of loyalty and courage.</p> - -<p>"Well, I didn't like you," she said after a moment's pause. "That's -quite true. I liked you for the first time at Henry's the other day. -You see I've had no chance of knowing you, have I? And I decided that -we ought to know one another—because of Henry."</p> - -<p>"Do you really want to know me better?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I really want to," she answered.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, then, I must tell you something—something about myself. I -never speak about the past to anybody. Of what importance can it be to -anybody but myself? But if we are going to be friends you ought to know -something of it—and I'm going to tell you."</p> - -<p>She saw that he had, before he came, made up his mind as to exactly the -things that he would tell her, that without realizing it he intended it -as an honour that he should want to tell her. Then, too, her feminine -curiosity stirred in her. Henry had told her a little, a very little, -about him; she knew that he had had a bad time, that he was married, -but that his wife had been seen by no one for many years, that he had -written some books now forgotten, that he had done well in the War—and -that was all.</p> - -<p>"Tell me everything you like," she said. "I'm proud that you should -want to."</p> - -<p>"I was born," Peter began, "in a little town called Treliss on the -borders of Cornwall and Glebeshire in '84. I had a very rotten -childhood. I won't bore you with all that, but my mother was frightened -into her grave by my father who hated me and everybody else. He sent me -to a bad school, and at last I ran away up to London. I had one friend, -a Treliss fisherman, who was the best human being I've ever known, and -he came up to London with me. Things went from bad to worse the first -years, but looking back on it I can only see everything that happened -in the most ridiculously romantic light—absurd things that I'd like -to tell you more about in detail some time. They were <i>so</i> absurd; you -simply wouldn't believe me if I told you. I was mixed up for instance -with melodramatic theatrical anarchists who tried to blow up poor old -Victoria when she was out riding. Looking back now I can't be sure that -those things ever really happened at all.</p> - -<p>"I never seem to meet such people now or to see such things. Was it -only my youth perhaps that made me fancy it all like that? You and -Henry, may be, are imagining things in just that way now. Stephen, -for instance, my fisherman friend. I've never met any one like him -since—so good, so simple, so direct, so childlike. I knew magnificent -men in the War as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> direct and simple as Stephen, but they didn't affect -me in the way he did—that may have been my youth again.</p> - -<p>"Whatever it was we went lower and lower. We couldn't get any work -and we were just about starving, when I got ill, so ill that I should -have died if the luck hadn't suddenly turned, an old school friend of -mine appeared and carried me off to his home. Yes, luck turned with a -vengeance then. I had written a story and it was published and it had a -little success. One thinks you know that that little success is a very -big one the first time it comes—that every one is talking about one -and reading one when really it is a few thousand people at the most.</p> - -<p>"Anyway that first success put me on my feet. It was during those years -after the Boer War when I think literary success was easier to get -than it is now—more attention was paid to writing because the world -was quieter and had leisure to think about the arts and money to pay -for them. I don't mean that genius, real genius, wouldn't find it just -as easy now as then to come along and establish itself, but I wasn't -a genius, of course, nor anything like one. Well, I had friends and a -home and work and everything should have been well, but I always felt -that something was working against me, some bad influence, some ill -omen—I've felt it all my life, I feel it now, I shall feel it till I -die. Lucky, healthy people can laugh at those things, but when you feel -them you don't laugh. You know better. Then I married—the daughter of -people who lived near by in Chelsea; I was terribly in love; although -I felt there was something working against us, yet I couldn't see -how now it could touch us. I was sure that she loved me—I knew that -I loved her. She was such a child that I thought that I could guide -her and form her and make her what I wanted. From the first there was -something wrong; I can see that now looking back. She had been spoilt -because she was an only child and had a stupid silly mother, and she -was afraid of everything—of being ill, of being hurt, of being poor. -She was conventional too, and only liked the people from the class she -knew, people who did all the same things, spoke the same way, ate the -same way, dressed the same way. I remember that some of my Glebeshire -friends came to see me one day and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> frightened her out of her life. -Poor Clare! I should understand her now I think, but I don't know. One -has things put into one and things left out of one before one's born -and you can't alter them, you can only restrain them, keep them in -check. I had something fundamentally wild in me, she something tame -in her. If we had both been older and wiser we might have compromised -as all married people have to, I suppose, but we were both so young -that we expected perfection, nay, we demanded it. Perfection! Lord, -what youth! . . . Then a baby was born, a boy—I let myself go over -that boy!" . . . Peter paused. . . . "I can't talk much about that even -now. He died. Then everything went wrong. Clare said she'd never have -another child. And she was tired of me and frightened of me too. I can -see now that she had much justice there. I must have been a dull dog -after the boy died, and when I'm dull I <i>am</i> dull. I get so easily -convinced that I'm meant to fail, that I've no right in the world at -all. Clare wanted fun and gaiety.</p> - -<p>"We hadn't the means for it anyway. I was writing badly. I couldn't -keep my work clear of my troubles; I couldn't get right at it as one -must if one's going to get it on to paper with any conviction. My books -failed one after another and with justice.</p> - -<p>"People spoke of me as a failure, and that Clare couldn't endure. She -hadn't ever cared very much for my writing, only for the success that -it brought. Well, you can see the likely end of it all. She ran off to -Paris with my best friend, a man who'd been at school with me, whom I'd -worshipped."</p> - -<p>"Oh," Millie said, "I'm sorry."</p> - -<p>"I only got what I deserved. Another man would have managed Clare all -right—made a success out of the whole thing. There's something in -me—a kind of blindness or obstinacy or pride—that sends people away -from me. You know it yourself. You recognized it in me from the first. -Henry didn't, simply because he's so ingenuous and so warm-hearted. He -forgets himself entirely; you and I think of ourselves a good deal. I -went back to Treliss. I had a friend there, a woman, who showed me a -little how things were. I wanted to give everything up and just booze -my time away and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> sink into a worthless loafer as my father had done. -She prevented me, and I had, too, a strange revelation one night out on -the hills beyond Treliss when I saw things clearly for an hour or two.</p> - -<p>"I determined to come back and fight it out. I could show pluck even -though I couldn't show anything else. Now I can see that there was -something false in that as there was in so many of the crises of my -life, because I was thinking only of myself set up against all the -world and the devil and all the furies, making a fine figure while the -armies of God stood by admiring and whispering one to another, 'He's a -fine fighter—there's something in that fellow.'</p> - -<p>"It was in just that mood that I came back to London. I went over to -Paris and searched for Clare, couldn't hear anything of her, then came -back and buried myself.</p> - -<p>"I was full of this idea of courage, my back to the wall and -fighting the universe. So I just shut myself up, got a little -journalism—sporting journalism it was, football matches and boxing -and cricket—and grouched along. The other men on the sporting paper -thought me too conceited for words and left me alone. I drank a bit -too, the worst kind of drinking, alone in one's room.</p> - -<p>"Then the War came, thank God. I won't bother you with that, but it -kept me occupied until the Armistice, then suddenly I was flung back -again with all my old troubles thick upon me once more. I remember -one day I had been seeing a rich successful novelist. He talked to me -about his successes until I was sick. Then in the evening I went and -saw the other end of the business, the young unpopular geniuses who -are going to change the world. Both seemed to me equally futile, and -once again I was tempted to end it all and just let myself go when I -suddenly, standing there in Piccadilly Circus, saw myself just as I -had years before at Treliss and my pretentiousness and lack of humour -and proportion. And I saw how small we were, and what children, and -how short life was, and then and there I swore I'd never take myself -so seriously again as to talk about 'going to the dogs,' or 'fighting -fate,' or 'being a success,' or 'destiny being against me.' I cheered -up a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> lot after that. That was my second turning-point. You and Henry -have made the third."</p> - -<p>"Me and Henry?" said Millie, regardless of grammar.</p> - -<p>"That's why I've burdened you with this lengthy discourse. I haven't -spoken of myself for years to a soul. But I want your friendship. I -want it terribly and I'll tell you why.</p> - -<p>"You and Henry are young. I see now that it's only the young who matter -any more. If you take the present state of the world from the point of -view of the middle-aged or old, it's all utterly hopeless. We may as -well make a bonfire of London and go up in the sparks. There's nothing -to be said. It's as bad as it can be. There simply isn't time for even -the young middle-aged to set things right. But for the young, for every -one under thirty it's grand. There's a new city to be built, all the -pieces of the old one lying around to teach you lessons—the greatest -time to be born into in the world's history.</p> - -<p>"And what the middle-aged and old have to do is to feed the young, -to encourage them, laugh at them, give them health and strength and -brains, such as they are, to stiffen them, to be patient with them, -and for them, not to lie down and let the young trample, but to work -with them, behind them, around them—above all, to love them, to clear -the ground for them, to sympathize and understand them, and to tell -them, if they shouldn't see it, that they have such a chance, such an -opportunity, as has never before been given to the son of man.</p> - -<p>"For myself what is there? The world that was mine is gone, is burnt -up, destroyed. But for you, for you and Henry and the great company -with you. Golly! What a time!"</p> - -<p>He mopped his brow. He looked at Millie and laughed.</p> - -<p>"Please forgive me," he said. "I haven't let myself go like this for -years!"</p> - -<p>Millie's sympathy was, for the moment, stronger than her vocabulary, -her sympathy, that is, for the earlier part of his declaration. As he -recounted to her his own story she had been readily, eagerly carried -away, feeling the absolute truth of everything that he said, responding -to all his trouble and his loneliness. When he had spoken of his boy -she had almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> loved him, the maternal in her coming out so that she -longed to put her arms round him and comfort him. He seemed, as every -man seems to every woman, at such a time, himself a child younger than -she, more helpless than any woman. But at the end he had swung her on -to another mood. She did not know that she liked being addressed as -The Young. She felt in this, as she had always before felt with him, -that there was something a little priggish, a little laughable in -his earnestness. She did not see herself in any group with thousands -of other young men and young women. She was not sure that she felt -young at all—and in any case she was simply Millicent Trenchard with -Millicent Trenchard's body, ambitions and purposes. She had also -instinctively the Trenchard distrust of all naked emotions nakedly -displayed. This she was happily to conquer—but not yet.</p> - -<p>She felt finally as though she were a specimen in a glass jar, set up -on the laboratory table, and that the professor was beginning:</p> - -<p>"You will now notice that we have an excellent specimen of The -Young. . . ."</p> - -<p>Then she looked at him and saw how deeply in earnest he was, and that -he himself was feeling true British embarrassment at his unforeseen -demonstration. This called forth her maternal emotions again. He was a -dear old thing—a little childish, a little old and odd, but he needed -her help and her sympathy.</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you," she said, "I don't think it's very much good putting -us all into lumps like that. For instance, you couldn't place Mary Cass -and myself in the same division, however hard you tried. If you are -going simply by years, then that's absurd, because Mary is years older -than I am in some things and years younger in others. One's just as -old as one feels," she added with deep profundity, as though she were -stating something quite new and fresh that had never been said before.</p> - -<p>He smiled, looking at her with great affection.</p> - -<p>"I don't want you to look upon yourself as anything in particular," -he said. "Heaven forbid. That would be much too self-conscious. What -I said was from my point of view—the point of view of those who were -young before the War—really<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> young, with all their lives and their -ambitions before them—and can never be young again in quite that way. -I only wanted to show you that knowing you and Henry has given me a new -reason for living and for enjoying life and a better reason than I've -ever had before. I know you distrusted me and I want you to get over -that distrust."</p> - -<p>"If that's what you want," Millie cried, jumping up and smiling, "you -can have it. I feel you're a real friend, both to Henry and me, and we -<i>want</i> a friend. Of course we're young and just beginning. We shall -make all kinds of mistakes, I expect, and I'd rather you told us about -them than any one else."</p> - -<p>"Would you really?" He flushed slowly with pleasure. "And will you tell -me about mine too? Is that a bargain?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know about telling you of yours," she answered. "I've -noticed that that's a very dangerous thing. People ask you to tell -them and say they can stand anything, and then when the moment comes -they are hurt for evermore. Nor do they believe that those <i>are</i> their -mistakes—anything else but not those. However, we'll try. Here's my -hand on it."</p> - -<p>He took her hand. She was so beautiful, with her colour a little -heightened by the excitement and amusement of their talk, her slim -straight figure, the honesty and nobility of her eyes as they rested -on his face, that, in spite of himself, his hand trembled in hers. She -felt that and was herself suddenly confused. She withdrew her hand -abruptly, and at that moment, to her relief, Mary Cass came in.</p> - -<p>She introduced them and they stood talking for a little, talking about -anything, hospitals, Ireland, the weather. Then he went away.</p> - -<p>"Who's that?" said Mary when he was gone.</p> - -<p>"A man called Westcott, a friend of Henry's."</p> - -<p>"I like him. What's he do?"</p> - -<p>"He's a writer——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lord!" Mary threw herself into a chair. "What a pity. He looks as -though he were better than that."</p> - -<p>"He's a dear old thing," said Millie. "Just a hundred and fifty years -old."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Which means," said Mary, "that he's been telling you how young you -are."</p> - -<p>"Aren't you clever?" said Millie admiringly.</p> - -<p>"Whether I'm clever or no," said Mary, "I'm tired. This chemistry——"</p> - -<p>And with that we leave them.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIb" id="CHAPTER_IIIb">CHAPTER III</a></h2> - -<h3>THE LETTERS</h3> - - -<p>Henry was not such a fool as he looked. You, gentle reader, have -certainly by now remarked that you cannot believe that all those years -in the Army would have failed to make him a trifle smarter and neater -and better disciplined than he appears to be. To which I would reply, -having learnt the fact through very bitter personal experience, that -it is one of the most astonishing facts in life that you do not change -with anything like the ease that you ought to.</p> - -<p>That is of course only half the truth, but half the truth it is, and -if smuts choose your nose to settle on when you're in your cradle, the -probability is that they'll still be settling there when you're in your -second childhood.</p> - -<p>Henry <i>was</i> changing underneath, as will very shortly, I hope, be made -plain, but the hard ugly truth that I am now compelled to declare is -that by the early days of June he had got his Baronet's letters into -such a devil of a mess that he did not know where he was nor how he -was ever going to get straight again. Nevertheless, I must repeat once -more—he was not such a fool as he looked.</p> - -<p>During all these weeks his lord and master had not glanced at them once.</p> - -<p>He had indeed paid very little attention to Henry, giving him no -typewriting and only occasionally dictating to him very slowly a letter -or two. He had been away in the country once for a week and had not -taken Henry with him.</p> - -<p>He had attempted no further personal advances, had been always kindly -but nevertheless aloof. Henry had, on his side, made very few fresh -discoveries.</p> - -<p>He had met once or twice a brother, Tom Duncombe, a large, fat, -red-faced man with a loud laugh, carroty hair, a smell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> of whisky and a -handsome appetite. Friends had come to luncheon and Mr. Light-Johnson -had been as constant and pessimistic as ever, but Henry had not trusted -himself to a second outburst. Of his own private love-affair there is -more to be said, but of that presently.</p> - -<p>The salient fact in the situation was that until now Duncombe had not -mentioned the letters, had not looked at them, had not apparently -considered them. Every morning Henry, with beating heart, expected -those dread words: "Well now, let's see what you've done"—and every -day passed without those words being said.</p> - -<p>Every night in his bed in Panton Street he told himself that to-morrow -he would force some order into the horrible things, and every day he -was once again defeated by them. He was now quite certain that they -led a life of their own, that they deliberately skipped, when he was -not looking, out of one pile into another, that they changed the dates -on their pages and counterfeited handwritings, and were altogether -taunting him and teasing him to the full strength of their yellow -crooked little souls. And yet behind the physical exterior of these -letters he knew that he was gaining a feeling for and a knowledge of -the period with which they dealt that was invaluable. He had burrowed -in the library and discovered a host of interesting details—books like -Hogg's <i>Reminiscences</i> and Gibson's <i>Recollections</i>, and Washington -Irving's <i>Abbotsford</i> and Lang's <i>Lockhart</i>, and the Ballantyne -<i>Protests</i> and the <i>Life of Archibald Constable</i>—them and many, many -others—he had devoured with the greed of a shipwrecked mariner on a -desert island. He could tell you everything now about the Edinburgh -of that day—the streets, the fashions, the clothes, the politics. It -seemed that he must, in an earlier incarnation, have lived there with -them all, possibly, he liked to fancy, as a second-hand bookseller -hidden somewhere in the intricacies of the Old Town. He seemed to feel -yet beating through his arteries the thrill and happy pride when Sir -Walter himself with his cheery laugh, his joke and his kindly grip of -the hand stood among the dusky overhanging shelves and gossiped and -yarned and climbed the rickety ladder searching for some ballad or -romance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> while Henry, his eyes aflame with hero-worship, held that -same ladder and gazed upwards to that broad-shouldered form.</p> - -<p>Yes—but the letters were in the devil of a mess!</p> - -<p>And then suddenly the blow fell. One beautiful June morning, when the -sun, refusing to be beaten by the thick glare of the windows, was -transforming the old books and sending mists of gold and purple from -ceiling to floor, Henry, his head bent over files of the recalcitrant -letters, heard the very words that for weeks he had been expecting.</p> - -<p>"Now then—it's about time I had a look at those letters of yours."</p> - -<p>It is no exaggeration at all to say that young Henry's heart stood -absolutely still, his feet were suddenly like dead fish in his boots -and his hands weak as water. This, then, was The End! Oh, how he wished -that it had occurred weeks ago! He had by now become devotedly attached -to the library, loved the books like friends, was happier when hidden -in the depths of the little gallery nosing after Bage and Maturin and -Clara Reeve than he had been in all his life before. Moreover, he -realized in this agonizing moment how deeply attached he had grown -during these weeks to his angular master. Few though the words between -them had been, there seemed to him to have developed mysteriously and -subterraneously as it were an unusual sympathy and warmth of feeling. -That may have been simply his affectionate nature and innocence of -soul. Nevertheless, there it was. He made a last frantic effort towards -a last discipline, juggling the letters together and trying to put the -more plainly dated next to one another on the top of the little untidy -heaps.</p> - -<p>He realized that there was nothing to be done. He sat there waiting for -sentence to be pronounced.</p> - -<p>Duncombe came over to the table and rested one hand on Henry's shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Now, let's see," he said. "You've had more than a month—I expect to -find great progress. How many boxes have you done?"</p> - -<p>"I'm still at the first," said Henry, his voice low and gentle.</p> - -<p>"Still at the first? Ah, well, I expect there are more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> one knew. -What's your system? First in months and then in years, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"The trouble is," said Henry, the words choking in his throat, "that so -many of them aren't dated at all."</p> - -<p>"Yes—that would be so. Well, here we have April, 1816. What I should -do, I think, is to make them into six-monthly packets—otherwise -the—Hullo, here's 1818!"</p> - -<p>"They move about so," said Henry feebly.</p> - -<p>"Move about? Nobody can move them if you don't—March 7, 1818; March -12, 1818; April 3—Why, here we are back in '16 again!"</p> - -<p>There followed then the most dreadful pause. It seemed to the agonized -Henry to last positively for centuries. He grew an old, old man with -a long, white, sweeping beard, he looked back over a vast, misspent -lifetime, his hearing was gone, his vision was dulled, he was tired, -deadly tired, and longed only for the gentle peace of the kindly grave. -Not a word was said. Duncombe's long white fingers moved with a deadly -and practised skill from packet to packet, taking up one, looking at -it, laying it down again, taking up another, holding it for an eternity -in his hand then carefully replacing it. The clock wheezed and gurgled -and chattered, the sunlight danced on the bookshelves, Henry was in -his grave, dead, buried, a vague pathetic memory to those who once had -loved him.</p> - -<p>"Why!" a voice came from vast distances; "these letters aren't arranged -at all!" The worst was over, the doom had fallen; nothing more terrible -could occur.</p> - -<p>Henry said nothing.</p> - -<p>"They simply aren't arranged at all!" came the voice more sharply.</p> - -<p>Still Henry said nothing.</p> - -<p>Duncombe moved back into the room. Henry felt his eyes burrowing into a -hole, red-hot, in the middle of his back. He did not move.</p> - -<p>"Would you mind telling me what you have been doing all these weeks?"</p> - -<p>Henry turned round. The terrible thing was that tears were not far -away. He was twenty-six years of age, he had fought in the Great War -and been wounded, he had written<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> ten chapters of a romantic novel, he -was living a life of independent ease as a bachelor gentleman in Panton -Street—nevertheless tears were not far away.</p> - -<p>"I warned you," he said. "I told you at the very beginning that I was -a perfect fool. You can't say I didn't warn you. I've meant to do my -very best. I've never before wanted to do my best so badly—I mean so -well—I mean——" he broke off. "I've tried," he ended.</p> - -<p>"But would you mind telling me <i>what</i> you've tried?" asked Duncombe. -"The state the letters were in when they were in this box was beautiful -order compared with the state they're in now! Why, you've had six weeks -at them! What <i>have</i> you been doing?"</p> - -<p>"I think they move in the night," said Henry, tears bubbling in his -voice do what he could to prevent them. "I know that must sound silly -to you, or to any sensible person, but I swear to you that I've had -dozens of them in the right order when I've gone away one day and found -them in every kind of mess when I've got back next morning."</p> - -<p>Duncombe said nothing.</p> - -<p>"Then," Henry went on, gathering a stronger control of himself, "they -really are confusing. Any one would find them so. The writing's often -so faded and the signatures sometimes so illegible. And at first—when -I started—I knew so little about the period. I didn't know who any of -the people were. I've been reading a lot lately and although it looks -so hopeless, I—" Then he broke off. "But it's no good," he muttered, -turning his back. "I haven't got a well-ordered mind. I never could do -mathematics at school. I ought to have told you, the second day I tried -to tell you, but I've liked it so, I've enjoyed it. I——"</p> - -<p>"I daresay you have enjoyed it," said Duncombe. "I can well believe -it. You must have had the happiest six weeks of your life. Isn't it -aggravating? Here are six weeks entirely wasted."</p> - -<p>"Please take back your money and let me go," said Henry. "I can't pay -you everything at once because, to tell you the truth, I've spent it, -but if you'll wait a little——"</p> - -<p>"Money!" cried Duncombe wrathfully. "Who's talking of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> money? It's the -wasted time I mind. We're not an inch further on."</p> - -<p>"We are," cried Henry excitedly. "I've been taking notes—lots of them. -I've got them in a book here. And whoever goes on with this next can -have them. He'll learn a lot from them, he will really."</p> - -<p>"Let's see your notes," said Duncombe.</p> - -<p>Henry produced a red-bound exercise book. It was nearly filled with his -childish and sprawling hand. There were also many blots, and even some -farcical drawings in the margin.</p> - -<p>Duncombe took the book and went back with it to his desk. There -followed a lengthy pause, while Henry stood in front of his table -staring at the window.</p> - -<p>At last Duncombe said, "You certainly seem to have scribbled a lot -here. Yes . . . I take back what I said about your being idle. I'm glad -you're not that. And you seem interested; you must be interested to -have done all this."</p> - -<p>"I am interested," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I don't understand it. If you are interested why couldn't -you get something more out of the letters? A child of eight could have -done them better than you have."</p> - -<p>"It's the kind of brain I have," said Henry. "It's always been the -same. I never could do examinations. I have an untidy brain. I could -always remember things about books but never anything else. It was just -the same in the War. I always gave the wrong orders to the men. I never -remembered what I ought to say. But when they put me into Intelligence -and I could use my imagination a little, I wasn't so bad. I can see -Scott and Hogg and the others moving about, and I can see Edinburgh and -the way the shops go and everything, but I <i>can't</i> do the mechanical -part. I <i>knew</i> I couldn't at the very beginning."</p> - -<p>"You'd better go on working for a bit while I think about it," said -Duncombe.</p> - -<p>Henry went back to the letters, a sick heavy weight of disappointment -in his heart. He could have no doubt concerning the final judgment. How -could it be otherwise? Well, at the most he had had a beautiful six -weeks. He had learnt some very interesting things that he would never -forget and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> he could not have learnt in any other way. But how -disappointing to lose his first job so quickly! How sad Millie would -be and how sarcastic his father! And then the girl! How could he now -entertain any hopes of doing anything for her when he had no job, no -money, no prospects! . . .</p> - -<p>A huge fat tear welled into his eye, he tried to gulp it back; he was -too late. It plopped down on one of the letters. Another followed it. -He sniffed and sniffed again. He took out his handkerchief and blew his -nose. He fought for self-control and, after a hard sharp battle, gained -the victory. The other tears were defeated and reluctantly went back to -the place whence they had come.</p> - -<p>The clock struck one; in five minutes' time the gong would sound for -luncheon. He heard Duncombe get up, cross the floor; once again he felt -his hand on his shoulder.</p> - -<p>"You certainly have shown imagination here," he said. "There are some -remarkable things in this book. Not all of it authentic, I fancy." -The hand pressed into his shoulder with a kindly emphasis. "It's a -pity that order isn't your strong point. Never mind. We must make the -best of it. We'll get one of those dried-up young clerks at so much an -hour to do this part of it. You shall do the rest. I think you'll make -rather a remarkable book of it."</p> - -<p>"You're going to keep me?" Henry gulped.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to keep you." Duncombe moved back to his desk. "Now it's -luncheon-time. I suggest that you wash your hands—<i>and</i> your face."</p> - -<p>Henry stood for a moment irresolute.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what to say—I—to thank——"</p> - -<p>"Well, don't," said Duncombe. "I hate being thanked. Besides, there's -no call for it."</p> - -<p>The gong sounded.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>This was an adventurous day for Henry; he discovered in the first place -that Duncombe would not himself be in to luncheon, and he descended -the cold stone stairs with the anticipatory shiver that he always -felt when his master deserted him. Lady Bell-Hall neither liked nor -trusted him, and showed her disapproval by showering little glances -upon him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> with looks of the kind that anxious hostesses bestow upon -nervous parlour-maids when the potatoes are going the wrong way round -or the sherry has been forgotten. Henry knew what these glances said. -They said: "Oh, young man, I cannot conceive why my brother has chosen -you for his secretary. You are entirely unsuited for a secretary. You -are rash, ignorant, bad-mannered and impetuous. If there is one thing -in life that I detest it is having some one near me whose words and -actions are for ever uncertain and not to be calculated beforehand. I -am never certain of you from one minute to another. I do wish you would -go away and take a post elsewhere."</p> - -<p>Because Henry knew that Lady Bell-Hall was thinking this of him he was -always in her presence twice as awkward as he need have been, spilt -his soup, crumbled his bread and made strange sudden noises that were -by himself entirely unexpected. To-day, however, he was spared his -worst trouble, Mr. Light-Johnson. The only guests were Tom Duncombe -and a certain Lady Alicia Penrose, who exercised over Lady Bell-Hall -exactly the fascinated influence that a boa-constrictor has for a -rabbit. Alicia Penrose certainly resembled a boa-constrictor, being -tall, swollen and writhing, bound, moreover, so tightly about with -brilliant clothing fitting her like a sheath that it was always a -miracle to Henry that she could move at all. She must have been a lady -of some fifty summers, but her skirts were very short, coming only just -below her knees. She was a jolly and hearty woman, living entirely for -Bridge and food, and not pretending to do otherwise. Henry could not -understand why she should come so often to luncheon as she did. He -supposed that she enjoyed startling Lady Bell-Hall with peeps into her -pleasure-loving life, not that in her chatter she ever paused to listen -to her hostess's terrified little "Really, Alicia!" or "You can't mean -it, Alicia!" or "I never heard such a thing—never!"</p> - -<p>After a while Henry arrived nearer the truth when he supposed that she -came in order to obtain a free meal, she being in a state of chronic -poverty and living in a small series of attics over a mews.</p> - -<p>She was, it seemed, related to every person of importance and alluded -to them all in a series of little nicknames that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> fell like meteors -about table. "Podgy," "Old Cuddles," "Dusty Parker," "Fifi Bones," -"Larry," "Bronx," "Traddles"—these were her familiar friends. When she -was alone with Henry, Duncombe and his sister she was comparatively -quiet, paying eager attention to her food (which was not very good) -and sometimes including Henry in the conversation. But the presence of -an outsider excited her terribly. She was, outwardly at any rate, as -warmly excited about the domestic and political situation as was Lady -Bell-Hall, but it did not seem to Henry that it went very deep. So -long as her Bridge was uninterfered with everything else might go. She -talked in short staccato sentences like a female Mr. Tingle.</p> - -<p>To-day she was stirred by Tom Duncombe, not that she did not know him -well enough, he being very much more in her set than were either his -brother or sister. Henry had not liked Tom Duncombe from the first and -to-day he positively loathed him. This was for a very simple human -reason, namely, that he talked as though he, Henry, did not exist, -looking over his head, and once, when Henry volunteered a comment on -the weather, not answering him at all.</p> - -<p>And then when the meal was nearly over Henry most unfortunately fell -yet again into Lady Bell-Hall's bad graces.</p> - -<p>"Servants," Lady Alicia was saying. "Servants. Been in a Registry -Office all the morning. For father. He wants a footman and doesn't -want to pay much for him; you know all about father, Tommy." (The Earl -of Water-Somerset was notoriously mean). "Offering sixty—sixty for a -footman. Did you hear anything like it? Couldn't hear of a soul. All -too damned superior. Saw one or two—never saw such men. All covered -with tattoo marks and war-ribbons—extraordinary times we live in. -Extraordinary. Puffy Clerk told me yesterday—remarkable thing. Down at -the Withers on Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Short of a fourth. Found the -second footman played. Had him in. Perfect gentleman. Son of a butcher -but had been a Colonel in the War. Broke off to fetch in the tea—then -sat down again afterwards. Best of the joke won twenty quid off Addy -Blake and next morning asked to have his wages raised. Said if he was -going to be asked to play bridge with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> the family must have higher -wages. And Addy gave them him."</p> - -<p>Tom Duncombe guffawed.</p> - -<p>"Dam funny. Dam funny," he said. Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "A -friend of mine, a Mr. Light-Johnson—I think you've met him here, -Alicia—told me the other day he's got a man now who plays on the piano -beautifully and reads Spanish. He says that we shall all be soon either -killed in our beds or working for the Bolsheviks. What the servants are -coming——"</p> - -<p>As the old butler brought in the coffee at this moment she stopped -and began hurriedly to talk about Conan Doyle's séances which seemed -to her very peculiar—the pity of it was that we couldn't really tell -if it had happened just as he said. "Of course he's been writing -stories for years," she said. "He's the author of those detectives -stories, Alicia—and writing stories for a long time must make one very -regardless of the truth."</p> - -<p>Then as the butler had retired they were able to continue. "I don't -know what servants are coming to," she said. "They never want to go to -church now as they used to."</p> - -<p>It was then that Henry made his plunge, as unfortunate in its -impetuosity and tactlessness as had been his earlier one, it was -perhaps the red supercilious countenance of Tom Duncombe that drove him -forward.</p> - -<p>"I'm glad servants are going to have a better time now," he said, -leaning forward and staring at Alicia Penrose as though fascinated by -her bright colours. "I can't think how they endured it in the old days -before the War, in those awful attics people used to put them into, the -bad food they got and having no time off and——"</p> - -<p>"Why, you're a regular young Bolshevik!" Alicia Penrose cried, -laughing. "Margaret, Charles got a Bolshevik for a secretary. Who'd -have thought it?"</p> - -<p>"I'm not a Bolshevik," said Henry very red. "I want everything to be -fair for everybody all the way round. The Bolsheviks aren't fair any -more than the—than the—other people used to be before the War, but it -seems to me——"</p> - -<p>"Seen the Bradleys lately, Alicia?" said Tom Duncombe, speaking exactly -as though Henry existed less than his sister's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> dog, Pretty One, a -nondescript mongrel asleep in a basket near the window.</p> - -<p>"No," said Alicia. "But that reminds me. Benjy Porker owes me five quid -off a game a fortnight ago at Addy Blake's. Glad you've reminded me, -Thomas. That young man wants watching. Plays badly too—why in that -very game he had four hearts——"</p> - -<p>Henry's cup was full. Why, again, had he spoken? <i>When</i> would he learn -the right words on the right occasion? Why had he painted himself even -blacker than before in Lady Bell-Hall's sight?</p> - -<p>He went up to the library hating Tom Duncombe, but hating himself even -more.</p> - -<p>He sat down at his table determining to put in an hour at such -slave-driving over the letters as they had never known in all their -little lives. At four o'clock punctually he intended to present himself -in Mrs. Tenssen's sitting-room.</p> - -<p>When he had been stirring the letters about for some ten minutes or -so the quiet and peace of the library once again settled beautifully -around him. It seemed to enfold him as though it loved him and wished -him to know it. Once again the strange hallucination stole into his -soul that the past was the present and the present the past, that there -was no time nor place and that only thinking made it so, and that the -only reality, the only faith, the only purpose in this life or in any -other was love—love of beauty, of character, of truth, love above all -of one human being for another. He was touched to an almost emotional -softness by Duncombe's action that morning. Touched, too, to the very -soul by his own love affair, and touched finally to-day by the sense -that he had that old books in the library, and the times and the places -and the people that they stood for, were stretching out hands to him, -trying to make him hear their voices.</p> - -<p>"Only love us enough and we shall live. Everything lives by love. Touch -us with some of your own enchantment. You are calling us back to life -by caring for us. . . ." He stopped, his head up, his pen arrested, -listening—as though he did in very truth hear voices coming to him -from different parts of the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>What he did hear, however, was the opening of the library door, and -what he beheld was Tom Duncombe's bulky figure standing for a moment -hesitating in the doorway. He came forward but did not see Henry -immediately. He stood again, listening, one finger to his lip like a -schoolboy about to steal jam. Henry bent his head over his letters, but -with one eye watched. All thoughts of love and tenderness were gone -with that entrance. He hated Tom Duncombe and hated him for reasons -more conclusive than personal, wounded vanity. Duncombe took some -further steps and then suddenly saw Henry. He stopped dead, staring, -then as Henry did not turn, but stayed with head bent forward, he moved -on again still cautiously and with the clumsy hesitating, step that was -especially his.</p> - -<p>He arrived at his brother's table and stopped there. Henry, looking -sideways, could see half Duncombe's heavy body, the red cheek, the -thick arm and large, ill-shaped fingers. Those same fingers, he -perceived, were taking up letters and papers from the table and putting -them down again.</p> - -<p>Then, like a sudden blow on the heart, certain words of Sir Charles's -spoken a week or two before came back to Henry. "By the way, -Trenchard," he had said, "if I'm out and you're ever alone in the -library here I want you to be especially careful to allow no one -to touch the papers on my table, nor to permit any one to open a -drawer—any one, mind you, not even my brother, unless I've told you -first that he may. I leave you in charge—you or old Moffatt (the -ancient butler), and if you are going, and I'm not yet back, lock the -library and give the keys to Moffatt."</p> - -<p>He had promised that at the time, feeling rather proud that he should -have been charged with so confidential an office. Now the time had come -for him to keep his word, and the most difficult crisis of his life was -suddenly upon him. There had been difficult moments in the War—Henry -alone knew how difficult moments of physical challenge, moments of -moral challenge too—but then in that desolate-hell-delivered country -thousands of others had been challenged at the same time, and some -especial courage seemed to have been given one with special occasion. -Here he was alone, and alone in an especially<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> arduous way. He did -not know how much authority he really had, he did not know whether -Sir Charles had in truth meant all that he had said, he did not know -whether Tom Duncombe had not after all some right to be there.</p> - -<p>Above all he was young, very young, for his age, doubtful of himself, -fearing that he always struck a silly figure in any crisis that he had -to face. On the other hand, he was helped by his real hatred of the -red-flushed man at the table, unlike his brother-in-law Philip in that, -namely, that he did not want every one to like him and, indeed, rather -preferred to be hated by the people whom he himself disliked.</p> - -<p>Tom Duncombe was now pulling at one of the drawers of the table. Henry -stood up, feeling that the whole room was singing about his ears.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling feebly, and knowing that his -voice was a ridiculous one. "But would you mind waiting until Sir -Charles comes in? I know he won't be long—he said he'd be back by -three."</p> - -<p>Duncombe moved away from the drawer and stared.</p> - -<p>"Here," he said. "Do you know where my brother keeps the key of this -drawer? If so, hand it over."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do know," said Henry. (It was sufficiently obvious, as the -key was hanging on a string at the far corner of the table.) "But I'm -afraid I can't give it you. Sir Charles told me that no one was to have -it while he was away."</p> - -<p>Duncombe took in this piece of intelligence very slowly. He stared at -Henry as though he were some curious and noxious kind of animal that -had just crawled in from under the window. A purple flush suffused his -forehead and nose.</p> - -<p>"Good God!" he said. "The infernal cheek!"</p> - -<p>They stood silently staring at one another for a moment, then Duncombe -said:</p> - -<p>"None of your lip, young man. I don't know who the devil you think you -are—anyway hand over the key."</p> - -<p>"No," said Henry paling, "I can't."</p> - -<p>"You can't? What the devil do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Simply I can't. I was told not to—I'm your brother's secretary and -have to do what he says—not what you say!"</p> - -<p>Henry felt himself growing more happily defiant.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you want to get the damnedest hiding you've ever had in your young -life?"</p> - -<p>"I don't care what you do."</p> - -<p>"Don't care what I do? Well, you soon will. Are you going to give me -that key?" (All this time he was pulling at the drawers with angry -jerks, pausing to stare at Henry, then pulling again.)</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"You're not? You know I can get my brother to kick you out?"</p> - -<p>"I don't care. I'm going to do what he said."</p> - -<p>"You bloody young fool, he never said you weren't to let me have it."</p> - -<p>"I may have misunderstood him. If I did, he'll put it right when he -comes back."</p> - -<p>"Yes, and a nice story I'll tell him of your damned impertinence. Give -me that key."</p> - -<p>"Sorry I can't."</p> - -<p>"I'll break your bloody neck."</p> - -<p>"That won't help you to find the key." Henry was feeling quite cheerful -now.</p> - -<p>"Christ! . . . You shall get it for that!"</p> - -<p>He made two steps to come round the table to get at Henry—and saw the -key. At the same instant Henry saw that he saw it. He ran forward to -secure it, and in a second they were struggling together like two small -boys in a manner unlovely, unscientific, even ludicrous. Ludicrous—had -there been an observer, but for the fighters themselves it was one of -those uncomfortable struggles when there are no rules of the game and -anything may happen at any moment. Duncombe was large but fat and in -the worst possible condition, with a large luncheon still unsettled and -in a roving state. Moreover he had never been a fighter. Henry was not -a fighter either and was handicapped at once because at the first onset -his pince-nez were knocked on to the carpet. He fought then blindly -in a blind world. He knew that Duncombe was kicking, and struggling -to strike at him with his fists. Himself seemed strangely involved in -Duncombe's chest, at which he tore with his hands, while he bent his -head to avoid the blows. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> breathing desperately, while there was -such anger seething in his breast as he had never felt for anything -human or inhuman in all his life. He felt Duncombe's waistcoat tear, -plunged at the shirt, and at once his fingers felt the bare flesh, the -soft fat of Duncombe's well-tended body. He was also conscious that he -was muttering "You beast, you beast, you beast!" that his left leg was -aching terribly and that Duncombe had his hand now firmly fixed in his -hair and was pulling with all his strength.</p> - -<p>Henry was going. . . . He was being pushed backwards. He caught a large -fold of Duncombe's fat between his fingers and pinched. Then he was -conscious that in another moment he would be over; he was falling, the -ceiling, far away, beat down toward him, his left arm shot out and his -fingers fastened themselves into Duncombe's posterior, which was large -and soft, then, with a cry he fell, Duncombe on top of him.</p> - -<p>Henry, half-stunned, lay, his leg crushed under him, his eyes closed, -and waited for the end. Duncombe now could do what he liked to him, -and what he liked would be something horrible. But Duncombe also, it -seemed, could not stir, but lay there all over Henry, heaving up and -down, the sweat from his cheek and forehead trickling into Henry's -eyes, his breath coming in great desperate pants.</p> - -<p>Then from a long way off came a voice:</p> - -<p>"Tom—Trenchard. What the devil!" That voice seemed to electrify -Duncombe. Henry felt the whole body quiver, stiffen for a moment, then -slowly, very slowly raise itself.</p> - -<p>Henry stumbled up and saw Sir Charles, not regarding him at all, but -fixing his eyes only upon his brother, who stood, his hair on end, his -shirt torn and exposing a red, hairy chest, wrath in his eyes, his -mouth trembling with anger and also with some other emotion.</p> - -<p>"What have you been doing, Tom?"</p> - -<p>"This damned——" then to Henry's immense surprise he broke off and -left the room almost at a run.</p> - -<p>Sir Charles went straight to his table, looked at the papers, glanced -at the drawers, then finally at the key, which was still on the hook.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> - -<p>His voice, when he spoke, was that of the saddest, loneliest, most -miserable of men.</p> - -<p>"You'd better go and clean up, Henry," he said, pointing to the farther -room.</p> - -<p>He had never called him Henry before.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVb" id="CHAPTER_IVb">CHAPTER IV</a></h2> - -<h3>THE CAULDRON</h3> - - -<p>But the day had not finished with Henry yet.</p> - -<p>When he had washed and tidied himself he discovered to his great relief -that his pince-nez were not broken, and that only one button (and -that an unimportant one) was torn from his trousers, and he departed. -Sir Charles asked him no questions, but only sat there at his table, -staring at his paper with a fixed look of melancholy absorption that -Henry dared not break. As no questions were asked Henry offered no -explanations. He was very glad that he had not to offer any. He simply -said, "Good afternoon, sir," and went. He was half expecting that Tom -Duncombe would be hiding behind some pillar in the hall, and would -spring out upon him as he passed, but there was no sign of anybody. The -house was as silent and dead as the Nether Tomb.</p> - -<p>He walked through the crowded ways to Peter Street in a fine turmoil of -excitement and agitation. The physical side of the struggle was not yet -forgotten; his shins, where Tom Duncombe had kicked him, were very sore -indeed, and his leg would suddenly tremble for no particular reason.</p> - -<p>His chest was sore and his head ached, from his enemy's vigorous -hair-pulling. He was very thankful that his face was not marked. That -was because he had held his head down. But the physical consequences -were lost in consideration of the deeper, more important spiritual -and material issues. What had Tom Duncombe really been after? Plainly -enough something that he had been after before. One could tell that -from his brother's silence. What revenge would Tom now try to take upon -Henry? Perhaps he would bribe Mr. King to murder him in his sleep, -or would send Henry poison in a box of chocolates, or would distil -fly-paper into his coffee as Seddon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> had done to poor Miss Barrow? -Perhaps he would have him assassinated by some Bolshevik agent, in -the middle of Piccadilly? No, all these things, delightful though -they sounded, were not likely—Tom Duncombe was obviously lacking in -imagination.</p> - -<p>A beautiful <i>vers libre</i> flew like a coloured dove into Henry's brain -just as he crossed the Circus:</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red-chested Minotaur<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Thrust<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blow on Blow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Golden apples showering<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From Autumn trees<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In wolf-haunted<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Forest—<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Had he not been sworn at by the driver of a swiftly advancing taxi-cab -he might have thought of a second verse equally good.</p> - -<p>Arriving at his destination, he found Mrs. Tenssen all alone seated -at the table playing Patience, with a pack of very greasy cards. One -useful lesson at least Henry was to learn from this eventful year, a -lesson that would do him splendid service throughout his life—namely, -that there is nothing more difficult than to discover a human being, -man or woman, who is really wicked all the way round and the whole -way through. People who <i>seem</i> to be thoroughly wicked, whom one -passionately desires to be thoroughly wicked, will suddenly betray -kindnesses, softnesses, amiabilities, imbecilities that simply do not -go with the rest of their terrible character. This is very sad and -makes life much more difficult than it ought to be.</p> - -<p>It is indeed to be doubted whether a completely wicked human being has -ever appeared on this planet.</p> - -<p>It had already puzzled Henry on several occasions that Mrs. Tenssen, -who as nearly resembled a completely wicked person as he had ever -beheld, should care so passionately for the simple game of Patience, -and should take flowers, as he discovered that she did, once a week to -the Children's Hospital in Cleseden Street.</p> - -<p>He would so greatly have preferred that she should not do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> these -things. She did them, it might be, as a blind, a concealment, an alibi, -even as Count Fosco had his white mice and Uncle Silas played the -flute, but they did not <i>appear</i> to be a disguise; she seemed to enjoy -doing them.</p> - -<p>She greeted Henry with great affection. She had been very kind to him -of late. He did not like her any better than on his first vision of -her; he liked her indeed far less. He did not know any one, man or -woman, from whom sex so indecently protruded. It was always as though -she sat quite naked in front of him and that she liked it to be so.</p> - -<p>She had once made what even his innocent mind understood as improper -advances to him, and he had not now the very slightest doubt of the -reason why the various gentlemen, of all sizes and ages, came and had -tea with her.</p> - -<p>All this made him very sick and put him into an agony of desire to -seize Christina and deliver her from the horrible place, but until now -he had not thought of any plan, and one of his principal difficulties -was that he could never succeed in being with Christina alone.</p> - -<p>He realized that Mrs. Tenssen had not as yet sufficiently made up her -wicked mind about him. She was hesitating, he perceived, as to whether -he was worth her while or no. He had no doubt but that she had been -making inquiries about him and his family. Was she speculating about -him as a husband for her daughter? Or had she some other plans in her -evil head?</p> - -<p>To-day the room was close and stuffy and dingy in spite of the pink -silk. There was a smell of cooking that writhed in and out of the -furniture, some evil, but savoury mess that was onions and yet not -onions at all, here black pudding, and there stewing eels, once ducks' -eggs and then again sheeps' brains—just such a savoury mess as any -witch would have stewing in her cauldron.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen, on this afternoon, proceeded to deliver herself of some -of her thoughts, her large face crimson above her purple dress, her -rings flashing over the shabby dog-eared cards. Henry sat there, his -eyes on the door, listening, listening for the step that he would give -all the world to hear.</p> - -<p>"You know," she said, cursing through her teeth at the bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> order of -the cards, "the matter with me is that I'm too good-natured. I've got a -kind heart—that's the matter with me. I'm sorry for it. I'm a fool to -let myself go as I do. And what have I ever got for my kindness—damn -that club. What but ingratitude and cheating. It's the way of the -world. You're young. You just remember that. Don't let your heart go. -Use your intelligence."</p> - -<p>"What," asked Henry who wished to discover from her something about -Christina's earlier life, "kind of a town is Copenhagen? How did you -like Denmark?"</p> - -<p>"Ugh!" said Mrs. Tenssen. "I'm an Englishwoman, I am—born in Bristol -and bred there, thank God. None of your bloody foreign countries for -me. Twenty years of my life wasted in that stinking hole. Not that my -husband was so bad—not as husbands go that is. He was a sailor and -away many a time, and a good thing too. Fine upstanding man he was with -yellow curls and a chest broad enough to put a table on. He'd smack my -ass and say, 'There's a woman for you!' and so I was and am still for -the matter of that."</p> - -<p>"Was Christina your only child," asked Henry.</p> - -<p>"Yes. What do you take me for? No more children for me after the first -one. 'No,' I said to David. 'Behave as you like,' I said, 'but no more -children for me.' Wouldn't have had that one if I hadn't been such a -blighted young fool. What's life for if you're lying up all the time? -But David was all right. Drowned at sea. I always told him he would be."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, why weren't you happy?"</p> - -<p>"Happy," she echoed. "I tell you Copenhagen's a stinking town. Dirty -little place. And his relations! There was a crew for you, especially -a damned brother of his with a long beard, like a goat who was always -round interfering. Didn't want me to have any gentlemen friends. 'Oh -you go to hell,' I said. 'I'll have what friends I damn well please.' -Wanted to take my girl away from me. There's a nice thing! When a -woman's a widow and all alone in the world and doing all she can for -her girl, for a bloody relation to come along and try to take her away."</p> - -<p>"What did he want to take her away for?" asked Henry.</p> - -<p>"How the hell should I know? That's what I asked him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> 'What do you -want to take her away for?' I asked him. He called me dirty names, -then, so I just called dirty names back. Two can play at that game. -I hadn't been educated in Bristol for nothing. Then they went on -interfering, so I just brought her over here."</p> - -<p>Henry was longing to ask some more questions when the door opened and -Christina came in.</p> - -<p>"Well, deary," said her mother. "Here's Mr. Trenchard." Christina -smiled, then stood there uncertainly.</p> - -<p>"There's a man coming upstairs, mother, who said you'd asked him to -call. He wouldn't give his name."</p> - -<p>Steps were outside. There was a pause, a knock on the door. Mrs. -Tenssen looked at them both uncertainly.</p> - -<p>"What do you say to taking Christina out to tea, Mr. Trenchard? It -won't do her any harm?"</p> - -<p>Henry said he would be delighted, as for sure he would.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, suppose you do—some nice tea-shop. I know you'll look -after her."</p> - -<p>The girl moved to the door. Henry opened it for her. On the other side -was standing a large heavy man, some country-fellow he seemed, young, -brown-faced, in rough blue clothes.</p> - -<p>Christina slipped by, her head down. In the street Henry found her -crying. He didn't speak to her or ask her any questions. In silence -they went down Peter Street.</p> - -<p>When they were in Shaftesbury Avenue, Henry said, very gently:</p> - -<p>"Where would you like to have tea? I'd want to take you to the grandest -place there is if you'd care for that."</p> - -<p>She shook her head. "No no, nowhere grand. . . ." She paused, standing -still and looking about her as though she were utterly lost. Then he -saw her, with a great effort, drag herself together. "There's a little -place in Dean Street," she said. "A little Spanish restaurant—opposite -the theatre."</p> - -<p>He had been there several times to have a Spanish omelette which was -cheap and very good. The kind little manager was a friend of his. He -took her there wondering that he was not more triumphant on this, -the first occasion when he had been alone with her in the outside -world—but he could not be triumphant when she was so unhappy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> - -<p>He found, as he had hoped he would, a little deserted table in the -window shut off from the rest of the room by the door. It was very -private with the light evening sunlight beyond the glass and people -passing to and fro, and a little queue of men and women already -beginning to form outside the pit door of the Royalty Theatre. The -little manager brought them their tea and smiled and made little -chirping noises and left them to themselves.</p> - -<p>She was in great distress, not noticing her tea, staring in front of -her as Henry had often seen her unconsciously do before, rolling her -handkerchief between her hands into a little wet ball.</p> - -<p>"I wanted us to come. I'm glad we've had the chance. I've been wanting -for weeks to explain something to you." Henry poured her tea out for -her and mechanically, still staring beyond him, beyond the shop, beyond -London, she drank it.</p> - -<p>"You've been very good these months, very very good. I don't know why, -because you didn't know me before, nor anything about me. One day -I laughed at you and I'm sorry for that. You are not to be laughed -at—you have not that character—not at all—anywhere."</p> - -<p>She paused, and Henry, looking into her face, said:</p> - -<p>"I haven't been good to you. I'm ashamed because these weeks have all -gone by and I haven't helped you yet. But you needn't say why do I come -and why am I your friend. I love you. I loved you the first moment I -saw you in Piccadilly. I've never loved anybody before and I feel now -as though I shall never love anybody again. But I will do anything for -you, or go anywhere. You only have to say and I will try and do that."</p> - -<p>Her gaze came inwards, leaving those wide unscaleable horizons whither -she had gone and travelling back to the simple untidy face of Henry -whose eyes at any rate were good enough for you to be quite sure that -he meant honestly all that he said. "That's it," she said quickly. -"That's what I must try to explain to you. I've wanted to say to you -before that perhaps I have made you think what isn't true. I like you. -You're the only friend I've had since I came to England. But I can't -love you, you dear good boy, nor I can't love anybody.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> I will not -forget you if I can once get out of this horrible place, but I have no -thoughts of love—not for any one—until I can come home again.</p> - -<p>"You saw me crying just now. I should not cry; my father used to say, -'Christina, always be strong and not show them you're weak,' but I cry, -not from weakness, but from deep, deep shame at that woman and what you -see in her house."</p> - -<p>She suddenly took his hand. "You are not angry because I don't love -you? You see, I have only one thought—to get home, to get home, to get -home!"</p> - -<p>Henry choked in his throat and could only stare back at her and try to -smile.</p> - -<p>"Well, then," she said smiling. "Now I will try to tell you how I am. -That woman—that horrible woman—whom they call my mother, and I too, -to my shame, call her so—she was the wife of my father. From my birth -she was cruel to me, she always hated me. When my father was at home -she could not touch me—he would not allow her—but when he was at sea -then she could do what she wished. My father was a hero, he was the -finest of all Danish men, and when a Dane is fine no one in the world -is as fine as he. He loved me and I loved him. Every one must love him, -how he sang and danced and played like a child! After a time he hated -the woman he'd married, because she was cruel, and he would have taken -me away with him on his ship, but of course he could not. And then -father was drowned—one night I knew it. I saw him. He came to my bed -and smiled at me and he was all dripping with water. Then that woman -was terrible to me, and my two uncles, father's brothers, who were -almost as fine as he, tried to take me away, but she was too quick for -them. And when they quarrelled with her, she ran away in the night and -brought me over here."</p> - -<p>Henry sighed in sympathy with her.</p> - -<p>"Yes, and here it is terrible. I do not think I can endure it very much -more. My uncle wrote and said he would come for me, and that is why I -have been waiting, because I am sure that he will come.</p> - -<p>"But now I think that woman is planning something else. She wants to -sell me to some man so that she herself can be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> free. She is in doubt -about several. That old man you saw the other day is one. He is very -rich, and has a castle. Then she has been for some while in doubt about -whether perhaps you will do. I don't care for it when she beats me, and -when she says terrible things to me, but it is the fear of the future, -and she may do worse than she has ever done—she threatens . . . and -when I am alone at night—often all night—I am so afraid. . . ."</p> - -<p>"Alone?" said Henry. "Isn't she there?"</p> - -<p>"She has another place—somewhere in Victoria Street. Often she is away -all night."</p> - -<p>"Then," said Henry eagerly, "it's quite easy. We'll escape one night. I -can get enough money together and I will travel with you to Copenhagen -and give you to your uncle."</p> - -<p>She shook her head. "No. You are a sweet boy, but that is no good. She -has the place always watched. The police would stop us at once. She is -a very clever woman."</p> - -<p>"But then," pursued Henry, "if that house in Peter Street is a bad -house, and she is keeping you, that is against the law, and we can have -her arrested."</p> - -<p>Christina shook her head.</p> - -<p>"No. She is a very clever woman indeed. Nothing wrong goes on there. -Perhaps in Victoria Street. I don't know. I have never been there. But -I am sure if you tried to catch her in Victoria Street you would not be -able to. There is nothing to be done that way. But see . . ."</p> - -<p>She leant over towards Henry across the table, dropping her voice.</p> - -<p>"Next December I shall be twenty-one and shall be free. It is before -that that I am afraid. I know she is making some plan in her head. But -I feel that you are watching, then I shall be safer. She wants to get a -lot of money for me, and I think perhaps that old Mr. Leishman whom you -saw is arranging something with her.</p> - -<p>"What you want to do is to be friends with her so long as you can, -so that you may come to us freely. But one day she will have made up -her mind, and then there will be a scene, and she will forbid you the -house. After that watch every day in <i>The Times</i> in the personal part. -I will let you know when it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> serious. I will try to tell you where I -have gone. If I do that, it will mean that it is very anxious, and you -must help me any way you can. Will you promise me?"</p> - -<p>"I promise," said Henry. "Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, I will -come."</p> - -<p>"I have written to my uncle and I know he will come if he can. But he -travels very much abroad, and my other uncle is in Japan. If they do -not get any letter, I have no one—no one but you."</p> - -<p>She took Henry's hand again. "Since father died I can't love any one," -she said. "But I can be your friend and never forget you. I have been -so long frightened now, and I am so tired and so ashamed, that I think -all deeper feeling is dead.</p> - -<p>"I only want to get home. Do you understand, and not think me false?"</p> - -<p>Henry said, "I'm just as proud as I can be."</p> - -<p>Then, saying very little, he took her back to Peter Street.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Vb" id="CHAPTER_Vb">CHAPTER V</a></h2> - -<h3>MILLIE IN LOVE</h3> - - -<p>Meanwhile, as Henry was having his adventures, so, also was Millie -having hers, and having them, even as Henry did, in a sudden -climacteric moment after many weeks of ominous pause.</p> - -<p>She knew well enough that that pause was ominous. It would have been -difficult for her to avoid knowing it. The situation began to develop -directly after the amateur performance of <i>The Importance of Being -Earnest</i>. That same performance was a terrible and disgracefully public -failure. It had been arranged originally with the outward and visible -purpose of benefiting a Babies' Crèche that had its home somewhere -in Maida Vale, and had never yet apparently been seen by mortal man. -Clarice, however, cared little either for babies or the crèches that -contain them, but was quite simply and undisguisedly aching to prove -to the world in general that she was a better actress than Miss Irene -Vanbrugh, the creator of her part.</p> - -<p>The charity and kindliness of an audience at an amateur theatrical -performance are always called upon to cover a multitude of sins, but, -perhaps, never before in the history of amateur acting did quite so -many sins need covering as on this occasion—sins of omission, sins of -commission, and sins of bad temper and sulkiness. Clarice knew her part -only at happy intervals, but young Mr. Baxter knew his not at all, and -tried to conceal his ignorance with cheery smiles and impromptu remarks -about the weather, and little paradoxes that were in his own opinion -every bit as good as Oscar Wilde's, with the additional advantage -of novelty. Mr. Baxter was, indeed, at the end of the performance -thoroughly pleased with himself and the world in general, and was the -only actor in the cast who could boast of that happy condition.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - -<p>Next morning in the house of the Platts the storm broke, and Millie -found, to her bewildered amazement, that she was, in one way and -another, considered the villainness of the piece. That morning was -never to be forgotten by Millie.</p> - -<p>She was not altogether surprised that there should be a storm. For many -days past the situation had been extremely difficult; only four days -earlier, indeed, she had wondered whether she could possibly endure it -any longer, and might have gone straight to Victoria and resigned her -post had she not had five minutes' encouraging conversation with little -Doctor Brooker, who had persuaded her that she was doing valuable -work and must remain. There were troubles with Clarice, troubles with -Ellen (very curious ones), troubles with Victoria, troubles with the -housekeeper, even troubles with Beppo. All the attendant guests in -the house (except the poor Balaclavas) looked upon her with hatred -because they knew that she despised them for their sycophancy and that -they deserved her scorn. Her troubles with Victoria were the worst, -because after all did Victoria support her nothing else very seriously -mattered. But Victoria, like all weak characters determined upon power, -swayed like a tree in the wind, now hither now thither, according -to the emotions of the moment. She told Millie that she loved her -devotedly, then suddenly would her mild eyes narrow with suspicion when -she heard Millie commanding Beppo to bring up some more coal with what -seemed to her a voice of too incisive authority. She said to Millie -that the duty of the secretary was to control the servants, and then -when the housekeeper came with bitter tales of that same secretary's -autocracy she sided with the housekeeper. She thought Clarice a fool, -but listened with readiness to everything that Clarice had to say about -"upstart impertinence," "a spy in the house," and so on. She had by -this time conceived a hatred and a loathing for Mr. Block and longed -to transfer him to some very distant continent, but when he came to -her with tears in his eyes and said that he would never eat another -roll of bread in a house where he was so looked down upon by "the lady -secretary," she assured him that Millie was of no importance, and -begged him to continue to break bread with her so long as there was -bread in the house.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p> - -<p>She complained with bitterness of the confusion of her correspondence -and admired enthusiastically the order and discipline into which Millie -had brought it, and yet, from an apparently wilful perverseness, she -created further confusion whenever she could, tumbling letters and -bills and invitations together, and playing a kind of drawing-room -football with her papers as though Dr. Brooker had told her that this -was one of the ways of warding off stoutness.</p> - -<p>This question of her stoutness was one of Millie's most permanent -troubles. Victoria now had "Stoutness on the Brain," a disease that -never afflicted her at all in the old days when she was poor, partly -because she had too much work in those days to allow time for idle -thinking, and partly because she had no money to spend on cures.</p> - -<p>Now one cure followed upon another. She tried various systems of diet -but, being a greedy woman and loving sweet and greasy foods, a grilled -chop and an "asbestos" biscuit were real agony to her. Then, for a -time, she stripped to the skin twice a day and begged Millie to roll -her upon the floor, a performance that Millie positively detested. She -weighed herself solemnly every morning and evening and her temper was -spoilt for the day when she had not lost but had indeed gained.</p> - -<p>It must not be supposed, however, that she was always irritable and -in evil temper. Far from it; between her gusts of despair, anger and -assaulted pride she was very sweet indeed, assuring Millie that she was -a wicked woman and deserved no mercy from any one.</p> - -<p>"I cannot think how you can endure me, my Millie," she would say. "You -sweet creature! Wonderful girl! What I've done without you all these -years I cannot imagine. I mean well. I do indeed. I'm sure there isn't -a woman in the country who wants every one to be happy as I do. How -simple it seems! Happiness! What a lovely word and yet how difficult -of attainment! Life isn't nearly as simple as it was in the days when -dear Papa was alive. I'm sure when I had nothing at all in the bank and -didn't dare to face kind Mr. Miller for days together because I knew -that I had had more money out of his bank than I had ever put into it, -life was simplicity—but now—what do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> you think is the matter with me, -my Millie? Tell me truthfully, straight from your loyal heart."</p> - -<p>Millie longed to tell her that what was the matter could all be found -in that one word "Money!" but the time for direct and honest speech, -woman to woman, was not quite yet, although it was, most surely, close -at hand.</p> - -<p>With Ellen the trouble was more mysterious—Millie did not understand -that strange woman. After the scene in Ellen's room for many days -she held aloof, not speaking to Millie at all. Then gradually she -approached again, and one morning came into the room where Millie -was working, walked up to her desk, bent over her and kissed her -passionately and walked straight out of the room again without uttering -a word. A few days later she mysteriously pressed a note into her hand. -This was what it said:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Darling Millie</span>—You must forgive any oddness of behaviour -that I have shown during these last weeks. I have had one headache -after another and have been very miserable too for other reasons -with which I need not bother you. I know you think me strange, but -indeed you have no more devoted friend than I if only you would -believe it. Some may seem friends to you but are not really. Do -not take every one at their face value. It is sweet of you to do -so but you run great risks. Could we not be a little more together -than we are? I should like it so much if we could one day have a -walk together. I feel that you do not understand me, and it is -true that I am not at my best in this unsympathetic household. I -feel that you shrink from me sometimes. If I occasionally appear -demonstrative it is because I have so much love in my nature that -has no outlet. I am a lonely woman, Millie. You have my heart in -your hands. Treat it gently!—Your loving friend,</p> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Ellen Platt</span>.<br /></p> -</blockquote> - -<p>This letter irritated and annoyed Millie. Her hands were full enough -already without having Ellen's heart added to everything else. And -why need Ellen be so mysterious, warning her about people? That was -underhand. Did she suspect anybody she should speak out. Millie walked -about cautiously for the next few days lest she should find herself -alone with Ellen, when the woman looked so miserable that her heart was -touched, and one morning, meeting her in the hall, she said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It was kind of you to write that note, Ellen. Of course we'll have a -walk one day."</p> - -<p>Ellen stared at her under furious eyebrows. "If that's all you can -say," she exclaimed, "thank you for nothing. Catch me giving myself -away again," and brushed angrily past her. . . .</p> - -<p>So on the morning after the theatricals down came the storm. It began -with the housekeeper, Mrs. Martin. Sitting under Eve Millie examined -the household books for the last fortnight.</p> - -<p>"The butcher's very large," she observed.</p> - -<p>"Honk!" Mrs. Martin remarked from some unprobed depths of an outraged -woman. She was a little creature with an upturned nose and a grey -complexion.</p> - -<p>"Well it really is too large this time," said Millie. "Twenty pounds -for a fortnight even in these days——"</p> - -<p>"Certingly," said Mrs. Martin, speaking very quickly and rising a -little on her toes. "Certingly if I'm charged with dishonesty, and it's -implied that I'm stealing the butcher's meat and deceiving my mistress, -who has always, so far as <i>I</i> know, trusted me and found no fault at -all and has indeed commented not once nor twice on my being economical, -but if so, well my notice is the thing that's wanted, I suppose, -and——"</p> - -<p>"Not at all," said Millie, still very gently. "There's no question of -any one's dishonesty, Mrs. Martin. As you're housekeeper as well as -cook you must know better than any one else whether this is an unusual -amount or no. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps——"</p> - -<p>"I may have my faults," Mrs. Martin broke in, "there's few of us who -haven't, but dishonesty I've never before been accused of; although -the times are difficult and those who don't have to buy the things -themselves may imagine that meat costs nothing, and you can have a -joint every quarter of an hour without having to pay for it, still that -hasn't been my experience, and to be called a dishonest woman after all -my troubles and the things I've been through——"</p> - -<p>"I never did call you a dishonest woman," said Millie. "Never for a -moment. I only want you to examine this book with me and see whether we -can't bring it down a little——"</p> - -<p>"Dishonesty," pursued Mrs. Martin, rising still higher on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> her toes and -apparently addressing Eve, "is dishonesty and there's no way out of it, -either one's dishonest or one isn't and—if one is dishonest the sooner -one leaves and finds a place where one isn't the better for all parties -and the least said the sooner mended——"</p> - -<p>"<i>Would</i> you mind," said Millie with an admirable patience, "just -casting your eye over this book and telling me what you think of it? -That's all I want really."</p> - -<p>"Then I hope, Miss," said Mrs. Martin, "that you'll take back your -accusation that I shouldn't like to go back to the kitchen suffering -under, because I never <i>have</i> suffered patiently under such an -accusation and I never will."</p> - -<p>"I made no accusation," said Millie. "If I hurt your feelings I'm -sorry, but do please let us get to work and look at this book together. -Time's short and there's so much to be done."</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Martin was a woman of one idea at a time. "If you doubt my -character, Miss, please speak to Miss Platt about it, and if <i>she</i> has -a complaint well and good and I'll take her word for it, she having -known me a good deal longer than many people and not one to rush to -conclusions as some are perhaps with justice and perhaps not."</p> - -<p>Upon this particular morning Millie was to lose her temper upon three -separate occasions. This was the first occasion.</p> - -<p>"That's enough, Mrs. Martin," she said sharply. "I did not call you -dishonest. I do not now. But as you seem incapable of looking at this -book I will show it to Miss Platt and she shall discuss it with you. -That's everything, thank you, good morning."</p> - -<p>"Honk!" said Mrs. Martin. "Then if that's the way I'm to be treated the -only thing that's left for me to do is hand in my notice which I do -with the greatest of pleasure, and until you came, Miss, I should never -have dreamt of such a thing, being well suited, but <i>such</i> treatment no -human being can stand!"</p> - -<p>"Very well then," said Millie, cold with anger. "If you feel you must -go, you must. I'm sorry but you must act as you feel."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Martin turned round and marched towards the door muttering to -herself. Just before she reached it Victoria and Clarice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> entered. Mrs. -Martin looked at them, muttered something and departed banging the door -behind her.</p> - -<p>Millie could see that Victoria was already upset, her large fat face -puckered into the expression of a baby who is not sure whether it will -cry or no. Clarice, her yellow hair untidy and her pink gown trembling -with unexpected little pieces of lace and flesh, was quite plainly in a -very bad temper.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter with Mrs. Martin?" said Victoria, coming through -into the inner room. "She seems to be upset about something."</p> - -<p>"She is," said Millie. "She's just given notice."</p> - -<p>"Given notice!" cried Victoria. "Oh dear, oh dear! What shall we do? -Millie, how could you let her? She's been with us longer than any -servant we've had since father died and she cooks so well considering -everything. She knows our ways now and I've always been so careful to -give her everything she wanted. Oh Millie, how could you? You really -shouldn't have done it!"</p> - -<p>"I didn't do it," said Millie. "<i>She</i> did it. I simply asked her to -look at the butcher's book for the last fortnight. It was disgracefully -large. She chose to be insulted and gave notice."</p> - -<p>"Isn't that vexing?" cried Victoria. "I do think you might have managed -better, Millie. She isn't a woman who easily takes offence either. -She's taken such a real interest in us all and nothing's been too much -trouble for her!"</p> - -<p>"Meanwhile," Millie said, "she's been robbing you right and left. You -know she has, Victoria. You as good as admitted it to me the other -day. Of course if you want to go on being plundered, Victoria, it's no -affair of mine. Only tell me so, and I shall know where I am."</p> - -<p>"I don't think you ought to speak to me like that," said Victoria. -"It's not kind of you. I didn't quite expect that of you, Millie. You -know the troubles I have and I hoped you were going to help me with -them and not give me new ones."</p> - -<p>"I'm not giving you new ones," Millie answered. "I'm trying to save -you. However——"</p> - -<p>It was at this point that Clarice interrupted. "Now I hope at last, -Victoria," she said, "that your eyes are opened. It only supports what -I was saying downstairs. Miss Trenchard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> (Clarice had been calling her -Miss Trenchard for the last fortnight) may be clever and attractive -and certainly young men seem to think her so, but suited to be your -secretary she is not."</p> - -<p>Millie got up from her seat. "Isn't this beginning to be rather -personal?" she said. "Hadn't we all better wait until we are a little -cooler?"</p> - -<p>"No we had not," said Clarice, trembling with anger. "I'm glad this -occasion has come at last. I've been waiting for it for weeks. I'm -not one to be underhand and to say things behind people's backs that -I would not dare to say to their faces; I say just what I think. I -know, Miss Trenchard, that you despise me and look down upon me. Of -that I have nothing to say. It may be deserved or it may not. I am -here, however, to protect my sister. There are things that she is too -warm-hearted and kind-natured to see although they do go on right under -her very nose. There have been occasions before when I've had to point -circumstances out to her. I've never hesitated at what was I thought my -duty. I do not hesitate now. I tell you frankly, Miss Trenchard, that I -think your conduct during these last weeks has been quite disgraceful. -You have alienated all Victoria's best friends, disturbed the servants -and flirted with every young man that has come into the house!"</p> - -<p>This was the second occasion on which Millie lost her temper that -morning.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," she said. "Now I know where I stand. But you'll apologize -please for that last insult before you leave this room."</p> - -<p>"I will not! I will not!" cried Clarice.</p> - -<p>"Oh dear, what shall I do?" interrupted Victoria. "I knew this was -going to be a terrible day the moment I got out of bed this morning. -Clarice, you really shouldn't say such things."</p> - -<p>"I should! I should!" cried Clarice, stamping her foot. "She's ruined -everything since she came into the house. No one knows how I worked -at that horrible play and Bunny Baxter was beginning to be so good, -most amusing and knowing his part perfectly until she came along. And -then she turned his head and he fancies he's in love with her and the -whole thing goes to pieces. And I always said, right away from the -begin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>ning, that we oughtn't to have Cissie Marrow as prompter, she -always loses her head and turns over two pages at once—and now I've -gone and made myself the laughing-stock of London and shall never be -able to act in public again!"</p> - -<p>The sight of Clarice's despair touched Millie, and when the poor -woman turned from them and stood, facing the window, snuffling into a -handkerchief, her anger vanished as swiftly as it had come.</p> - -<p>Besides what <i>were</i> they quarrelling about, three grown women? Here was -life passing and so much to be done and they could stand and scream at -one another like children in the nursery. Millie's subconscious self -seemed to be saying to her: "I stand outside you. I obscure you. This -is not real, but I am real and something behind life is real. Laugh at -this. It vanishes like smoke. <i>This</i> is not life." She suddenly smiled; -laughter irradiated all her face, shining in her eyes, colouring her -cheek.</p> - -<p>"Clarice, I'm sorry. If I've been a pig to you all these weeks I surely -didn't mean to be. It hasn't been very easy—not through anybody's -fault but simply because I'm so inexperienced. I'm sure that I've been -very trying to all of you. But why should we squabble like this? I -don't know what's happened to all of us this year. We stood far worse -times during the War without losing our tempers, and we all of us put -up with one another. But now we all seem to get angry at the slightest -thing. I've noticed it everywhere. The little things now are much -harder to bear than the big things were in the War. Please be friends, -Clarice, and believe me that I didn't mean to hurt you."</p> - -<p>At this sudden softening Clarice burst into louder sobbing and nothing -was to be heard but "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" proceeding from the middle of -the handkerchief.</p> - -<p>All might now have been well had not Victoria most unfortunately -suddenly bethought herself of Mrs. Martin.</p> - -<p>"All the same, Millie," she said. "It wasn't quite kindly of you to -speak to Clarice like that when you knew that she must be tired after -all the trouble she had with her acting, and I'm sure I thought it went -very nicely indeed although there was a little confusion in the middle -which I'm certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> nobody noticed half as much as Clarice thought they -did. And I do wish, Millie, that you hadn't spoken to Mrs. Martin like -that. I simply don't know what we shall do without her. We'll never get -any one else as good. I'm sure she never spoke to me rudely. She only -wants careful handling. I do so detest registry offices and seeing one -woman worse than another. I <i>do</i> think you're to blame, Millie!"</p> - -<p>Whereupon Millie lost her temper for the third time that morning and on -this occasion very thoroughly indeed.</p> - -<p>"All right," she said, "that finishes it. You can have my month's -notice, Victoria, as well as Mrs. Martin's—I've endured it as well as -I could and as long as I could. I've been nearly giving you notice a -hundred times. And before I <i>do</i> go let me just tell you that I think -you're the greatest coward, Victoria, that ever walked upon two feet. -How many secretaries have you had in the last two months? Dozens I -should fancy. And why? Because you never support them in anything. -You tell them to go and do a thing and then when they do it desert -them because some one else in the house disapproves. You gave me -authority over the servants, told me to dismiss them if they weren't -satisfactory, and then when at last I do dismiss one of them you tell -me I was wrong to do it. I try to bring this house into something like -order and then you upset me at every turn as though you didn't <i>want</i> -there to be any order at all. You aren't loyal, Victoria, that's what's -the matter with you—and until you <i>are</i> you'll never get any one to -stay with you. I'm going a month from to-day and I wish you luck with -your next selection."</p> - -<p>She had sufficient time to perceive with satisfaction Victoria's -terrified stare and to hear the startled arrest of Clarice's sobs. She -had marched to the door, she had looked back upon them both, had caught -Victoria's "Millie! you can't——" The door was closed behind her and -she was out upon the silent sunlit staircase.</p> - -<p>Breathless, agitated with a confusion of anger and penitence, -indignation and regret she ran downstairs and almost into the arms of -young Mr. Baxter. Oh! how glad she was to see him! Here at any rate -was a <i>man</i>—not one of these eternal women with their morbidities and -hysterias and scenes! His very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> smile, his engaging youth and his air -of humorous detachment were jewels beyond any price to Millie just then.</p> - -<p>"Why! What's the matter?" he cried.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "I don't know whether I'm going to -laugh or cry or what I'm going to do! Oh, those women! Those <i>women</i>! -Bunny—take me somewhere. Do something with me. Out of this. I'm off my -head this morning."</p> - -<p>"Come in here!" he said, drawing her with him towards a little poky -room on the right of the hall-door that was used indifferently as a -box-room, a writing-room and a room for Beppo to retire into when -he was waiting to pounce out upon a ring at the door. It was dirty, -littered with hat-boxes and feminine paraphernalia. An odious room, -nevertheless this morning the sun was shining with delight and young -Baxter knew that his moment had come.</p> - -<p>He pushed Millie in before him, closed the door, flung his arms around -her and kissed her all over her face. She pulled herself away.</p> - -<p>"You . . . You . . . What is the matter with every one this morning?"</p> - -<p>He looked at her with eyes dancing with delight.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry. I ought to have warned you. You looked so lovely I couldn't -help myself. Millie, I adore you. I have done so ever since I first met -you. I love you. I love you. You must marry me. We'll be happy for ever -and ever."</p> - -<p>There were so many things that Millie should have said. The simple -truth was that she had been in love with him for weeks and had no other -thought but that.</p> - -<p>"We can't marry," she said at last feebly. "We're both very young. -We've got no money."</p> - -<p>"Young!" said Bunny scornfully. "Why, I'm twenty-seven, and as to money -I'll soon make some. Millie, come here!"</p> - -<p>She who had but now scolded the Miss Platts as though they were school -children went to him.</p> - -<p>"See!" he put his hands on her shoulders staring into her eyes, "I -oughtn't to have kissed you like that just now. It wasn't right. I'm -going to begin properly now. Dear Millicent, will you marry me?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What will your mother——?"</p> - -<p>"Dear Millicent, will you marry me?"</p> - -<p>"But if you haven't any money?"</p> - -<p>"Dear Millicent, will you marry me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>She suddenly put her arms around him and hugged him as though he had -been a favourite puppy or an infant of very tender years. She felt -about him like that. Then they simply sat hand in hand on a pile of -packing-cases in the corner of the room. He suddenly put his hand up -and stroked her hair.</p> - -<p>"Funny!" she said. "Some one did that the other day and I hated it."</p> - -<p>"Who dared?"</p> - -<p>She laughed. "No one you need be jealous of."</p> - -<p>Poor Ellen! She felt now that she loved all the world, Clarice and Mrs. -Martin included.</p> - -<p>"You won't mind if you keep our engagement dark for a week or two?" he -asked.</p> - -<p>"Why?" She turned round and looked at him.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I don't know. It would be more fun I think."</p> - -<p>"I don't think it would. I hate concealing things."</p> - -<p>"Oh, darling Millie, please—only for a very little time—a week or -two. My mother's away in Scotland and I don't want to write it to her, -I want to tell her."</p> - -<p>"Very well." She would agree to anything that he wanted, but for a very -brief moment a little chill of apprehension, whence she knew not, had -fallen upon her heart.</p> - -<p>"Now I must go." She got up. They stood in a long wonderful embrace. He -would not let her go. She came back to him again and again; then she -broke away and, her heart beating with ecstasy and happiness, came out -into the hall that now seemed dark and misty.</p> - -<p>She stood for a moment trying to collect her thoughts. Suddenly -Victoria appeared out of nowhere as it seemed. She spoke breathlessly, -as though she had been running.</p> - -<p>"Millie . . . Millie . . . Oh, you're not going? You can't be. . . . -You can't mean what you said. You mustn't go. We'll never, never get -on without you. Clarice is terribly sorry she was rude, and I've given -Mrs. Martin notice. You're quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> right. She ought to have gone long -ago. . . . You can't leave us. You can do just what you like, have what -you like. . . ."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you darling!" Millie flung her arms around her. "I'm sorry I was -cross. Of course I'll stay. I'll go and beg Clarice's pardon—anything -you like. I'll beg Mrs. Martin's if you want me to. Anything you like! -I'll even kiss Mr. Block if you like. . . . Do you mind? Bunny Baxter's -here. Can he stay to lunch?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm so glad!" Victoria was tearfully wiping her eyes. "I thought -you might have gone already. We'll never have a word again, never. Of -course he can stay, for as long as he likes. Dear me, dear me, what a -morning!"</p> - -<p>The hoarse voice of Beppo was heard to announce that luncheon was ready.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>These are some letters that Millicent and Henry wrote to one another at -this time:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Metropolitan Hotel, Cladgate,</span><br /> -<i>July 17, 1920.</i><br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Darling Henry</span>—We got down here last night and now it's -ever so late—after twelve—and I'm writing in a bedroom all red -and yellow, with a large picture of the Relief of Ladysmith over -my bed, and it's the very first moment I've had for writing to -you. What a day and what a place to spend six weeks in! However, -Victoria seems happy and contented, which is the main thing.</p> - -<p>It appears that she stayed in this very hotel years ago with her -father when they were very poor, and they had two tiny rooms at -the very top of the hotel. He wanted her to see gay life, and at -great expense brought her here for a week. All the waiters were -sniffy and the chambermaid laughed at her and it has rankled ever -since. Isn't it pathetic? So she has come now for six solid weeks, -bringing her car and Mr. Andrew the new chauffeur and me with -her, and has taken the biggest suite in the hotel. Isn't <i>that</i> -pathetic? Clarice and Ellen, thank God, are not here, and are to -arrive when they <i>do</i> come one at a time.</p> - -<p>We had so short a meeting before I came away that there was no -time to tell one another anything, and I have such <i>lots</i> to tell. -I didn't think you were looking very happy, Henry dear, <i>or</i> very -well. Do look after yourself. I'm glad your Baronet is taking you -into the country very shortly. I'm sure you need it. But do you -get enough to eat with him? His sister sounds a mean old thing and -I'm sure she scrimps over the housekeeping. (Scrimps is my own -word—isn't it a good one?) Eat all you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> can when you're in the -country. Make love to the cook. Plunder the pantry. Make a store -in your attic as the burglar did in our beloved <i>Jim</i>.</p> - -<p>One of the things I hadn't time to tell you is that I had an -unholy row with every one before we came away. I told you -that a storm was blowing up. It burst all right, and first -the housekeeper told me what she thought and then I told the -housekeeper and then Clarice had <i>her</i> turn and Victoria had -<i>hers</i> and I had the last turn of all. I won a glorious victory -and Victoria has eaten out of my hand ever since, but I'm not sure -that I'm altogether glad. Since it happened Victoria's been half -afraid of me, and is always looking at me as though she expected -me to burst out again, and I don't like people being afraid of -me—it makes me feel small.</p> - -<p>However, there it is and I've got her alone here all to myself, -and I'll see that she isn't frightened long. Then there's -something else. Something—— No, I won't tell you yet. For one -thing I promised not to tell any one, and although you aren't any -one exactly still—— But I shan't be able to keep it from you -very long. I'll just tell you this, that it makes me very, very -happy. Happier than I dreamt any one could ever be.</p> - -<p>I shouldn't think Cladgate was calculated to make any one very -happy. However you never can tell. People like such odd things. -All I've seen of it so far is a long, oily-grey sea like a stretch -of linoleum, a pier with nobody on it, a bandstand with nobody in -it, a desert of a promenade, and the inside of this hotel which -is all lifts, palms, and messenger boys. But I've seen nothing -yet, because I've been all day in Victoria's rooms arranging them -for her. I really think I'm going to love her down here all by -myself. There's something awfully touching about her. She feels -all the time she isn't doing the right thing with her money. She -buys all the newspapers and gets shocks in every line. One moment -it's Ireland, another Poland, another the Germans, and then it's -the awful winter we're going to have and all the Unemployed there -are going to be. I try to read Tennis to her and all about the -wonderful Tilden, and what the fashions are at this moment in -Paris, and how cheerful Mr. Bottomley feels about everything, but -she only listens to what she <i>wants</i> to hear. However, she really -is cheerful and contented for the moment.</p> - -<p>I had a letter from Katherine this morning. She says that mother -is worse and isn't expected to live very long. Aunt Aggie's come -up to see what she can do, and is fighting father and the nurse -all the time. For the first time in my life I'm on Aunt Aggie's -side. Any one who'll fight that nurse has me as a supporter. -Katherine's going to have another baby about November and says she -hopes it will be a girl. If it is it's to be called Millicent. -Poor lamb! Philip's gone in more and more for politics<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> and says -it's everybody's duty to fight the Extremists. He's going to stand -for somewhere in the next Election.</p> - -<p>I <i>must</i> go to bed. I'll write more in a day or two. Write to me -soon and tell me all about everything—and Cheer Up!—Your loving -<span class="smcap">Millie</span>.</p> - -<p>Have you seen Peter?</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Panton St.</span>, <i>July 21, '20</i>.<br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Millie</span>—Thank you very much for your letter. -Cladgate sounds awful, but I daresay it will be better later on -when more people come. I'll make you an awful confession, which -is that there's nothing in the world I like so much as sitting -in a corner in the hall of one of those big seaside hotels and -watching the people. So long as I can sit there and don't have -to do anything and can just notice how silly we all look and how -little we mean any of the things we say, and how over-dressed we -all are and how conscious of ourselves and how bent on food, money -and love, I can stay entranced for hours. . . . However, this is -off the subject. What is your secret? You knowing how inquisitive -I am, are treating me badly. However, I see that you are going to -tell me all about it in another letter or two, so I can afford to -wait. How strangely do our young careers seem to go arm in arm -together at present. What I wanted to tell you the other day, only -I hadn't time, is that I also have been having a row in the house -of my employer—an actual fist-to-fist combat or rather in this -case a chest-to-chest, because we were too close to one another to -use our fists. "We" was not Sir Charles and myself, but his great -bullock of a brother. It was a degrading scene, and I won't go -into details. The bullock tried to poke his nose into what I was -told he wasn't to poke his nose into, and I tried to stop him, and -we fell to the ground with a crash just as Sir Charles came in. -It's ended all right for me, apparently—although I haven't seen -the bullock again since.</p> - -<p>Sir Charles is a brick, Millie; he really is. I'd do anything -for him. He's awfully unhappy and worried. It's hateful sitting -there and not being able to help him. He's had in a typist -fellow to arrange the letters, Herbert Spencer by name. I asked -him whether he were related to the great H. S. and he said no, -that his parents wanted him to be and that's why they called him -Herbert, but that wasn't enough. He has large spectacles and -long sticky fingers and is <i>very</i> thin, but he's a nice fellow -with a splendid Cockney accent. I can now concentrate on the -"tiddley-bits" which are very jolly, and what I shan't know soon -about the Edinburgh of 1800-1840 won't be worth anybody's knowing. -Next week I go down with Duncombe to Duncombe Hall. Unfortunately -Lady Bell-Hall goes down too. I'm sorry, because when I'm with -some one who thinks poorly of me I always make a fool of myself, -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> I hate doing. I've been over to the house every day and -enquired, but I haven't seen mother yet. Aunt Aggie is having a -great time. She has ordered the nurse to leave, and the nurse has -ordered her to leave; of course they'll both be there to the end. -Poor mother. . . . But why don't you and I feel it more? We're -not naturally hard or unfeeling. I suppose it's because we know -that mother doesn't care a damn whether we feel for her or no. -She put all her affection into Katherine years ago, and then when -Katherine disappointed her she just refused to give it to anybody. -I would like to see her for ten minutes and tell her I'm sorry -I've been a pig so often, but I don't think she knows any more -what's going on.</p> - -<p>The worst of it is that I <i>know</i> that when she's dead I shall -hate myself for the unkind and selfish things I've done and only -remember her as she used to be years ago, when she took me to the -Army and Navy Stores to buy underclothes and gave me half-a-crown -after the dentist.</p> - -<p>I'm all right. Don't you worry about me. The girl I told you about -is in a terrible position, but I can't do anything at present. I -can only wait until there's a crisis—and I <i>detest</i> waiting as -you know. Peter's all right. He's always asking about you.</p> - -<p>Norman and Forrest are going to reissue two of his early books, -<i>Reuben Hallard</i> and <i>The Stone House</i>, and at last he's begun his -novel. He says he'll probably tear it up when he's done a little, -but I don't suppose he will. Do write to him. He thinks a most -awful lot of you. It's important with him when he likes anybody, -because he's shut up his feelings for so long that they mean a -lot when they <i>do</i> come out. Write soon.—Your loving brother, -<span class="smcap">Henry</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /></p> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Metropolitan Hotel, Cladgate,</span><br /> -<i>July 26, '21.</i><br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Henry</span>—Thank you very much for your letters. I -always like your letters because they tell me just what I want -to know, which letters so seldom do do. Mary Cass, for instance, -tells me about her chemistry and sheep's hearts, and how her -second year is going to be even harder than her first, but never -anything serious.</p> - -<p>The first thing about all this since I wrote last is that it has -rained incessantly. I don't believe that there has ever been such -a wet month as this July since the Flood, and rain is especially -awful here because so many of the ceilings seem to have glassy -bits in them, and the rain makes a noise exactly like five hundred -thunderstorms, and you have to shriek to make yourself heard, and -I hate shrieking. Then it's very depressing, because all the palms -shiver in sympathy, and it's so dark that you have to turn on the -electric light which makes every one look hideous. But I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> -care, I don't care about anything! I'm so happy, Henry, that -I—There! I nearly let the secret out. I know that I shan't be -able to keep it for many more letters and I told him yesterday—— -No, I <i>won't</i>. I must keep my promise.</p> - -<p>Here's Victoria,—I must write to you again to-morrow.</p></blockquote> - -<p>Telegram:</p> - -<blockquote><p class="tdr"><i>July</i> 27.<br /></p> - -<p class="tdc">Who's Him? Let me know by return.</p> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Henry.</span><br /><br /></p></blockquote> - - -<blockquote> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Cladgate</span>, <i>July</i> 28.<br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Henry</span>—You're very imperative, aren't you? Fancy -wasting money on a telegram and your finances in the state they're -in. Well, I won't tantalize you any longer; indeed, I <i>can't</i> keep -it from you, but remember that it's a secret to the whole world -for some time to come.</p> - -<p>Well. I am engaged to a man called Baxter, and I love him -terribly. He doesn't know how much I love him, nor is he going to -know—ever. That's the way to keep men in their places. Who is he -you say? Well, he's a young man who came to help Clarice with her -theatricals in London. I think I loved him the very first moment -I saw him—he was so young and simple and jolly and honest, and -<i>such</i> a relief after all the tantrums going on elsewhere. He says -he loved me from the first moment, too, and I believe he did. His -people are all right. His father's dead, but his mother lives in -a lovely old house in Wiltshire, and wears a lace white cap. He's -the only child, and his mother (whom I haven't yet seen) adores -him. It's because of her that we're keeping things quiet for the -moment, because she's staying up in Scotland with some relatives, -and he wants to tell her all about it by word of mouth instead of -writing to her. I hate mysteries. I always did—but it seems a -small thing to grant him. He's working at the Bar, but as there -appears to be no chance of making a large income out of that for -some time, he thinks he'll help a man in some motor works—there's -nothing about motors that he doesn't know. Meanwhile, he's staying -here in rooms near the hotel. Of course, Victoria has been told -nothing, but I think she guesses a good deal. She'd be stupid if -she didn't.</p> - -<p>I've never been in love before. I had no conception of what it -means. I'm not going to rhapsodize—you needn't be afraid, but -in my secret self I've <i>longed</i> for some one to love and look -after. Of course, I love you, Henry dear, and always will, and -certainly you need looking after, but that's different. I want to -do <i>every</i>thing for Ralph (that's the name his mother gave him, -but most people call him Bunny), mend his socks, cook his food, -comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> him in trouble, laugh with him when he's happy, be poor -with him, be rich with him, <i>anything, everything</i>. Of course I -mustn't show him I want to do all that, it wouldn't be good for -him, and we must both keep our independence, but I never knew -that love took you so entirely outside yourself, and threw you so -completely inside some one else.</p> - -<p>Now you're quite different; I don't mean that your way of being -in love isn't just as good as mine, but it's <i>different</i>. With -you it's all in the romantic idea. I believe you like it better -when she slips away from you, always just is beyond you, so that -you can keep your idea without tarnishing it by contact. You want -yours to be beautiful—I want mine to be real. And Bunny <i>is</i> -real. There's no doubt about it at all.</p> - -<p>Oh! I do hope you'll like him. You're so funny about people. One -never knows what you're going to think. He's quite different from -Peter, of course—he's <i>much</i> younger for one thing, and he isn't -<i>intellectually</i> clever. Not that he's stupid, but he doesn't care -for your kind of books and music. I'm rather glad of that. I don't -want my husband to be cleverer than I am. I want him to respect me.</p> - -<p>I'm terribly anxious for you both to meet. Bunny says he'll be -afraid of you. You sound so clever. It's still raining, but of -course I don't care. Victoria is a sweet pet and will go to -Heaven.—Your loving sister, <span class="smcap">Millicent.</span></p> - -<p><i>P.S.</i>—Don't tell Peter.</p></blockquote> - -<blockquote> -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Panton St.</span>, <i>July 30.</i><br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mill</span>—I don't quite know what to say. Of course, -I want you to be happy, and I'd do anything to make you so, but -somehow he doesn't sound quite the man I expected you to marry. -Are you <i>sure</i>, Millie dear, that he didn't seem nice just because -everybody at the Platts seemed horrid? However, whatever will make -you happy will please me. As soon as I come up from Duncombe I -must meet him, and give you both my grand-paternal blessing. We go -down to Duncombe to-morrow, and if it goes on raining like this, -it will be pretty damp, I expect. I won't pretend that I'm feeling -very cheerful. <i>My</i> affair is in a horrid state. I can't bear to -leave her, and yet there's nothing else for me to do. However, I -shall be able to run up about once a week and see her. Her mother -is still friendly, but I expect a row at any moment. This news of -yours seems to have removed you suddenly miles away. It's selfish -of me to feel that, but it was all so grizzly at home yesterday -that for the moment I'm depressed. Oh, Millie, I do hope you'll be -happy. . . . You must be, you must!—Your loving brother,</p> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Henry.</span><br /></p></blockquote> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIb" id="CHAPTER_VIb">CHAPTER VI</a></h2> - -<h3>HENRY AT DUNCOMBE</h3> - - -<p>In the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found himself -standing in the pouring rain on the little wind-driven platform of -Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe.</p> - -<p>He was trying to whistle as he stood under the eaves of the little -hideous roof, his hands deep in his waterproof, his eyes fixed sternly -upon a pile of luggage over which he was mounting guard. The car -ordered to meet them had not appeared, the ancient Moffatt was staring -down the wet road in search of it, Sir Charles was telephoning and -Lady Bell-Hall shivering over the simulacrum of a fire in the little -waiting-room.</p> - -<p>Henry did not feel very cheerful; this was not a happy prelude to a -month at Duncombe Hall, and the weather had been during the last few -weeks more than even England's reputation could tolerate.</p> - -<p>Henry was very susceptible to atmosphere, and now the cold and wet and -gathering dusk seem to have been sent towards him from Duncombe and to -speak ominously in his ear of what he would find there.</p> - -<p>He had seldom in all his young life felt so lonely, and he seemed to -be back in the War again waiting in a muddy trench for dawn to break -and . . .</p> - -<p>"I've succeeded in procuring something," wheezed Moffatt in his ear, -"if you'd kindly assist with the luggage, Mr. Blanchard."</p> - -<p>(It was one of Moffat's most trying peculiarities that he could not -master Henry's name.)</p> - -<p>"Why, it's a four-wheeler!" Henry heard Lady Bell-Hall miserably -exclaim.</p> - -<p>"It's all I could do, m'lady," creaked Moffatt. "Very difficult—'s -time of the evening. Did m' best, m'lady."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> - -<p>They climbed inside and were soon rising and sinking in a grey dusk, -whilst boxes, bags and packages surged around them. There was complete -silence, and at last Lady Bell-Hall went to sleep on Henry's shoulder, -to his extreme physical pain, because a hatpin stuck sharply into his -shoulder, and spiritual alarm, because he knew how deeply she would -resent his support when she woke up. Strange thoughts flitted through -his head as he bumped and jolted to the rattle of the wheels. They -were dead, stumbling to the Styx, other coaches behind them; he could -fancy the white faces peering from the windows, the dark coachman and -yet other grey figures stealing from the dusky hedges and climbing in -to their fore-destined places. The Styx? It would be cold and windy -and the rain would hiss upon the sluggish waters. An exposed boat as -he had always understood, the dim figures huddled together, their eyes -straining to the farther shore. He nodded, nodded, nodded—Millie, -Christina . . . Mrs. Tenssen . . . a strange young man called Baxter -whom he hated at sight and tried to push from the Coach. The figure -changed to Tom Duncombe, swelling to an enormous size, swelling, -ever swelling, filling the coach so that they were breathless, -crushed . . . a sharp pricking awoke him to a consciousness of Lady -Bell-Hall's hatpin and then, quite suddenly, to something else. The -noise that he heard, not loud, but in some way penetrating beyond -the rattle and mumble of the cab, was terrifying. Some one in great -pain—grr—grr—grr—Ah! Ah!—grr—the noise compressed between the -teeth and coming in little gasps of agony.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" he said, in a whisper. "Is that you, sir?" He could -see very little, the afternoon light faint and green behind the -rain-blurred panes, but the black figure of Duncombe was hunched up -against the cab-corner.</p> - -<p>"What is it? Oh, sir, what is it?"</p> - -<p>Then very far away a voice came to him, the words faltering from -clenched teeth.</p> - -<p>"It's nothing. . . . Pain bad for a moment——"</p> - -<p>"Shall I stop the cab, sir?"</p> - -<p>"No, no. . . . Don't wake my—sister."</p> - -<p>The sound of agonizing pain behind the words was like some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>thing quite -inhuman, unearthly, coming from the ground beneath the cab.</p> - -<p>Henry, trembling with sympathy, and a blind eagerness to help, leant -forward. Could he change seats? He had wished to sit with his back to -the horses but Duncombe had insisted on his present place.</p> - -<p>"Please . . . can't I do something?"</p> - -<p>"No . . . nothing. It will pass in a moment."</p> - -<p>A hand, trembling, came out and touched his, then suddenly clutched -it, jumping from its weak quiver into a frantic grasp, almost crushing -Henry's. The hand was hot and damp. For the moment in the contact -with that trouble, the world seemed to stop—there was no sound, no -movement—even the rain had withered away. . . . Then the hand trembled -again, relaxed, withdrew.</p> - -<p>Henry said nothing. He was shaking from head to foot.</p> - -<p>Lady Bell-Hall awoke. "Oh, where am I? Who's that? Is that the -bell? . . ." Then very stiffly: "Oh, I'm very sorry, Mr. Trenchard. I'm -afraid I was dozing. Are we nearly there? Are you there, Charles?"</p> - -<p>Very faintly the voice came back.</p> - -<p>"Yes . . . another half-mile. We've passed Brantiscombe."</p> - -<p>"Really, this cab. I wonder what Mortimers were doing, not sending us a -taxi. On a day like this too."</p> - -<p>There was silence again. The cab bumped along. Henry could think of -nothing but that agonizing whisper. Only terrible suffering could -have produced that and from such a man as Duncombe. The affection and -devotion that had grown through these months was now redoubled. He -would do anything for him, anything. Had he known? Memories came back -to him of hours in the library when Sir Charles had sat there, his -face white, his eyes sternly staring. Perhaps then. . . . But surely -some one knew? He moved impatiently, longing for this horrible journey -to be ended. Then there were lights, a gate swung back, and they were -jolting down between an avenue of trees. Soon the cab stopped with a -jerk before a high grey stone building that stood in the half-light as -a veiling shadow for a high black doorway and broad sweeping steps. -Behind, in front and on every side they were surrounded,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> it seemed, by -dripping and sighing trees. Lady Bell-Hall climbed out with many little -tweaks of dismay and difficulty, then Henry. He turned and caught one -revealing vision of Sir Charles's face—white, drawn and most strangely -aged—as he stood under the yellow light from a hanging square lantern -before moving into the house.</p> - -<p>At once standing in the hall Henry loved the house. It seemed -immediately to come towards him with a gesture of friendliness and -sympathy. The hall was wide and high with a deep stone fireplace and -a dark oak staircase peering from the shadows. It was ill-lit; the -central lamp had been designed apparently to throw light only on the -portrait of a young man in the dress of the early eighteenth century -that hung over the fireplace. Under his portrait Henry read—"Charles -Forest Duncombe—October 13th, 1745."</p> - -<p>An elderly, grave-looking woman stood there and a young apple-cheeked -footman to whom Moffatt was "tee-heeing, tut-tutting" in a supercilious -whisper. Lady Bell-Hall recovered a little. "Ah, there you are, Morgan. -Quite well? That's right. And we'll have tea in the Blue Boom. It's -very late because Mortimer never sent the taxi, but we'll have tea -all the same. I must have tea. Take Pretty One, please, Morgan. Don't -drop her. Ickle-Ickle-Ickle. Was it cold because we were in a nasty -slow cab, was it then? There, then, darling. Morgan shall take her -then—kind Morgan. Yes, tea in the Blue Room, please."</p> - -<p>At last Henry was in his room, a place to which he had come, as it -seemed to him, through endless winding passages and up many corkscrew -stairs. It was a queer-shaped little room with stone walls, a stone -floor and very narrow high windows. There was, of course, no fire, -because in England we keep religiously to the seasons whatever the -weather may be. The rain was driving heavily upon the window-panes -and some branches drove with irregular monotony against the glass. -The furniture was of the simplest, and there was only one picture, -an oil-painting over the fireplace, of a thin-faced, dark-browed, -eighteenth-century priest, cadaverous, menacing, scornful.</p> - -<p>Henry seemed to be miles away from any human company. Not a sound came -to him save the rain and the driving branches.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> He washed his hands, -brushed his hair, and prepared to find his way downstairs, but beside -the door he paused. As he had fancied in the library in Hill Street, -so now again it seemed to him that something was whispering to him, -begging him for sympathy and understanding. He looked back to the -little chill room, then up to the portrait of the priest, then to the -window beyond which he could see the thin grey twilight changing to -the rainy dark. He stood listening, then with a little shiver, half of -pleasure, half of apprehension, he went out into the passage.</p> - -<p>His journey, then, was full of surprises. The house was deserted. The -passage in which he found himself was bordered with rooms, and after -passing two or three doors he timidly opened one and peered in. In -the dusk he could see but little, the air that met him was close and -heavy, dust blew into his nostrils, and he could just discern a high -four-poster bed. The floor was bare and chill. Another room into which -he looked was apparently quite empty. The passage was now very dark -and he had no candle; he stumbled along, knocking his elbow against -the wall. "They might have put me in a livelier part of the house," he -thought; and yet he was not displeased, carrying still with him the -sense that he was welcome here and not alone. In the dusk he nearly -pitched forward over a sudden staircase, but finding an oak banister he -felt his way cautiously downward. On the next floor he was faced with a -large oak door, which would lead, he fancied, to the other part of the -house. He pushed it slowly back and found himself in a chapel suffused -with a dark purple light that fell from the stained-glass window above -the altar.</p> - -<p>He could see only dimly, but above the oaken seats he fancied that some -tattered flags were hanging. Here the consciousness of sympathy that -had been with him from the beginning grew stronger. Something seemed to -be urging him to sit down there and wait. The air grew thicker and the -windows, seats and walls were veiled in purple smoky mist. He crept out -half-ashamedly as though he were deserting some one, found the stairs -again, and a moment later was in a well-lit carpeted passage. With a -sigh of relief he saw beyond him Moffatt and the footman carrying the -tea.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> - -<p>He woke next day to an early morning flood of sunshine. His monastic -little room with its stone walls and narrow windows swam in the light -that sparkled, as though over water, above his faded blue carpet. -He went to his window and looked out on to a boxwood garden with a -bleached alley that led to a pond, a statue and a little green arbour. -Beyond the garden there were woods, pale green, purple, black against -the brightness of the early morning sky. Thousands of birds were -singing and the grass was intensely vivid after the rain of the day -before, running in the far distance around the arbour like a newly -painted green board.</p> - -<p>The impression that the next week made was all of colour, light and -sunshine. That strange melancholy that had seemed to him to pervade -everything on the night of his arrival was now altogether gone, -although a certain touching, intangible wistfulness was there in -everything that he saw and heard.</p> - -<p>The house was much smaller than he had at first supposed—compact, -square, resembling in many ways an old-fashioned doll's house. Duncombe -told him that small as it was they had closed some of the rooms, and -apologized to him for giving him a bedroom in the unfurnished portion. -"In reality," he explained, "that part of the house where you are is -the brightest and most cheerful side. Our mother, to whom my sister -was devotedly attached, died in the room next to yours, and my sister -cannot bear to cross those passages."</p> - -<p>The little chapel was especially enchanting to Henry; the stained glass -of the east window was most lovely, deep, rich, seeming to sink into -the inmost depths of colour; it gave out shadows of purple and red -and blue that he had never seen before. The three old flags that hung -over the little choir were tattered and torn, but proud. All the rooms -in the house were small, the ceilings low, the fireplaces deep and -draughty.</p> - -<p>Henry soon perceived that Duncombe loved this house with a passionate -devotion. He seemed to become another man as he moved about in it -busied continually with tiny details, touching this, shifting that, -having constant interviews with Spiders, the gardener, a large, -furry-faced man, and old Moffatt, and Simon, the apple-cheeked footman; -an identity suddenly in its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> right place, satisfying its soul, knowing -its true country as he had never seemed to do in London.</p> - -<p>Henry saw no recurrence of the crisis in the cab. Duncombe made no -allusion to it and gave no sign of pain—only Henry fancied that behind -Duncombe's eyes he saw a foreboding consciousness of some terror lying -in wait for him and ready to spring.</p> - -<p>The room in which he worked was a little library, diminutive in -comparison with the one in London, on the ground floor, looking out on -to the garden with the statue of Cupid and the pond—a dear little room -with old black-faced busts and high glass-fronted bookcases. He had -brought a number of books down with him, and soon he had settled into -the place as though he had been there all his life.</p> - -<p>The interval of that bright, sunny, bird-haunted week seemed, when -afterwards he looked back to it, like a pause given to him in which -to prepare for the events that were even then crowding, grey-shaped, -face-muffled, to his door. . . .</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIb" id="CHAPTER_VIIb">CHAPTER VII</a></h2> - -<h3>AND PETER IN LONDON</h3> - - -<p>The Third of the Company meanwhile was feeling lonely and deserted in -London. London in August is really depressing in spite of its being the -conventional habit to say so. Around every worker's brain there is a -consciousness of the wires of captivity, and although the weather may -be, and indeed generally is, cold, wet and dark, nevertheless it is -hard to doubt but that it is bright and shining by the sea and on the -downs.</p> - -<p>Peter could have gone into the country—nothing really held him to -London—but he had in literal truth no one with whom to go. In the past -he had not grumbled at having no friends; that was after all his own -choice—no one was to blame save himself—but during these last months -something had happened to him. He was at length waking from a sleep -that seemed to him as he looked back to have lasted ever since that -terrible night that he had spent on the hill outside Tobias, the night -of the day that Norah Monogue had died.</p> - -<p>At last he was waking. What he had said to Millie was true—his -interest in herself and Henry was the force that had stirred him—and -stirred him now to what dangerous ends?</p> - -<p>One night early in August flung him suddenly at the truth.</p> - -<p>Two of the Three Graces—Grace Talbot and Jane Ross—were at home to -their friends in their upper part in Soho Square. Peter went because -he could not endure another lonely evening in his rooms—another hour -by himself and he would be forced to face the self-confession that now -at every cost he must avoid. So he went out and found himself in the -little low-ceilinged rooms, thick with smoke and loud with conversation.</p> - -<p>Grace Talbot was looking very faint and languid, buried in a large -armchair in the centre of the room with a number of men round her; Jane -Ross, plainer and more pasty than ever,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> was trying to be a genial -hostess, and discovering, not for the first time, that a caustic tongue -was more easily active than a kind heart. She wanted to be nice to -every one, but, really, people <i>were</i> so absurd and so stupid <i>and</i> so -slow. It wasn't her fault that she was so much cleverer than every one -else. She didn't <i>want</i> to be. But there you were; one can't help one's -fate.</p> - -<p>Peter was greeted by one or two and settled down into a chair in a -corner near a nice, fat, red-faced man called Amos Campbell. Campbell -was a novelist who had once been of the Galleon school and full of -Galleonish subtleties, and now was popular and Trollopian. He was, -perhaps, a trifle over-pleased with himself and the world, a little too -prosperous and jolly and optimistic, and being in addition the son of -a Bishop, his voice at times rose to a pulpit ring, but he meant well, -was vigorous and bland and kindly. The Graces thoroughly despised him -and Peter was astonished to see him there. Perhaps Nister or Gale or -one of the other men had brought him. He would have received no mention -in this history had it not been for a conversation that had important -results both for Peter and Henry.</p> - -<p>Literary parties were curious affairs in 1920; they shared the strange -general character of that year in their confusion and formlessness. It -was a fact that at that time in London there was not a single critical -figure who commanded general respect. No school of criticism carried -any authority outside its immediate following—not one man nor woman -alive in Great Britain at that moment, not one literary journal, -weekly, monthly, or daily, carried enough weight behind its literary -judgments to shift for a moment the success or failure of a book or a -personality. Monteith, whose untidy black hair and pale face Peter saw -in the distance, had been expected to do great things, but as soon as -he had commanded a literary weekly he had shown that he had no more -breadth, nor wisdom, nor knowledge than the other men around him, -and he had fallen quickly into the hands of a small clique who wrote -for his papers in a happy spirit of mutual admiration. All this was -nobody's fault—it was the note of a period that was far stronger in -its character than any single human being in it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> - -<p>Everything was in the whirlpool of change, and that little room -to-night, with its smoke, furious conversation, aimless wandering of -dim figures moving in and out of the haze, formed a very good symbol of -the larger world outside.</p> - -<p>Peter exchanged a few sentences with Campbell then fell into silence. -Suddenly the restraint that he had been forcing upon himself for the -last two months was relaxed. He would think of her. Why should he not? -For five minutes. For five minutes. In that dim, smoke-obscured room -who would know, who could tell, who could see her save himself?</p> - -<p>She came towards him, smiling, laughing, suddenly springing up before -him, her arms outstretched, bright in her orange jumper as she had been -on that day in Henry's room; then her face changed, softened, gravity -came into it; she was leaning towards him, listening to his story, her -eyes were kindly, she stretched out her hand and touched his knee, he -held out his arms. . . . Oh God! but he must not. She was not for him, -she could not be. Even were he not already tied what could he offer her -with his solemnity and dreaminess? . . . He sprang up.</p> - -<p>"Going already?" said Campbell. "Had enough of it?"</p> - -<p>"No. I want to speak to Monteith. Hullo, there's Seymour. Keep him off, -Campbell. His self-satisfaction is more than I could endure just now."</p> - -<p>He sat down again and watched the figures, so curiously dim and unreal -that it might be a world of ghosts.</p> - -<p>"Ghosts? Perhaps we are. Anyway we soon will be."</p> - -<p>Jane Ross came stumping towards him. "Oh, Mr. Westcott! Come and make -yourself useful. There's Anna Makepeace over there, who wrote <i>Plum -Bun</i>. You ought to know her."</p> - -<p>"I'm very happy where I am." She stumped away, and, sitting back in his -chair, he was suddenly aware of Grace Talbot, who, although Monteith -had come up and was talking very seriously, was staring in front of -her, lost, many miles away, dreaming.</p> - -<p>She was suddenly human to him, she who had been for the most part the -drop of ink at the end of a cynical pen, the contemptuous flash of an -arrogant eye, the languorous irony of a dismissing hand.</p> - -<p>She was as unhappy as himself; perceiving it suddenly and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> her -essential loneliness he felt a warmth of feeling for her that intensely -surprised him. "What children we all are!" he said to himself: "the -Graces, Monteith, the great Mr. Winch, the Parisian Mrs. Wanda, and all -the rest of us! How little we know! What insecure, fumbling artists the -best of us—and the only two great writers of our time are the humblest -men amongst us. After all <i>our</i> arrogance is necessary for us because -we have failed, written so badly, travelled such a tiny way."</p> - -<p>An urgent longing for humility, generosity, humour, kindliness of heart -swept over him. He felt that at that moment he could love any one, -however slow and conventional their brain were their heart honest, -generous and large. He and Monteith and Grace Talbot were leading -little hemmed-in lives, moving in little hemmed-in groups, talking in -little hemmed-in phrases.</p> - -<p>Like Henry a few months earlier a revelation seemed to come to him that -Life was the gate to Art, not Art to Life. He surely had been taught -that lesson again and again and yet he had not learnt it.</p> - -<p>He was pulled out into the centre of the room by a sudden silence and a -realization that every one was listening to a heated argument between -Monteith and Campbell. Grace Talbot was looking up from her chair at -the two men with her accustomed glance of lazy superiority.</p> - -<p>Westcott was surprised at Campbell, who was a comfortable man, eager -to be liked by every one, afraid therefore to risk controversy lest -some one should be displeased, practised in saying the thing that his -neighbour wished to hear.</p> - -<p>But something on this occasion had become too strong for him and -dragged him for once into a public declaration of faith, regardless -whether he offended or no.</p> - -<p>"You're all wrong, Monteith," he burst out. "You're all wrong. And -I'll tell you why. I'm ten years older than you are and ten years -ago I might have thought as you do. Now I know better. You're wrong -because you're arrogant, and you're arrogant because you're limited, -and you're limited because you've surrounded yourself with smaller -men who all think as you do. You've come to look on the world simply -as one big field especially manured by God for the sowing of your own -little particular seed. If other poor humans choose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> to beg for some of -your seed you'll let them have it and give them permission to sow, but -there's only one kind of seed, and you know what kind that is.</p> - -<p>"Well, you're wrong. You've got a decent little plant that was stronger -six years ago than it is now—but still not a bad little plant. You're -fluent and clever and modern; you're better than some of them, Grace -Talbot here, for instance, because you <i>do</i> believe in the past and -believe that it has some kind of connection with the present, but -you've deliberately narrowed your talent <i>and</i> your influence by your -arrogance. Arrogance, Arrogance, Arrogance—that's the matter with all -of you—and the matter with Literature and Art to-day, and politics -too. You all think you've got the only recipe and that you've nothing -to learn. You've <i>everything</i> to learn. Any ploughman in Devonshire -to-day could teach you, only the trouble is that he's arrogant too now -and thinks he knows everything because his Labour leaders tell him so."</p> - -<p>Campbell paused and Monteith struck in. Monteith when he was studying -at Cambridge the Arts of being a Public Man had learnt that Rule No. 1 -was—Never lose your temper in public unless the crowd is with you.</p> - -<p>He remained therefore perfectly calm, simply scratching his hair and -rubbing his bristly chin.</p> - -<p>"Very good, Campbell. But aren't you being a little bit arrogant -yourself? And quite right, too. You ought to be arrogant and I ought -to be. We both imagine that we know something about literature. Well, -why shouldn't we say what we know? What's the good of the blind leading -the blind? Why should I pretend that I know as little as Mr. Snookes -and Mr. Jenks? I know more than they. Why should I pretend that every -halfpenny novelist who happens to be the fashion of the moment is worth -attention? Why shouldn't I select the good work and praise it and leave -the rest alone?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Campbell; "what's good work by your over-sophisticated, -over-read, over-intellectual standard? Well and good if you'll say I've -trained myself in such and such a way and my opinions are there. My -training, my surroundings, my own talent, my friends have all persuaded -me in this direction. There are other men, other works that may be good -or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> bad. I don't know. About contemporary Art one can only be personal, -never final. I have neither the universal temperament nor the universal -training to be Judge. I can be Advocate, Special Pleader. I can show -you something good that you haven't noticed before."</p> - -<p>"I am <i>not</i> God Almighty, nor do I come straight from Olympus. I have -still a lot to learn."</p> - -<p>"If you'll forgive me saying so, Mr. Campbell," said Jane Ross, "you're -talking the most arrant nonsense. You're doing your best to break -down what a few of us are trying to restore—some kind of a literary -standard. At last there's an attempt being made to praise good work and -leave the fools alone."</p> - -<p>"And <i>I'm</i> one of the fools," broke in Campbell. "Oh, I know. But -don't think there's personal feeling in this. There might have been -ten years ago. I worried then a terrible deal about whether I were an -artist or no; I cared what you people said, read your reviews and was -damnably puzzled by the different decisions you gave. And then suddenly -I said to myself: 'Why shouldn't I have some fun? Life's short. I'm -not a great artist, and never shall be. I'll write to please myself.' -And I did. And I've been happy ever since. You're just as divided -about me as you used to be. And just as divided about one another. The -only difference is that you still worry about one another and fight -and scratch, and I bow to your superior judgment—and enjoy myself. I -haven't much of an intellect, I'm not a good critic, but I'm nearer -real life than you are, any of you. What you people are doing is not -separating the sheep from the goats as you think you are—none of -you are decided as to who the sheep really are—but you are simply -separating Life from Art. We're not an artistic nation—nothing will -ever make us one. We've provided some of the greatest artists the world -has ever seen because of our vitality and our independence of cliques. -How much about Art did Richardson and Fielding, Scott and Jane Austen, -Thackeray and Dickens, Trollope and Hardy consciously know? When has -Hardy ever written one single statement about Art outside his own -prefaces, and in them he talks simply of his own books. But these men -knew about life. Fielding could tell you what the inside of a debtor's -prison is like, and Scott could plant trees, and Thack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>eray was no mean -judge of a shady crowd at a foreign watering-place, and Hardy knew -all about milking a cow. What do you people know about anything save -literary values and over them you squabble all the while. There aren't -any literary values until Time has spoken. But there is such a thing -as responding to the beauty in something that you've seen or read and -telling others that you've enjoyed it—and there are more things in -this world to enjoy—even in the mess that it's in at this moment—than -any of you people realize."</p> - -<p>Campbell stopped. Seymour, who was standing just behind him, saw fit to -remark: "How right you are, Campbell; Life's glorious it seems to me. -What was it Stevenson said: 'Life is so full of a number of things.'"</p> - -<p>Poor Campbell! Nothing more terrible than Seymour's appreciation was to -be found in the London of that period.</p> - -<p>"Oh, damn!" Campbell muttered. "I didn't see you were there, Seymour. -Just my luck."</p> - -<p>But Peter had been watching Grace Talbot's eyes. She had not listened -to a word of the little discussion. The cessation of voices pulled her -back. "You're a good fellow, Campbell," she said. "You've got a good -digestion, a gift for narrative, very little intellect, and at fifty -you'll be very fat and have purple veins in your nose. We all like you, -but you really must forgive us for not taking you seriously."</p> - -<p>Campbell laughed. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "But which is -better? To be a second-rate artist and free or to be a second-rate -artist and bound? Your little stories are very nice, Grace, but they -aren't as good as either Tchehov or Maupassant. Monteith's poetry is -clever, but it isn't as good as T. E. Brown on one side or Clough on -the other, and neither T. E. Brown or Clough were first-rate poets. So -can't we, all of us, second-raters as we are, afford to be generous to -one another and take everything a little less solemnly? Life's passing, -you know. Happiness and generosity are worth having."</p> - -<p>"We will now sing Hymn 313: 'Onward Christian Soldiers.'" said Jane -Ross, laughing. "Next Sunday being the Third after Trinity the sermon -at Evensong will be preached by the Rev. Amos Campbell, Rector of -Little Marrow Pumpernickel. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> will take as his text 'Blessed are the -meek for they shall inherit the earth.' The Collection will be for -Church Expenses."</p> - -<p>Every one laughed but Grace Talbot moved restlessly in her chair.</p> - -<p>"All the same," she said, "Amos is right in a way. Why the devil -don't we write better? I wish—I wish——" But nobody knew what she -wished because the great Mr. Winch arrived at that moment and demanded -attention.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Peter walked home to his Marylebone rooms in a fine confusion of -thought and feeling. Campbell was a bit of a fool, too fat, too -prosperous, too anxious to be popular, but he was a happy man and a man -who was living his life at its very fullest. He was not a great artist, -of course—great artists are never happy—but he had a narrative -gift that it amused him to play every morning of his life from ten -to twelve, and he made money from that gift and could buy books and -pictures and occasionally do a friend a good turn. Monteith and Grace -Talbot and the others were more serious artists and were more seriously -considered, but their gifts came to mighty little in the end—thin, -little streams. As to Peter his gift came simply to nothing at all. And -yet he did not wish to be Campbell. Too much prosperity was bad and -Campbell in the "slippered and pantaloon" age, when it came to him, -would be unpleasant to behold. <i>His</i> enchantment was very different -from Millie's and Henry's, bless them. At the thought of them there -came such a longing for them, for their physical presence, their cheery -voices, their laughter and noise, that he could scarcely endure his -loneliness. <i>Theirs</i> was the Age. <i>Theirs</i> the Kingdom, the Power and -the Glory.</p> - -<p>And why should he not long for Millie? For the second time that evening -he abandoned himself to the thought of her. As he walked down Oxford -Street, pearl-grey under sheeted stars, he conjured her to his side, -put his arm about her, bent down and raised her face to his, kissed -her. . . . Why should he not? He was married. But that was such years -ago. Was he to be cursed for ever because of that early mistake?</p> - -<p>Maybe Clare was dead. He would go off to France to-morrow and make -another search. Now when real love had come to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> him at last he would -not be cheated any more. Life was passing. In a few years it would be -too late. His agonized longing for Millie seized him so that he stood -for a moment outside the shuttered windows of Selfridge's, frozen into -immobility by the power of his desire.</p> - -<p>At least he could be her friend—her friend who would run to the -world's end for her if she wished it; to be her friend and to write as -Campbell had said simply for his own fun—after all, he was getting -something out of life in that; to go on and see this new world -developing in <i>her</i> eyes, to help <i>her</i> to get the best out of it, -to live for the young generation through <i>her</i>. . . . So strong was -his desire that he really believed for a moment that she was by his -side. . . .</p> - -<p>"Millie," he whispered. When in his rooms he switched on the light he -found on his table two letters; he saw at once that one was in Millie's -handwriting. Eagerly he tore it open. He read it:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Metropolitan Hotel, Cladgate.</span><br /></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Peter</span>—I feel that you must be the next human -being after Henry to hear a piece of news that has made me very -happy. I am engaged—to a man called Baxter. I met him first at -Miss Platt's and fell in love with him at first sight. I do hope -you'll like him. I'm sure you will. I've told him about you and he -says he's afraid of you because you sound so clever. He's clever -too in his own way, but it isn't books. I'm <i>so</i> happy and it -does seem so selfish when the world is in such a mess and so many -people are hard up. But this only happens once!</p> - -<p>I do want you to meet Bunny (that's Baxter) as soon as ever you -can.—Your affectionate friend,</p> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Millicent Trenchard</span>.<br /></p></blockquote> - -<p>When Peter had finished the letter he switched off the light and sat -on, staring at the blue-faced window-pane.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a><br /><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="BOOK_III" id="BOOK_III">BOOK III</a></h2> - -<h3>FIRST BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a><br /><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ic" id="CHAPTER_Ic">CHAPTER I</a></h2> - -<h3>ROMANCE AND CLADGATE</h3> - - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p>"You ought to have told me about it before, dear," said Victoria. "You -knew how simply <i>thrilled</i> I'd be."</p> - -<p>Millie and Victoria were sitting in low chairs near the band. In front -of them was the sea walk along whose grassy surface people passed and -repassed—beyond the grass a glittering, sparkling sea of blue and -gold: above their heads a sky of stainless colour. In rows to right -and left of them serried ranks of deck-chairs were packed together and -every chair contained a more-or-less human being. The band could be -heard now rising above the chatter, now falling out of sight altogether -as though the bandsmen were plunged two or three times a minute into a -deep pit, there to cool and reflect a little before swinging up again.</p> - -<p>It was so hot and glittering a day that every one was -happy—hysterically so, perhaps, because the rain was certain to -return, so that they were an army holding a fort that they knew they -were not strong enough to defend for long. There were boats like -butterflies on the sea, and every once and again an aeroplane throbbed -above the heads of the visitors and reminded them that they were living -in the twentieth century.</p> - -<p>Millie, who adored the sun and was in the nature of things almost -terribly happy, drew the eyes of every passer-by towards her. She was -conscious of this as she was conscious of her health, her happiness, -her supreme confidence in eternal benevolence, her charity to all the -world. Victoria had been, before Millie made her confession, in a state -of delight with her clothes, her hat, her parasol, her publicity and -her digestion. Millie's news threw her into an oddly confused state -of delight, trepida<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>tion and self-importance. She thrilled to the -knowledge that there was a wonderful romance going on at her very side, -but it would mean, perhaps, that she would lose Millie, and she thought -it, on the whole, rather impertinent of Mr. Baxter. It hurt her, too, -that this should have existed for weeks at her side and that she should -have noticed nothing of it.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my Millie, you should have told me!" she cried.</p> - -<p>"I would have told you at once," said Millie, "but Bunny wanted us to -be quiet about it for a week or two, until his mother returned from -Scotland."</p> - -<p>"But you could have told me," continued Victoria. "I'm so safe and -never tell <i>anything</i>. And why should Mr. Baxter keep it quiet as -though he were ashamed of it?"</p> - -<p>"I know," said Millie. "I didn't want him to. I hate secrecy and plots -and mysteries. And so I told him. But it was only for a week or two. -And his mother comes down from Scotland on Friday."</p> - -<p>"Well, I hope it will be a long engagement, darling, so that you may be -quite sure before you do it. I remember a cousin of ours meeting a girl -at tea in our house, proposing to her before he'd had his second cup, -marrying her next morning at a registry office and separating from her -a week later. He took to drink after that and married his cook, and now -he has ten children and not a penny."</p> - -<p>The music rose into a triumphant proclamation of Sir William Gilbert's -lyric concerning "Captain Sure," and Victoria discovered two friends -of hers from the hotel, sitting quite close to her and very friendly -indeed.</p> - -<p>Although they had been at Cladgate so short a time Victoria had -acquired a large and various circle of new acquaintances, a circle very -different indeed from the one that filled the house in Cromwell Road. -Millie was amused to see how swiftly Victoria's wealth enabled her to -change from one type of human to another. No New Art in Cladgate! No, -indeed. Mostly very charming, warm-hearted people with no nonsense -about them. Millie also perceived that so soon as any human creature -floated into the atmosphere of Victoria's money it changed like a -chameleon. However ungrasping and unacquisitive it may have hitherto -been, the consciousness that now with a little gush<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> and patience it -might obtain something for nothing had an astonishing effect.</p> - -<p>All Victoria desired was to be loved, and by as many people as -possible. Within a week the whole of visiting Cladgate adored her. It -adored her so much that it was willing to eat her food, sit in her -car, allow itself to be taken to the theatre free of expense, and -make little suggestions about possible gifts that would be gratefully -received.</p> - -<p>All that was requested of it in return was that it should praise -Victoria to her face and allow her to exercise her power of command.</p> - -<p>Millie did not think the worse of human nature for this. She perceived -that in these strange times when prices were so high and incomes so -low any one would do anything for money. A certain Captain Blatt—a -cheerful gentleman of any age from thirty to fifty—was quite frank -with her about it. "I was quite a normal man before the war, Miss -Trenchard. I was, I assure you. Stockbroking in the City and making -enough to have a good time. Now I'm making nothing—and I would do -anything for money. <i>Anything.</i> Let some one offer me a thousand pounds -down and I will sell my soul for three months. One must exist, you -know."</p> - -<p>Victoria's happiness was touching to behold. The Blocks, the Balaclavas -and the rest were entirely forgotten. Millie had hoped, at first, -that she might do something towards stemming this new tide of hungry -ones. But after a warning or two she saw that she was powerless. "Why, -Millie," cried Victoria, "you're becoming a cynic. You suspect every -one. I'm sure Mrs. Norman is perfectly sweet and it's too adorable of -her to want me to be god-mother to her new darling baby. And poor Mr. -Hackett! With his brother consumptive at Davos and depending entirely -upon him and his old mother nearly ninety, and his business all gone to -pieces because of the War, of course I must help him. What's my money -for?"</p> - -<p>Meanwhile this same money poured forth like water. Would it one day be -exhausted? Millie wrote to Dr. Brooker and asked him to keep a watch. -"She's quite hopeless just now," she wrote, "but we're only here for -another three weeks. I suppose we must let her have her fun while she -can."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was upon this same beautiful afternoon that she -realized a more sinister and personally dangerous effect of Victoria's -generosity. She was sitting back in her chair, almost asleep. The world -came as a coloured murmur to her, the faint rhythm of the band, the -soft blue of sea and sky, the sharp note of Victoria's voice—"Oh, -really!" "Fancy indeed!" "Just think!" The warmth upon her body was -like an encircling arm caressing her very gently with the little breeze -that was its voice. She seemed to swing out to sea and back again, -lazily, lazily, too happy, too sleepy to think, fading into unreality, -into nothing but colour, soft blue swathes of colour wrapping her -round. . . . Then suddenly, with a sharp outline like a black pencil -drawing against a white background, she saw Bunny.</p> - -<p>Beautifully dressed in white flannels, a straw hat pushed back a little -from his forehead, he stood, some way down the green path, half-turned -in her direction, searching amongst the chairs.</p> - -<p>She noticed all the things about him that she loved—his neatness, his -slim body, his dark eyes, sunburnt forehead, black moustache, his mouth -even then unconsciously half-smiling, his breeding, his self-confidence.</p> - -<p>"Ah! how I love him!" and still swaying out to sea she, from that blue -distance, could adore him without fear that he would hold her cheap.</p> - -<p>"I love him, I love him——" Then from the very heart of the blue, -sharply like the burst of a cracker in her ear, a sound snapped—"Look -out! Look out! There's danger here!"</p> - -<p>The sound was so sharp that as one does after some terrifying nightmare -she awoke with a clap of consciousness, sitting up in her chair -bewildered. Had some one spoken? Had an aeroplane swooped suddenly -down? Had she really slept? Everything now was close upon her, pressing -her in—the metallic clash of the band, the voices, the brush of -incessant footsteps upon the grass, and Bunny was coming towards her -now, his eyes lit. . . . Had some one spoken?</p> - -<p>Greetings were exchanged. Victoria could not say very much. She could -only press his hand and murmur, "I'm so glad—Millie has told me. Bless -you both!"</p> - -<p>He smiled, was embarrassed, and carried Millie off for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> walk. As soon -as they had gone a little way he burst out, "Oh, Mill, why <i>did</i> you? I -asked you not to."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't help it. I warned you that I hate concealment. I'm very -sorry, Bunny, but I can't keep it secret any longer."</p> - -<p>She looked up and saw to her amazement that he was angry. His face was -puckered and he looked ten years older.</p> - -<p>"Have you told any one else?"</p> - -<p>"Only my mother and a great friend."</p> - -<p>"Friend? What friend?"</p> - -<p>"A great friend of Henry's—yes and of mine too," she burst out -laughing. "You needn't worry, Bunny. He's a dear old thing, but he's -well over forty and I've never been in the least in love with him."</p> - -<p>"He is with you, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>Strangely his words made her heart beat a little faster. Strange -because what did she care whether Peter were in love with her or no? -And yet—it was nice, even now when she was swallowed up by her love -for Bunny, it was pleasant to think that Peter did care—cared a little.</p> - -<p>"Oh, he looks on me and Henry as in the schoolroom still."</p> - -<p>"Then why did you tell him about us?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. What does it matter?"</p> - -<p>"It matters just this much—that I asked you not to tell anybody and -you've told every one in sight."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm like that. I did keep it for three or four weeks, but I hate -being deceitful. I'm proud of you and proud of your caring for me. I -want people to know. Of course if there were any <i>real</i> reason for -keeping it secret——"</p> - -<p>"There <i>is</i> a real reason. I told you. My mother——"</p> - -<p>"She's coming back on Friday, so it doesn't matter now, telling people."</p> - -<p>"But it <i>does</i> matter. People talk so."</p> - -<p>"But why shouldn't they talk? There's nothing to be ashamed of in our -being engaged."</p> - -<p>He said nothing and they walked along in an uncomfortable silence. Then -she turned to him, putting her hand through his arm.</p> - -<p>"Now, look here, Bunny. We're not going to have a quarrel. And if we -<i>are</i> going to have a quarrel, I must know what it's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> about. Everything -<i>must</i> be straight between us, always. I can't <i>bear</i> your not telling -me what you're thinking. I'm sensible, I can stand anything if you'll -only tell me. Is there any other reason besides your mother why you -don't want people to know that we're engaged?"</p> - -<p>"No, of course not—only. . . . Well, it looks so silly seeing that we -have no money and——"</p> - -<p>"What does it matter what people say? We know, you and I, that you're -going to have a job soon. We can manage on a very little at first——"</p> - -<p>"It isn't that——" He suddenly smiled, looking young and happy again. -He pressed her arm against his side. "Look here, Millie—as you've let -the cat out of the bag, the least you can do is to help about the money -side of things."</p> - -<p>"Help? Of course I will."</p> - -<p>"Well, then—why not work old Victoria for a trifle? She's rolling in -wealth and just chucks it round on all sorts of rotten people who don't -care about her a damn. She's devoted to you. I'm sure she'd settle -something on us if you asked her."</p> - -<p>Millie stared at him.</p> - -<p>"Live on Victoria! Ask her for money? Oh, Bunny! I couldn't——"</p> - -<p>"Why not? Everyone does—people who aren't half so fond of her as you -are."</p> - -<p>"Ask her to support us when we're young and—Bunny, what an awful idea. -Please——"</p> - -<p>"Rot! Sometimes I think, Millie, you've lived in a wood all your days. -Everyone does it these times. We're all pirates. She's got more than -she knows what to do with—we haven't any, She likes you better than -any one. You've been working for her like a slave."</p> - -<p>Millie moved away a little.</p> - -<p>"You can put that out of your head, Bunny—once and for all. I shall -never ask Victoria for a penny."</p> - -<p>"If you don't, I will."</p> - -<p>"If you do, I'll never speak to you again."</p> - -<p>"Very well, then, don't." Before she could answer he had turned and was -walking rapidly away, his head up, his shoulders set.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> - -<p>Instantly misery swooped down upon her like an evil, monstrous bird -that covered the sky, blotting out the sun with its black wings. Misery -and incomprehension! So swiftly had the world changed that when the -familiar figures—the men and the women so casual and uncaring—came -back to her vision they had no reality to her, but were like fragments -of coloured glass shaking in and out of a kaleidoscope pattern. She was -soon sitting beside Victoria again.</p> - -<p>She said: "Why, dear, where is Mr. Baxter?"</p> - -<p>And Millie said: "He had to go back to the hotel for something."</p> - -<p>But Victoria just now was frying other fish. She had at her side Angela -Compton, her newest and greatest friend. She had known Angela for a -week and Angela had, she said, given a new impulse to her life. Miss -Compton was a slim woman with black hair, very black eyebrows and red -cheeks. Her features seemed to be painted on wood and her limbs too -moved jerkily to support the doll-like illusion. But she was not a -doll; oh dear, no, far from it! In their first half-hour together she -told Millie that what she lived for was adventure—"And I have them!" -she cried, her black eyes flashing. "I have them all the time. It is an -extraordinary thing that I can't move a yard without them." It was her -desire to be the centre of every party, and thoroughly to attain this -enviable position she was forced, so Millie very quickly suspected, to -invent tales and anecdotes when the naked truth failed her. She had -been to Cladgate on several other summers and was able, therefore, to -bristle with personal anecdotes. "Do you see that man over there?" -she would deliriously whisper. "The one with the high collar and the -side-whiskers. He looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, -but one evening last summer as I was coming in——" or "That girl! My -dear. . . . Drugs—oh! I know it for a fact. Terribly sad, isn't it? -But I happen to have seen——"</p> - -<p>All these tales she told with the most innocent intentions in the -world, being one, as she often assured her friends, who wouldn't hurt a -fly. Victoria believed every word that fell from her lips and adored to -believe.</p> - -<p>To-day she was the greatest comfort to Millie. She could sit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> there in -her misery and gather around her Angela's little scandals as protection.</p> - -<p>"Oh, but it can't be!" Victoria would cry, her eyes shining.</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course, if you don't want to believe me! I saw him staring at -me days before. At last he spoke to me. We were quite alone at the -moment, and I said: 'Really I'm very sorry, but I don't know you.'</p> - -<p>"'Give me just five minutes,' he begged, 'that's all I ask. If you knew -what it would mean to me.' And, I knowing all the time, my dear, about -the awful things he'd been doing to his wife—I let him go on for a -little while, and then very quietly I said——"</p> - -<p>Millie stared in front of her. The impulse that she was fighting was to -run after him, to find him anywhere, anywhere, to tell him that she was -sorry, that it had been her fault . . . just to have his hand in hers -again, to see his eyes kindly, affectionate, never, never again that -fierce hostility as though he hated her and were a stranger to her, -another man whom she did not know and had never seen before.</p> - -<p>"Of course I don't blame him for drinking. After all there have been -plenty of people before now who have found that too much for them, but -before everybody like that! All I know is that his brother-in-law came -up (mind you that is all in the strictest confidence, and—) and said -before every one——"</p> - -<p>But why should she go to him? He had been in the wrong. That <i>he</i> -should be like the others and want to plunder Victoria, poor Victoria -whom she was always defending. . . .</p> - -<p>The band played "God Save the King." Slowly they all walked towards the -hotel.</p> - -<p>"Yes, that's the woman I mean," said Miss Compton. "Over there in the -toque. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? But I assure -you——"</p> - -<p>Millie crept like a wounded bird into the hotel. He was waiting for -her. He dragged her into a corner behind a palm.</p> - -<p>"Millie, I didn't mean it—I don't know what I was about. Forgive me, -darling. You must, you must. . . . I'm a brute, a cad. . . ."</p> - -<p>Forgive him? Happiness returned in warm floods of light and colour. -Happiness. But even as he kissed her it was not, she knew, happiness of -quite the old kind—no, not quite.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> - - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>Ellen was coming. Very soon. In two days. Millie did not know why -it was that she should tremble apprehensively. She was not one to -tremble before anything, but it was an honest fact that she was more -truly frightened of Ellen than of any one she had ever met. There was -something in Ellen that frightened her, something secret and hidden.</p> - -<p>Then of course Ellen would be nasty about Bunny. She had been already -nasty about him, but she had not been aware then of the engagement. And -in some strange way Millie was more afraid now of what Ellen would say -about Bunny than she had been before that little quarrel of a day or -two ago.</p> - -<p>Millie, in spite of herself, thought of that little quarrel. Of course -all lovers must have quarrels—quarrels were the means by which lovers -came to know one another better—but he should not have gone off like -that, should not have hurt her. . . . She could not as she would wish -declare it to have been all her own fault. Well, then, Bunny was not -perfect. Who had ever said that he was? Who <i>was</i> perfect when you came -to that? Millie herself was far from perfect. But she wanted him to be -honest. At that stage in her development she rated honesty very highly -among the virtues—not unpleasant, stupid, so-called honesty, where -you told your friends frankly what you thought of them for your own -pleasure and certainly not theirs, but honesty among friends so that -you knew exactly where you were. It was not honest of Bunny to be nice -to Victoria in order to get money out of her—but Millie was beginning -to perceive that Victoria, good, kind and foolish as she was, was a -kind of plague-spot in the world, infecting everyone who came near her. -Even Millie herself . . . ?</p> - -<p>And with this half-formed criticism of Bunny there came most curiously -a more urgent physical longing for him. Before, when he had seemed so -utterly perfect, the holding of hands, kisses, embraces could wait. -Everything was so safe. But now <i>was</i> everything so safe? If they could -quarrel like that at a moment's notice, and he could look suddenly as -though he hated her, were they so safe? Bunny himself was changing -a little. He was always wanting to kiss her, to lead her into dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> -corners, to tell her over and over again that he adored her. Their love -in these last days had lost some fine quality of sobriety and restraint -that it had possessed at first.</p> - -<p>There was something in the air of Cladgate with its brass bands, its -over-dressed women, its bridge and its dancing.</p> - -<p>It is not to be supposed, however, that Millie worried herself very -much. Only dimly behind her the sky had changed, thickening ever so -slightly. Her sense of enchantment was not pierced.</p> - -<p>Ellen arrived and was too sweet for any words.</p> - -<p>In a letter to Henry, Millie wrote:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>. . . and do you ever feel, I wonder, that our paths are crossing -all the time? It is, I suppose, because we have always been -so much together and have done everything together. But I see -everything so vividly that it is exactly as though I had been -there—Duncombe and the thick woods and the little chapel and the -deserted rooms and the boxwood garden. All this here is the very -opposite, of course, and yet simply the other half of a necessary -whole perhaps. Aren't I getting philosophical? Only I should hate -to think that all that you are sharing in now is going out of the -world and all this ugliness of mine remains. But of course it -won't, and it's up to us, Henry, to see that it doesn't.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Ellen has arrived and is at present like one of those -sugar mice that you buy at the toy-shop—simply too sweet for -words. Poor thing, all she needs is for some one to love her -passionately and she'll never, never get it. She's quite ready to -love some one else passionately and to snatch what she can out of -that, but she isn't made for passion—she's so bony and angular -and suspicious, and is angry so easily.</p> - -<p>I begged Victoria not to say anything about the engagement at -present and she hasn't, although it hurts her terribly to keep it -in. <i>Is</i>'nt it silly to be afraid of Ellen? But I do so <i>hate</i> -scenes. So many people seem to like them. Mother cured <i>us</i> of -wanting them.</p> - -<p>I'm dancing my legs off. Yesterday, I'm ashamed to say, I danced -all a lovely afternoon. The Syncopated Orchestra here is heavenly, -and Bunny says I two-step better than any one he's ever known.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, under the dancing and the eating and the dressing-up, -there's the strangest feeling of unrest. Yesterday there was a -Bolshevik meeting near the bandstand. Luckily there was a football -match (very important—Cladgate <i>v.</i> Margate) and all the supposed -Bolshies went to that instead. Aren't we a funny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> country? -Victoria's very happy, dressing and undressing, taking people out -in the car and buying things she doesn't want. She plays bridge -very badly and was showing signs of interest in Spiritualism. They -have séances in the hotel every night, and Victoria went to one -last evening and was fortunately frightened out of her life. Some -one put a hand on her bare shoulder and she made such a fuss that -they had to break up the séance. Give my love to Peter if you see -him. He wrote me a sweet little letter about the engagement. . . .</p></blockquote> - -<p>That which Millie had said about her consciousness of Henry's world was -very true. It seemed to her that his life and experience was always -intermingling with hers, and one could not possibly be complete without -the other. Now, for instance, Ellen was the connecting link. Ellen, one -could see at once, did not belong to Cladgate, with its materialism, -snobbery and self-satisfaction. Cross old maid though you might call -her, she had power and she had passion; moreover she was restless, in -search of something that she would never find perhaps, but the search -was the thing. That was Henry's world—dear, pathetic, stumbling -Henry, with his fairy princess straight out of Hans Andersen, and -the wicked witch and the cottage built of sugar—all this, as Millie -felt assured, to vanish with the crow of the cock, but to leave Henry -(and here was what truly distinguished him from his fellows) with his -vision captured, the vision that was more important than the reality. -Ellen was one of the midway figures (and the world has many of them, -discontented, aspiring, frustrated) who serve to join the Dream and the -Business.</p> - -<p>Unhappy they may be, but they have their important use and are not the -least valuable part of God's creation. See Ellen in her black, rather -dingy frock striding about the corridors of the Cladgate hotel, and you -were made uncomfortably to think of things that you would rather forget.</p> - -<p>During her first days she was delighted with Cladgate and everything -and everybody in it. Then the rain came back and danced upon the glass -roofs and jazz bands screamed from floor to floor, and every one sat -under the palms in pairs. There was no one to sit with Ellen; she did -not play bridge, she did not dance. She was left alone. Millie tried -to be kind to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> when she remembered, but it was Ellen's fate to be -forgotten.</p> - -<p>One evening, just as Millie was going to bed, Ellen came into the room. -She stood by the door glowering.</p> - -<p>"I'm going back to London to-morrow," she announced.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Ellen, why? I thought you were enjoying yourself so much."</p> - -<p>"I'm miserable here. Nobody wants me."</p> - -<p>"Oh, but you're wrong. I——"</p> - -<p>She strode across to Millie's dressing-table. "No, you don't. Don't lie -about it. Do you think I haven't eyes?"</p> - -<p>Suddenly she sank on to the floor, burying her head in Millie's lap, -bursting into desperate crying.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm so lonely—so miserable. Why did I ever come here? Nobody -wants me. They'd rather I was dead. . . . They say work—find work, -they say. What are you doing thinking about love with your plain face -and ugly body? This is the Twentieth Century, they say, the time for -women like you. Every woman's free now. Free? How am I free? Work? -What work can I do? I was never trained to anything. I can't even -write letters decently. When I work the others laugh at me—I'm so -slow. I want some one to love—some one, something. I can't keep even -a dog because Victoria doesn't like dogs. . . . Millie, be kind to me -a little—let me love you a little, do things for you, run messages, -anything. You're so beautiful. Every one loves you. Give me a little. -. . ."</p> - -<p>Millie comforted her as best she might. She stroked her hair and kissed -her, petted her, but, as before, in her youth and confidence she felt -some contempt for Ellen.</p> - -<p>"Get up," she whispered. "Ellen, dear, don't kneel like that. -Please. . . . Please."</p> - -<p>Ellen got up.</p> - -<p>"You do your best. You want to be kind. But you're young. You can't -understand. One day, perhaps, you'll know better," and she went away.</p> - -<p>Was it Ellen or the daily life of Cladgate that was beginning to -throttle Millie? She should have been so happy, but now a cloud -had come. She suddenly distrusted life, hearing whispers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> down the -corridors, seeing heads close together, murmurs under that horrible, -hateful band-music. . . .</p> - -<p>Why was everyone conspiring towards ugliness? On a beautiful morning, -after a night of bad and disturbed dreams, she awoke very early, and -going down to the pebbled beach below the hotel she was amazed by the -beauty on every side of her. The sea turned lazily over like a cat -in the sun, purring, asking for its back to be scratched; a veil of -blue mist hung from earth to heaven; the grey sea-wall, at midday so -hard and grim, was softly purple; the long grass sward above her head -sparkling in the dew was unsoiled by the touch of any human being; no -sound at all save suddenly a white bird rising, floating like a sigh, -outlined against the blue like a wave let loose into mid-air and the -sea stroking the pebbles for love of their gleaming smiles.</p> - -<p>She sat under the sea-wall longing for Bunny to be there, clutching her -love with both hands and holding it out like a crystal bowl to the sea -and air for them also to enjoy.</p> - -<p>She had a perfect hour and returned into the hotel.</p> - - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p>Then Ellen discovered. She faced Millie in Victoria's sitting-room, her -face graven and moulded like a mask.</p> - -<p>"So you're engaged to him after all?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I would have told you before only I knew that you wouldn't like -it——"</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't like it?" With a short, "What does it matter what I like? All -the same you've been kind to me once or twice, and for that I'm not -going to see you ruining your life without making an effort."</p> - -<p>Millie flushed. She felt her anger rising as she had known that it -would do. Foreseeing this scene she had told herself again and again -that she must keep her temper when it arrived, above all things keep -her temper.</p> - -<p>"Now, Ellen, please don't. I know that you don't like him, but remember -that it's settled now for good or bad. I'm very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> sorry that you don't -like him better, but when you know him——"</p> - -<p>"Know him! Know him? As though I didn't. But I won't let it pass. Even -though you never speak to me again I'll force such evidence under your -nose that you'll <i>have to</i> realize. Lord! the fools we women are! -We talk of character and the things we say we admire, and we don't -admire them a bit. What we want is decent legs and a smooth mouth and -soft hands. I thought you had some sense, a little wisdom, but you're -younger than any of us—I despise you, Millie, for this."</p> - -<p>Millie jumped up from the table where she had been writing.</p> - -<p>"And what do I care, Ellen, whether you do despise me? Who are you to -come and lecture me? I've had enough of your ill-temper and your scenes -and all the rest of it. I don't want your friendship. Go your own way -and let me go mine."</p> - -<p>Within her a voice was saying: "You'll be sorry for this afterwards. -You know you will. You told me you were not going to lose your temper."</p> - -<p>Ellen tarried by the door. "You can say what you like to me, Millie. -I'll save you from this however much you hate me for it." She went out.</p> - -<p>"I despise you, Millie, for this." The words rang in Millie's head as -she sat there alone, repeated themselves against her will. Well, what -did it matter if Ellen <i>did</i> despise her? Yes it did matter. She had -been laughing at Ellen all these weeks and yet she cared for her good -opinion. Her vanity was wounded. She was little and mean and small.</p> - -<p>And behind that there was something else. There had been more than -anger and outraged sentiment in Ellen's attitude. She had meant what -she said. She had something serious in her mind about Bunny—something -that she thought she knew . . . . something. . . .</p> - -<p>"I'm contemptible!" Millie cried, "losing my temper with Ellen like a -fishwife, then distrusting Bunny. I'm worthless." She wanted to run -after Ellen and beg her pardon but pride restrained her. Instead she -was cross with Victoria all the morning.</p> - -<p>Victoria's affairs were especially agitating to herself at this time -and made her uncertain in her temper and easily upset.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> Out of the mist -in which her many admirers obscurely floated two figures had risen -who were quite obviously suitors for her hand. When Millie had first -begun to perceive this she doubted the evidence of her observation. -It could not be possible that any one should want to marry Victoria, -stout and middle-aged as she was. But on second thoughts it seemed -quite the simple natural thing for any adventurer to attempt. There was -Victoria's money, with which she quite obviously did not know what to -do. Why should not some one for whom youth was over, whose income was -an uncertain quantity, decide to spend it for her?</p> - -<p>Millie called both these men adventurers. There she was unjust. Major -Miles Mereward was no adventurer; he was simply an honest soldier -really attracted by Victoria. Honest, but Lord, how dull!</p> - -<p>As he sat in Victoria's room, the chair creaking beneath his fat body, -his red hair rough and unbrushed, his red moustache untrimmed, his red -hands clutching his old grey soft hat, he was the most uncomfortable, -awkward, silent man Millie had ever met. He had nothing to say at all; -he would only stare at Victoria, give utterance to strange guttural -noises that were negatives and affirmatives almost unborn. He was poor, -but he was honest. He thought Victoria the most marvellous creature in -the world with her gay talk and light colour. He scarcely realized that -she had any money. Far otherwise his rival Robin Bennett.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bennett was a man of over forty, one who might be the grandson of -Byron or a town's favourite "Hamlet"—"Distinguished" was the word -always used about him.</p> - -<p>He dressed beautifully; he moved, Victoria declared, "like a picture." -Not only this; he was able to talk with easy fluency upon every -possible subject—politics, music, literature, painting, he had his -hand upon them all. Moreover, he was adaptable. He understood just why -Victoria preferred the novels she did, and he was not superior to her -because of her taste. He knew why tears filled her eyes when the band -played "Pomp and Circumstance," and thought it quite natural that on -such an occasion she should want, as she said, "to run out and give -sixpences to all the poor children in the place." He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> pretend -to her that her bridge-playing was good. That indeed was more than -even his Arts could encompass, but he did assure her that she was -making progress with every game she played. He even tempted her in -the ballroom of the hotel into the One-Step and the Fox-Trot, and an -amusing sight for every one it was to see Victoria's flushed and clumsy -efforts.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the man -was an adventurer. Every one in the hotel knew it—Victoria was his -third target that season; even Victoria did not disguise it altogether -from herself.</p> - -<p>It was here that Millie found her touching and appealing. Millie -realized that this was the very first time in Victoria's life that any -one had made love to her; that it was her money to which Bennett was -making love seemed at the moment to matter very little. The woman was -knowing, at long last, what it meant to have eyes—fine, large, brown -eyes—gazing into hers, what it was to have her lightest word listened -to with serious attention, what it was would some one hasten to open -the door, to push forward a chair for her, to pick up her handkerchief -when she dropped it (a thing that she was always now doing). Mereward -did none of these things for her—his brain moved too slowly to make -the race a fair one. He was beaten by Bennett (who deeply despised him) -every time.</p> - -<p>But Victoria was only half a fool. "Millie mine," she said, "don't you -find Major Mereward very restful? He's a <i>good</i> man."</p> - -<p>"He is indeed," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Of course he hasn't Mr. Bennett's brains. I said to Mr. Bennett last -night, 'I can't think how it is with your brilliance that you are not -in the Cabinet.'"</p> - -<p>"And what did Mr. Bennett say?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Oh, that he had never cared about politics, that it wasn't a -gentleman's game any longer—in which I'm sure he's quite right. It -seems a pity though. With his beautiful voice and fine carriage he -might have done anything. He says his lack of means has always kept him -back."</p> - -<p>"I expect it has," said Millie.</p> - -<p>She was however able to give only half a glance towards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> Victoria's -interesting problem because of the increasing difficulty and -unexpectedness of her own.</p> - -<p>From the very first, long before he had spoken to her on that morning -in the Cromwell Road, she had made with her hands a figure of fair and -lovely report. It might be true that also from the very first she had -seen that Bunny, like Roderick Hudson, "evidently had a native relish -for rich accessories, and appropriated what came to his hand," or, like -the young man in Galleon's <i>Widow's Comedy</i>, "believed that the glories -of the world were by right divine his own natural property"—all this -she had seen and it had but dressed the figure with the finer colour -and glow. Bunny was handsome enough and clever enough and bright enough -to carry off the accessories as many a more dingy mortal might not -do. And so, having set up her figure, she proceeded to deck it with -every little treasure and ornament that she could find. All the little -kindnesses, the unselfish thoughts, the sudden impulses of affection, -the thanks and the promises and the ardours she collected and arranged. -At first there had been many of these; when Bunny was happy and things -went well with him he was kind and generous.</p> - -<p>Then—and especially since the little quarrel about Victoria's -money—these occasions were less frequent. It seemed that he was -wanting something—something that he was in a hurry to get—and that he -had not time now for little pleasantries and courtesies. His affection -was not less ardent than it had been—it grew indeed with every hour -more fierce—but Millie knew that he was hurrying her into insecure -country and that she should not go with him and that she could not stop.</p> - -<p>The whole situation now was unsatisfactory. His mother had been in -London for some days but Bunny said nothing of going to see her. Millie -was obliged to face the fact that he did not wish to tell his mother -of their engagement. Every morning when she woke she told herself that -to-day she would force it all into the daylight, would issue ultimatums -and stand by them, but when she met him, fear of some horrible crisis -held her back—"Another day—let me have another lovely day. I will -speak to him to-morrow."</p> - -<p>She who had always been so proud and fearless was now full of fear. -She knew that when he was not thwarted he was still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> charming, ardent, -affectionate, her lover—and so she did not thwart him.</p> - -<p>Nothing had yet occurred that was of serious moment, the things about -which they differed were little things, and she let them go by. He was -always telling her of her beauty, and for the first time in her life -she knew that she was beautiful. Her beauty grew amazingly during those -weeks. She carried herself nobly, her head high, her mouth a little -ironical, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure of life and the vigour -of perfect health, knowing that all the hotel world and indeed all -Cladgate was watching her and paying tribute to her beauty.</p> - -<p>No one disputed that she was the most beautiful girl in Cladgate that -summer. She roused no jealousy. She was too young, too simple, too -natural and too kindly-hearted.</p> - -<p>All the world could very quickly see that she was absorbed by young -Baxter and had no thoughts for any one but him. She had no desire to -snatch other young men from their triumphant but fighting captors. She -was of a true, generous heart; she would do any one a good turn, laugh -with any one, play with any one, sympathize with any one.</p> - -<p>She was not only the most beautiful, she was also the best-liked girl -in the place.</p> - -<p>Perhaps because of her retired, cloistered, Trenchard up-bringing she -was, in spite of two years finishing in Paris, innocent and pure of -heart. She thought that she knew everything about life, and her courage -and her frankness carried her through many situations before which less -unsophisticated women would have quailed.</p> - -<p>It was not that she credited every one with noble characters; she -thought many people foolish and weak and sentimental, but she did -believe that every one was fundamentally good at heart and intended -to make of life a fine thing. Her close companionship with Bunny -caused her for the first time to wonder whether there was not another -world—"underground somewhere"—of which she knew nothing whatever. It -was not that he told her anything or introduced her to men who would -tell her. He had, one must in charity to him believe, at this time at -any rate, a real desire to respect her innocence; but always behind the -things they did and said was this implication that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> knew so much -more of life than she. Henry had often implied that same knowledge, but -she laughed at him. He might know things that he would not tell her, -but he was essentially, absolutely of her own world. But Bunny <i>was</i> -different. She was a modern girl, belonging to the generation in which, -at last, women were to know as much, to see as much, as men. She <i>must</i> -know.</p> - -<p>"What do you <i>mean</i>, Bunny?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, nothing . . . nothing that you need know."</p> - -<p>"But I want to know. I'm not a child——"</p> - -<p>"Rot. . . . Come and dance." She did dance, furiously, ferociously. -The Diamond Palace—a glass-domed building at the foot of the woods, -just above the sea, was the place where Cladgate danced. The negro -band, its teeth gleaming with gold, its fingers glittering with diamond -rings, stamped and shrieked, banged cymbals, clashed tins, thumped at -drums, yelled and then suddenly murmured like animals creeping back, -reluctantly, into the fastnesses of their jungles, and all the good -British citizens and citizenesses of Cladgate wandered round and round -with solemn ecstatic faces, their bodies pressed close together, sweat -gathering upon their brows; beyond the glass roof the walks were dark -and silent and the sea crept in and out over the tiny pebbles, leaving -a thin white pattern far down the deserted beach.</p> - -<p>"What do you <i>mean</i>, Bunny?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he answered her.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The glass roof sparkled above the electric light with a million facets. -Across the broad floor there stepped and shifted the changing pattern -of the human bodies; faces stared out over shoulders, blank, serious, -grim as though the crisis—the true crisis—of life had at last -arrived, and the band encouraged that belief, softly whispering that -<i>now</i> was the moment—NOW—and NOW. . . .</p> - -<p>Millie sat against the wall with Victoria; she was waiting for Bunny, -who was a quarter of an hour late. She had a panic, as she always had -when he was late, that he would not come at all; that she would never -see him again. Her dress to-night was carnation colour and she had -shoes of silver tissue. She had an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> indescribable air of youth and -trembling anticipation as though this were the first ball to which -she had ever been. Henry would have been amazed, had he seen her—her -usually so fearless.</p> - -<p>Her love for Bunny made her tremble because, unknown to herself, she -was afraid that the slightest movement from outside would precipitate -her into a situation that would be disastrous, irrecoverable. . . .</p> - -<p>Bunny arrived. She was in his arms and they were moving slowly around -the room. She saw nothing, only felt that it was very hot. The negro -band suddenly leapt out upon them, as though bursting forth from some -hidden fastness. The glass roof, with its diamonds, becked and bowed, -bending toward them like a vast string to a bow. Soon it would snap and -where would they be? Bunny held her very close to him. Their hearts -were like voices jumping together, trying to catch some common note -with which they were both just out of tune.</p> - -<p>The band shrieked and stopped as though it had been stabbed.</p> - -<p>They were outside, in a dark corner of the balcony that looked over the -sea. They kissed and clung close to one another. Suddenly she was aware -of an immense danger, as though the grey wood beyond the glass were -full of fiery eyes, dangerous with beasts.</p> - -<p>"I'm not going into that wood," she heard some voice within herself -cry. The band broke out again from beyond the wall. "Oh, Bunny, let me -go——" She had only a moment in which to save herself—to save herself -<i>from</i> herself.</p> - -<p>She broke from him. She heard her dress tear. She had opened the door -of the balcony, was running down the iron steps then, just as she was, -in her carnation frock and silver shoes, was hurrying down the white -road, away from the wood towards the hotel—the safe, large, empty -hotel.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIc" id="CHAPTER_IIc">CHAPTER II</a></h2> - -<h3>LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP</h3> - - -<p>Just at that time Henry at Duncombe was thinking very much of his -sister. He could not tell why, but she was appearing to him constantly; -he saw her three nights in his dreams. In one dream she was in danger, -running for her life along a sea road, high above the sea. Once she -was shouting to him in a storm and could not make him hear because of -the straining and creaking of the trees. During his morning work in -the little library he saw her, laughing at him on the lawn beyond the -window—Millie as she was years ago, on that day, for instance, when -she came back from Paris and astonished them all by her gaiety and was -herself astonished by the news of Katherine's unexpected engagement. He -could see her now in the old green drawing-room, laughing at them all -and shouting into Great-Aunt Sarah's ear-trumpet. "Well, she's in some -trouble," he said to himself, looking out at the sun-flecked lawn. "I'm -sure she's in trouble."</p> - -<p>He wrote to her and to his relief received a letter from her on that -same day. She said very little: ". . . Only another week of this place, -and I'm not sorry. These last days haven't been much fun. It's so noisy -and every one behaves as though a moment's quiet would be the end of -the world. Oh, Henry darling, do come up to London soon after I get -back, even if it's only for a day. I'm sure your old tyrant will let -you off. I <i>ache</i> to see you and Peter again. I want you near me. I'm -not a bit pleased with myself. I've turned <i>nasty</i> lately—conceited -and vain. You and Peter shall scold me thoroughly. Vi says mother is -just the same. . . ."</p> - -<p>Well, she was all right. He was glad. He could sink back once more -into the strange, mysterious atmosphere of Duncombe, and call with his -spirit Christina down to share the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> mystery with him. He could creep -closer to Christina here than real life would ever take him.</p> - -<p>Strange and mysterious it was, and touchingly, poignantly -beautiful. The wet days of early August had been succeeded by fine -weather—English fine weather that was not certain from hour to hour, -and gave therefore all the pleasure of unexpected joy.</p> - -<p>"Why! there's the sun!" they would all cry, and the towers and the -little square pond, and the Cupid, and the hedges cut into peacocks -and towers and sailing-ships, would all be caught up into a sky so -relentlessly blue that it surely never again would be broken; in a -moment, white bolster clouds came slipping up; the oak and the mulberry -tree, whose shadows had been black velvet patterns on the shrill green -of the grass, seemed to spread out their arms beneath the threatening -sky as though to protect their friends from the coming storm. But the -storm was not there—only a few heavy drops and then the grey horizon -changed to purple, the cloud broke like tearing paper, and in a few -moments the shadows were on the lawn again and the water of the square -pond was like bright-blue glass.</p> - -<p>In such English weather the square English house was its loveliest. The -Georgian wing with its old red brick, its square stout windows, was -material, comfortable, homely, speaking of thick-set Jacobean squires -and tankards of ale, dogs and horses, and long pipes of heavy tobacco. -The little Elizabethan wing, where were the chapel and the empty rooms, -touched Henry as though it were alive and were speaking to him. This -old part of the house had in its rear two rooms that were still older, -a barn used now as a garage with an attic above it that was Saxon.</p> - -<p>The house was unique for its size in England—so small and yet -displaying so perfectly the three periods of its growth. It gained -also from its setting because the hills rose behind the garden and -the little wood like grey formless presences against the sky, and -on the ridge below the house the village, with cottages of vast age -and cottagers who seemed to have found the secret of eternal life, -slumbered through the seasons, carrying on the tradition of their -fathers and listening but dimly to the changes that were coming upon -the world beyond them. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> village had done well in the War as the -cross in front of the Post Office testified, but the War had changed -its life amazingly little.</p> - - <p>Some of its sons had gone over the ridge of hill, had seen strange -sights and heard strange sounds—some of them had not returned. . . . -Prices were higher—it was harder now to live than it had been but not -much harder. Already the new generation was growing up. One or two, Tom -Giles the Butcher, Merriweather, a farmer, talked noisily and said that -soon the country would be in the hands of the people. Well, was it not -already in the hands of the people? Anyway, they'd rather be in the -hands of Sir Charles than of Giles.</p> - -<p>How were they to know that Giles' friends would be better men than Sir -Charles? Worse most likely. . . .</p> - -<p>Into all this Henry sank. Among the few books in the library he found -several dealing with the history of the house, of the Duncombes, of -the district. Just as he had conjured up the Edinburgh of Scott and -Ballantyne, so now his head was soon full of all the Duncombes of the -past—Giles Duncombe of Henry VIII.'s time, who had helped his fat -monarch to persecute the monasteries and had been given the lands of -Saltingham Abbey near by as a reward; Charles Duncombe, the admiral -who had helped to chase the Armada; Denis Duncombe, killed at Naseby; -Giles Duncombe, the Second, exquisite of Charles II.'s Court killed -in a duel; Guy Duncombe, his son, who had fled to France with James -II.; Giles the Third of Queen Anne's Court, poet and dramatist; then -the two brothers, Charles and Godfrey, who had joined the '45, Charles -to suffer on the scaffold, Godfrey to flee into perpetual exile; then -Charles again, friend of Johnson and Goldsmith, writer of a bad novel -called <i>The Forsaken Beauty</i>, and a worse play which even Garrick's -acting could not save from being damned; then a seaman again, Triolus -Duncombe, who had fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, and lost an arm -there; then Ponsonby Duncombe, the historian, who had known Macaulay -and written for the <i>Quarterly</i>, and had drunk tea with George Lewes -and his horse-faced genius; then Sir Charles's father, who had been -simply a comfortable country squire—one of Trollope's men straight -from <i>Orley Farm</i> and <i>The Claverings</i>, who had liked his elder son, -Ralph (killed tiger-shooting in India), and his younger son Tom both -better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> than the quiet, studious Charles, whom he had never understood. -All these men and their women too seemed to Henry still to live in -the house and haunt the gardens, to laugh above the stream and walk -below the trees. So quiet was the place and so still that standing by -the pond under the star-lit sky he could swear that he heard their -voices. . . .</p> - -<p>Nevertheless the living engaged his attention sufficiently. Besides -Millie and Christina and Peter there were with him in the house, in -actual concrete form, Sir Charles and his sister. Lady Bell-Hall had -now apparently accepted Henry as an inevitable nuisance with whom -God, for some mysterious reason known only to Himself, had determined -still further to try her spirit. She was immensely busy here, having -a thousand preoccupations connected with the house and the village -that kept her happy and free from many of her London alarms. Henry -admired her deeply as he watched her trotting about in an old floppy -garden-hat, ministering to, scolding, listening to, admonishing the -village as though it was one large, tiresome, but very lovable family. -With the servants in the house it was the same thing. She knew the very -smallest of their troubles, and although she often irritated and fussed -them, they were not alone in the world as they would have been had Mrs. -Giles, the butcher's wife, been their mistress.</p> - -<p>It happened then that Henry for his daily companionship depended -entirely upon Sir Charles. A strange companionship it was, because the -affection between them grew stronger with every hour that passed, and -yet there were no confidences nor intimacies—very little talk at all. -At the back of Henry's mind there was always the incident in the cab. -He fancied that on several occasions since that he had seen that glance -of almost agonizing suffering pass, flash in the eyes, cross the brow; -once or twice Duncombe had abruptly risen and with steps that faltered -a little left the room. Henry fancied also that Lady Bell-Hall during -the last few days had begun to watch her brother anxiously. Sometimes -she looked at Henry as though she would question him, but she said -nothing.</p> - -<p>Then, quite suddenly, the blow fell. On a day of splendid heat, the -sky an unbroken blue, the fountain falling sleepily behind them, bees -humming among the beds near by, Dun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>combe and Henry were sitting on -easy chairs under the oak. Henry was reading, Duncombe sitting staring -at the bright grass and the house that swam in a haze of heat against -the blue sky.</p> - -<p>"Henry," Duncombe said, "I want to talk to you for a moment."</p> - -<p>Henry put down his book.</p> - -<p>"I want first to tell you how very grateful I am for the companionship -that you have given me during these last months and for your -friendship."</p> - -<p>Henry stammered and blushed. "I've been wanting—" he said, "been -wanting myself a long time to say something to you. I suppose that day -when I had done the letters so badly and you—you still kept me on was -the most important thing that ever happened to me. No one before has -ever believed I could do anything or seen what it was I could do—I -always lacked self-confidence and you gave it me. The War had destroyed -the little I'd had before, and if you hadn't come I don't know——"</p> - -<p>He broke off, feeling, as he always did, that he could say none of the -things that he really meant to say, and being angry with himself for -his own stupidity.</p> - -<p>"I'm very glad," Duncombe said, "if I've done that. I think you have -a fine future before you if you do the things you're really suited -for—which you will do, of course. But I'm going to trust you still -further. I know I can depend on your discretion——"</p> - -<p>"If there's anything in the world——" Henry began eagerly.</p> - -<p>"It's nothing very difficult," Duncombe said, still smiling; "I am -in all probability going to have a serious operation. It's not quite -settled—I shall know after a further examination. But it is almost -certain. . . .</p> - -<p>"There are definite chances that I shall not live through it—the -chances of my surviving or not are about equal, I believe. I'll tell -you frankly that if I were to think only of myself, death is infinitely -preferable to the pain that I have suffered during the last six months. -It was when the pain became serious that I determined to hurry up those -family papers that you are now working on. I had an idea that I might -not have much time left and I wanted to find somebody who could carry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> -them on. . . . Well, I have found somebody," he said, turning towards -Henry and smiling his slightly cynical smile. "In my Will I have left -you a certain sum that will support you at any rate for the next three -years, and directions that the book is to be left entirely in your -hands. . . . I know that you will do your best for it."</p> - -<p>Henry's words choked in his throat. He saw the bright grass and the red -dazzled house through a mist of tears. He wanted, at that moment above -all, to be practical, a hard, common-sense man of the world—but of -course as usual he had no power to be what he wanted.</p> - -<p>"Yes . . . my best . . ." he stammered.</p> - -<p>"Then, what I mean is this," Duncombe continued. "If you do that you -will still have some relations with my family, with my brother and -sister, I mean." He paused, then continued looking in front of him as -though for the moment he had forgotten Henry. "When I first knew that -my illness was serious I felt that I could not leave all this. I had no -other feeling for the time but that, that I must stay here and see this -place safely through these difficult days . . ." He paused again, then -looked straight across to Henry.</p> - -<p>"I have not forgotten what happened in London in the library the other -day. You will probably imagine from that that my brother is a very evil -person. He is not, only impulsive, short-sighted and not very clever at -controlling his feelings. He has an affection for me but none at all -for this place, and as soon as he inherits it he will sell it.</p> - -<p>"It is that knowledge that is hardest now for me to bear. Tom is -reckless with money, reckless with his affections, reckless with -everything, but he is not a mean man. He came into the library that -day to get some papers that he knew he should not have rather as a -schoolboy might go to the cupboard and try to steal jam, but you will -find when you meet him again that he bears no sort of malice and will -indeed have forgotten the whole thing. My sister too—of course she is -rather foolish and can't adapt herself to the new times, but she is a -very good woman, utterly unselfish, and would die for Tom and myself -without a moment's hesitation. If I go, be a help to her, Henry. She -doesn't know you now at all, but she will later on, and you can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> show -her that things are not so bad—that life doesn't change, that people -are as they always were—certainly no worse, a little better perhaps. -To her, the world seems to be suddenly filled with ravening wolves—— -Poor Meg!"</p> - -<p>His voice died away. . . . Again he was looking at the house and the -sparkling lawn.</p> - -<p>"To lose this . . . to let it go—— After all these years."</p> - -<p>There was a long silence. Only the doves cooing from the gay-tiled roof -seemed to be the voice, crooning and satisfied of the summer afternoon.</p> - -<p>"And that," said Duncombe, suddenly waking from his reverie, "is -another idea that I have had. I feel as though you are going to be of -importance in your new generation and that you will have influence. -Even though I shall lose this place I shall be able to continue it in a -way, perhaps, if I can make you feel that the past is not dead, that it -<i>must</i> go on with its beauty and pathos influencing, interpenetrating -the present. You young ones will have the world to do with as you -please. Our time is done. But don't think that you can begin the world -again as though nothing had ever happened before. There is all that -loveliness, that beauty, longing to be used. The lessons that you are -to learn are the very same lessons that generation after generation has -learnt before you. Take the past which is beseeching you not to desert -it and let it mingle with the present. Don't let modern cleverness make -you contemptuous of all that has gone before you. They were as clever -as you in their own generation. This beauty, this history, this love -that has sunk into these walls and strengthened these trees, carry -these on with you as your companions. . . . I love it so . . . and I -have to leave it. To know that it will go to strangers . . ."</p> - -<p>Henry said: "I'll never forget this place. It will influence all my -life."</p> - -<p>"Well, then," Duncombe shook his head almost impatiently, "I've done -enough preaching . . . nonsense perhaps. It seems to me now important. -Soon, if the pain returns, only that will matter."</p> - -<p>They sat for a long time in silence. The shadows of the trees spread -like water across the lawn. The corners of the garden were purple -shaded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> - -<p>"God! Is there a God, do you think, Henry?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered. "I think there is One, but of what kind He is I -don't know."</p> - -<p>"There must be. . . . There must be. . . . To go out like this when -one's heart and soul are at their strongest. And He is loving, I -can't but fancy. He smiles, perhaps, at the importance that we give -to death and to pain. So short a time it must seem to Him that we are -here. . . . But if He isn't. . . . If there is nothing more—— What a -cruel, cold game for Something to play with us——"</p> - -<p>Henry knew then that Duncombe was sure he would not survive the -operation. An aching longing to do something for him held him, but a -power greater than either of them had caught him and he could only sit -and stare at the colours as they came flocking into the garden with -the evening sky, at the white line that was suddenly drawn above the -garden wall, at two stars that were thrown like tossed diamonds into -the branches of the mulberry.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I know God exists," something that was not Henry's body whispered.</p> - -<p>"God must exist to explain all the love that there is in the world," he -said.</p> - -<p>"And all the hatred too," Duncombe answered, looking upward at the two -stars. "Why do we hate one another? Why all this temper and scorn, -sport and cruelty? Men want to do right—almost every man and woman -alive. And the rules are so simple—fidelity, unselfishness, loving, -kindliness, humility—but we can't manage them except in little -spurts. . . . But then why should they be there at all? All the old -questions!" He broke off. "Come, let us go in. It's cold." He got up -and took Henry's arm. They walked slowly across the lawn together.</p> - -<p>"Henry," he said, "remember to expect nothing very wonderful of men. -Remember that they don't change, but that they are all in the same box -together—so love them. Love them whenever you can, not dishonestly, -because you think it a pretty thing to do, but honestly, because you -can't help yourself. Don't condemn. Don't be impatient because of their -weaknesses. That has been the failure of my life. I have been so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> badly -disappointed again and again that I retired into myself, would not -let them touch me—and so I lost them. But you are different—you are -idealistic. Don't lose that whatever foolish things you may be dragged -into. It seems to me so simple now that the end of everything has come -and it is too late—love of man, love of God even if He does not exist, -love of work—humility because the time is so short and we are all so -weak."</p> - -<p>By the door he stopped, dropping his voice. "Be patient with my sister -to-night. I am going to tell her about my affair. It will distress her -very much. Assure her that it is unimportant, will soon be right. Poor -Meg!"</p> - -<p>He pressed Henry's arm and went forward alone into the dark house.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>But how tiresome it is! That very same evening Henry, filled with -noble thoughts and a longing for self-sacrifice, was as deeply and as -childishly irritated by the events of the evening and by Lady Bell-Hall -as he had ever been. In the first place, when he was dressing and had -just found a clean handkerchief and was ready to go downstairs, the -button-hole of his white shirt burst under his collar and he was forced -to undress again and was ten minutes late downstairs.</p> - -<p>He saw at once that Duncombe had told his sister the news. Henry had -been prepared to show a great tenderness, a fine nobility, a touching -fatherliness to the poor frightened lady. But Lady Bell-Hall was not -frightened, she was merely querulous, with a drop of moisture at the -end of her nose and a cross look down the table at Henry as though he -were to-night just more than she could bear. It was also hard that on -this night of all nights there should be that minced beef that Henry -always found it difficult to encounter. It was not so much that the -mince was cooked badly, and what was worse, meanly and baldly, but -that it stood as a kind of symbol for all that was mistaken in Lady -Bell-Hall's housekeeping.</p> - -<p>She was a bad housekeeper, and thoroughly complacent over her -incompetence, and it was this incompetence that irritated Henry. -Somehow to-night there should have been a gracious offering of the very -best the place could afford, with some silence, some resignation, some -gentle evidence of affection. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> it was not so. Duncombe was his old -cynical self, with no sign whatever of the afternoon's mood.</p> - -<p>Only for a moment after dinner in the little grey drawing-room, when -Duncombe had left them alone and Henry was seated reading Couperas and -Lady Bell-Hall opposite to him was knitting her interminable stockings, -was there a flash of something. She looked up suddenly and across at -him.</p> - -<p>"I learn from my brother that he has told you?" she said, blinking her -eyes that were always watering at him.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"He tells me that it is nothing serious," her voice quavered.</p> - -<p>"No, no," Henry half started up, his book dropping on to the floor. -"Indeed, Lady Bell-Hall, it isn't. He hopes it will be all right in a -week or two."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes," she answered, rather testily, as though she resented his -fancying that he knew more about her brother's case than she herself -did. "But operations are always dangerous."</p> - -<p>"I had an operation once——" began Henry, then seeing that her eyes -were busy with her knitting again he stopped. Nevertheless her little -pink cheeks were shaking and her little obstinate chin trembled. He -could see that she was doing all that she could to keep herself from -tears. He could fancy herself saying: "Well, I'm not going to let that -tiresome young man see me cry." But touched as he was impetuously -whenever he saw any one in distress, he began again—"Why, when I had -an operation once——"</p> - -<p>"Thank you," she said to her knitting, "I don't think we'll talk about -it if you don't mind."</p> - -<p>He picked up his book again.</p> - -<p>Next morning Henry asked for leave to go up to London for two days. He -had been possessed, driven, tormented during the last week by thoughts -of Christina, and in some mysterious way his talk with Duncombe in the -garden had accentuated his longing. All that he wanted was to see her, -to assure himself that she was not, as she always seemed to him when he -was away from her, a figure in a dream, something imagined by him, more -lovely, more perfect than anything he could read of or conceive, and -yet belonging to the world of poetry, of his own imagined fictions, of -intangible and evasive desires.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was always this impulse that drove him back to her, the impulse to -make sure that she was of flesh and blood even though, as he was now -beginning to realize, that same form and body were never destined to be -his.</p> - -<p>He had other reasons for going. Books in the library of the London -house had to be consulted, and Millie would now be in Cromwell Road -again. Duncombe at once gave him permission.</p> - -<p>Going up in the train, staring out of the window, Henry tried to bring -his thoughts into some sort of definite order. He was always trying -to do this, plunging his hands into a tangle, breaking through here, -pulling others straight, trying to find a pattern that would give -it all a real symmetry. The day suited his thoughts. The beautiful -afternoon of yesterday had been perhaps the last smile of a none too -generous summer. To-day autumn was in the air, mists curled up from the -fields, clouds hung low against a pale watery blue, leaves were turning -red once again, slowly falling through the mist with little gestures of -dismay. What he wanted, he felt, thinking of Christina, of Duncombe, of -Millie, of his work, of his mother, lying without motion in that sombre -house, of his own muddle of generosities and selfishness and tempers -and gratitudes, was not so much to find a purpose in it all (that was -perhaps too ambitious), but simply to separate one side of life from -the other.</p> - -<p>He saw them continually crossing, these two sides, not only in his -own life, but in every other. One was the side of daily life, of his -work for Duncombe, of money and business and Mr. King's bills, and -stomach-ache and having a good night's sleep, and what the Allies were -going to do about Vienna, and whether the Bolsheviks would attack -Poland next spring or no. Millie and Peter both belonged to this world -and the Three Graces, and the trouble that he had to keep his clothes -tidy, and whether any one yet had invented sock-suspenders that didn't -fall down in a public place and yet didn't give you varicose veins—and -if not why not.</p> - -<p>The other world could lightly be termed the world of the Imagination, -and yet it was so much more, so <i>much</i> more than that. Christina -belonged to it absolutely, and so did her horrible mother and the -horrible old man Mr. Leishman. So did his silly story at Chapter -XV., so did the old Duncombe letters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> so did the place Duncombe, so -did Piccadilly Circus in certain moods, and the whole of London on -certain days. So did many dreams that he had (and he did not want -Mr. Freud, thank you, to explain them away for him), so did all his -thoughts of Garth-in-Roselands and Glebeshire, so did the books of -Galleon and Hans Andersen, and the author of <i>Lord Jim</i>, and la Motte, -Fouqué, and nearly all poetry; so did the voice of a Danish singer -whom he had heard one chance evening at a Queen's Hall Concert, and -several second-hand bookshops that he knew, and many, many other -things, moments, emotions that thronged the world. You could say that -he was simply gathering his emotions together and packing them away -and calling them in the mass this separate world. But it was not so. -There were many emotions, many people whom he loved, many desires, -ambitions, possessions that did not belong to this world. And Millie, -for instance, complete and vital though she was, with plenty of -imagination, did not know that this world existed. Could he only find -a clue to it how happy he would be! One moment would be enough. If for -one single instant the heavens would open and he could see and could -say then: "By this moment of vision I will live for ever! I know now -that this other world exists and is external, and that one day I shall -enter into it completely." He fancied—indeed he liked to fancy—that -his adventure with Christina would, before it closed, offer him this -vision. Meanwhile his state was that of a man shut into a room with the -blinds down, the doors locked, but hearing beyond the wall sounds that -came again and again to assure him that he would not always be in that -room—and shadows moved behind the blind.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile on both worlds one must keep one's hand. One must be -practical and efficient and sensible—oh yes (one's dreams must not -interfere. But one's dreams, nevertheless, were the important thing).</p> - -<p>"Would you mind," the voice broke through like a stone smashing a pane -of glass. "But your boot is——"</p> - -<p>He looked up to find a nervous gentleman with pince-nez and a -white slip to his waistcoat glaring at him. His boot was resting -on the opposite seat and a considerable portion of the gentleman's -trouser-leg.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was terribly sorry, dreadfully embarrassed, blushing, distressed. He -buried himself in Couperas, and soon forgot his own dreams in pursuing -the adventures of the large and melancholy familiar to whose dismal -fate Couperas was introducing him. And behind, in the back of his head, -something was saying to him for the two-millionth time, "I must not be -such an ass! I must not be such an ass!"</p> - -<p>He arrived in London at midday, and the first thing that he did was -to telephone to Millie. She would be back in her rooms by five that -afternoon. His impulse to rush to Christina he restrained, sitting in -the Hill Street library trying to fasten his mind to the monotonous -voice of Mr. Spencer, who was so well up in facts and so methodical in -his brain that Henry always wanted to stick pins into his trousers and -make him jump.</p> - -<p>When he reached Millie's lodgings she had not yet returned, but Mary -Cass was there just going off to eat some horrible meal in an A.B.C. -shop preparatory to a chemistry lecture.</p> - -<p>"How's Millie?" he asked.</p> - -<p>She looked him over as she always did before speaking to him.</p> - -<p>"Oh! She's all right!" she said.</p> - -<p>"Really all right?" he asked her. "I haven't thought her letters -sounded very happy."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't think she is very happy, if you ask me," Mary answered, -slowly pulling on her gloves. "I don't like her young man. I can't -think what she chose him for."</p> - -<p>"What's he like?" asked Henry.</p> - -<p>"Just a dressed-up puppy!" Mary tossed her head. "But, maybe, I'm not -fair to him. When two girls have lived together and like one another -one of them isn't in all probability going to be very devoted to the -man who carries the other one off."</p> - -<p>"No, I suppose not," Henry nodded his head with deep profundity.</p> - -<p>"And then I despise men," Mary added, tossing her head. "You're a poor -lot—all except your friend Westcott. I like <i>him</i>."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know you knew him," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, he's been here several times. Now if it were <i>he</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> who was -going to carry Millie off! You know he's deeply in love with her!"</p> - -<p>"He! Peter?" Henry cried horrified.</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course. Do you mean to say you didn't see it?"</p> - -<p>"But he can't—he's married already!"</p> - -<p>"Mr. Westcott married?' Mary Cass repeated after him.</p> - -<p>"Yes, didn't you know? . . . But Millie knows."</p> - -<p>"Married? But when?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, years ago, when he was very young. She ran away with a friend of -his and he's never heard of her since. She must have been awful!" Henry -drew a deep breath of disgust.</p> - -<p>"Poor man!" Mary sighed. "Everything's crooked in this beastly world. -Nobody gets what he wants."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps it's best he shouldn't."</p> - -<p>Mary turned upon him. "Henry, there are times when I positively loathe -you. You're nearly the most detestable young prig in London—you would -be if you weren't—if you weren't——"</p> - -<p>"If I weren't——?" said Henry, blushing. Of all things he hated most -to be called a prig.</p> - -<p>"If you weren't such an incredible infant and didn't tumble over your -boots so often——"</p> - -<p>She was gone and he was alone to consider her news. Peter in love with -Millie! How had he been so blind? Of course he could see it now, could -remember a thousand things! Poor Peter! Henry felt old and protective -and all-wise, then remembering the other things that Mary Cass had said -blushed again.</p> - -<p>"Am I really a prig?" he thought. "But I don't mean to be. But perhaps -prigs never do mean to be. What is a prig, anyway? Isn't it some one -who thinks himself better than other people? Well, I certainly don't -think myself better——"</p> - -<p>These beautiful thoughts were interrupted by Millie and, with her, Mr. -Baxter.</p> - -<p>It may be said at once to save further time and trouble that the two -young men detested one another at sight. It was natural and inevitable -that they should. Henry with his untidy hair, his badly shaven chin, -his clumsy clothes and his crookedly-balancing pince-nez would of -course seem to Bunny Baxter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> a terrible fellow to appear in public -with. It would shock him deeply, too, that so lovely a creature as -Millie could possibly have so plain a relation. It would also be at -once apparent to him that here was some one from whom he could hope -for nothing socially, whether borrowing of money, introductions to -fashionable clubs, or the name of a new tailor who allowed, indeed -invited, unlimited credit. It was quite clear that Henry was a gate to -none of these things. On Henry's side it was natural that he should at -once be prejudiced against any one who was "dressed up." He admitted to -himself that Baxter looked a gentleman, but his hair, his clothes, his -shoes, had all of them that easy perfection that would never, never, -did he live for a million years, be granted to Henry.</p> - -<p>Henry disliked his fresh complexion, his moustache, the contemptuous -curl of his upper lip. He decided at once that here was an enemy.</p> - -<p>It would not in any case have been a very happy meeting, but -difficulties were made yet more difficult by the fact, sufficiently -obvious to the eyes of an already critical brother, that the two of -them had been "having words" as they came along. Millie's cheeks were -flushed and her eyes angry, and that she looked adorable when she was -thus did not help substantially the meeting.</p> - -<p>Millie went into the inner room and the two men sat stiffly opposite -one another and carried on a hostile conversation.</p> - -<p>"Beastly weather," Mr. Baxter volunteered.</p> - -<p>"Oh, do you think so?" Henry smiled, as though in wonder at the extreme -stupidity of his companion. "I should have said it had been rather fine -lately."</p> - -<p>Silence.</p> - -<p>"Up in London for long?" asked Baxter.</p> - -<p>"Only two days, I think. Just came up to see that Millie was all right."</p> - -<p>"You won't have to bother any more now that she's got me to look after -her," said Baxter, sucking the gold knob of his cane.</p> - -<p>"As a matter of fact," said Henry, "she's pretty good at looking after -herself."</p> - -<p>Silence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You're secretary to some old Johnny, aren't you?" asked Baxter.</p> - -<p>"I'm helping a man edit some family papers," said Henry with dignity.</p> - -<p>"Same thing, isn't it?" said Baxter. "I should hate it."</p> - -<p>"I expect you would," said Henry, with emphatic meaning behind every -word.</p> - -<p>Silence.</p> - -<p>"Know Cladgate?" asked Baxter.</p> - -<p>"No," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Beastly place. Wouldn't have been there if it weren't for your sister. -Good dancing, though. Do you dance?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"You're wise on the whole. Awful bore having to talk to girls you don't -know. One simply doesn't talk, if you know what I mean."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know," said Henry.</p> - -<p>Silence.</p> - -<p>Millie came in. Henry got up.</p> - -<p>"Think I'll be off now, Millie," he said. "Got a lot to do. Will you -creep away from your Cromwell Road to-morrow and have lunch with me?"</p> - -<p>"All right," she said, with a readiness that showed that this was in -some way a challenge to Mr. Baxter.</p> - -<p>"I'll fetch you—one-fifteen."</p> - -<p>With a stiff nod to Baxter, he was gone.</p> - -<p>"By Jove, how your brother does hate me," that young gentleman -remarked. Then with a sudden change of mood that was one of his most -charming gifts, he threw himself at her feet.</p> - -<p>"I'm a beast, Millie; I'm everything I shouldn't be, but I <i>do</i> love -you so! I do! I do! . . . The only decent thing in my worthless life, -perhaps, but it's true."</p> - -<p>And, for a wonder, it was.</p> - -<p>On that particular afternoon he was very nearly frank and honest with -her about many things. His love for her was always to remain the best -and truest thing that he had ever known; but when he looked down into -that tangle of his history and thence up into her clear, steadfast gaze -his courage flagged—he could only reiterate again and again the one -honest fact<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> that he knew—that he did indeed love her with all the -best that was in him. She knew that it was the perception of that that -had first won her, and in all the doubts of him that were now beginning -to perplex her heart, <i>that</i> doubt never assailed her. He <i>did</i> love -her and was trying his best to be honest with her. That it was a poor -best she was soon to know.</p> - -<p>But to-day, tired and filled to the brim with ten hours' querulousness -in the Cromwell Road household, she succumbed once more to a longing -for love and comfort and reassurance. Once again she had told herself -that this time she would force him to clarity and truth—once again she -failed. He was sitting at her feet: she was stroking his hair; soon -they were locked in one another's arms.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIc" id="CHAPTER_IIIc">CHAPTER III</a></h2> - -<h3>HENRY IN LOVE</h3> - - -<p>At half-past one next day Millie and Henry were sitting opposite -one another at a little table in a Knightsbridge restaurant. This -might easily have been an occasion for one of their old familiar -squabbles—there was material sufficient—but it was a mark of the -true depths of their affection that the one immediately recognised -when the other was in real and earnest trouble—so soon as that was -recognised any question of quarrelling—and they enjoyed immensely that -healthy exercise—was put away. Henry made that recognition now, and -complicated though his own affairs were and very far from immediate -happiness, he had no thought but for Millie.</p> - -<p>She, as was her way, at once challenged him:</p> - -<p>"Of course you didn't like him," she said.</p> - -<p>"No, I didn't," he answered. "But you didn't expect me to, did you?"</p> - -<p>"I wanted you to. . . . No, I don't know. You will like him when you -know him better. You're always funny when any one from outside dares to -try and break into the family. Remember how you behaved over Philip."</p> - -<p>"Ah, Philip! I was younger then. Besides there isn't any family to -break into now. . . ." He leant forward and touched her hand. "There -isn't anything I want except for you to be happy, really there isn't. -Of course for myself I'd rather you stayed as you are for a long time -to come—it's better company for me, but that's against nature. I made -up my mind to be brave when the moment came, but I'd imagined some -one——"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know," broke in Millie, "that's what one's friends always -insist on, that they should do the choosing. But it's me that's got to -do the living." She laughed. "What a terrible sentence, but you know -what I mean. . . . How do you know I'm not happy?" she suddenly ended.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, of course any one can see. Your letters haven't been happy, your -looks aren't happy, you weren't happy with him yesterday——"</p> - -<p>"I was—the last part," she said, thinking. "Of course we'd quarrelled -just before we came in. We're always quarrelling, I'm sure I don't know -why. I'm not a person to quarrel much, now am I?"</p> - -<p>"We've quarrelled a good bit in our time," said Henry reflectively.</p> - -<p>"Yes, but that was different. This is so serious. Every time Bunny and -I quarrel I feel as though everything were over for ever and ever. Oh! -there's no doubt of it, being engaged's a very difficult thing."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, there it is," said Henry. "You love him and he loves -you. There's nothing more to be said. But there <i>are</i> some questions -I'd like to ask. What are his people? What's his profession? When are -you going to be married? What are you going to live on when you are -married?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, that's all right," she answered hurriedly. "I'm to meet his mother -in a day or two, and very soon he's going into a motor-works out at -Hackney somewhere. There aren't many relations, I'm glad to say, on -either side."</p> - -<p>"Thanks," said Henry. "But haven't you seen his mother yet?"</p> - -<p>"No, she's been in Scotland."</p> - -<p>"Where does he come from?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, they've got a place down in Devonshire somewhere."</p> - -<p>She looked at him. He looked at her. Her look was loving and tender, -and said: "I know everything's wrong in this. You know that I know -this, but it's my fight and I'm going to make it come right." His look -was as loving as hers, and said: "I know that you know that I know that -this is going all wrong and I'm doing my best to keep my eye on it, but -I'm not going to force you to give him away. Only when the smash comes -I'll be with you."</p> - -<p>All that he actually said was: "Have another éclair?"</p> - -<p>She answered, "No thanks. . . ." Looking at him across the table, -she ended, as though this were her final comment on a long unspoken -conversation between them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, Henry, I know—but there are two ways of falling in love, one -worshipping so that you're on your knees, the other protecting so that -your arm goes round—I <i>know</i> he's not perfect—I know it better every -day—but he wants some one like me. He says he does, and I know it's -true. You'd have liked me," she said almost fiercely, turning upon him, -"to have married some one like Peter."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I would. I'd have loved you to marry Peter—if he hadn't been -married already."</p> - -<p>They went out into the street, which was shining with long lines of -colour after a sudden scatter of rain.</p> - -<p>She kissed him, ran and caught an omnibus, waved to him from the steps, -and was gone.</p> - -<p>He went off to Peter Street.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He was once more in the pink-lit, heavily-curtained room with its smell -of patchouli and stale bread-crumbs, and once again he was at the -opposite end of the table from Mrs. Tenssen trying to engage her in -pleasant conversation.</p> - -<p>He realized at once to-day that their relationship had taken a further -step towards hostility. She was showing him a new manifestation. -When he came in she was seated dressed to go out, hurriedly eating -a strange-looking meal that was here paper-bags and there sardines. -She was eating this hurriedly and with a certain greed, plumping her -thumb on to crumbs that had escaped to the table and then licking -her fingers. Her appearance also to-day was strange: she was dressed -entirely in heavy and rather shabby black, and her face was so thickly -powdered and her lips so violently rouged that she seemed to be wearing -a mask. Out of this mask her eyes flashed vindictively, greedily and -violently, as though she wished with all her heart to curse God and -the universe but had no time because she was hungry and food would -not wait. Another thing to-day Henry noticed: on other occasions when -he had come in she had taken the trouble to force an exaggerated -gentility, a refinement and elegance that was none the less false for -wearing a show of geniality. To-day there was no effort at manners: -instead she gave one glance at Henry and then lifted up her saucer and -drank from it with long thirsty gurgles. He always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> felt when he saw -her the same uncanny fear of her, as though she had some power over -him by which with a few muttered words and a baleful glance she could -turn him into a rat or a toad and then squash him under her large flat -foot. <i>She</i> was of the world of magic, of unreality if you like to -believe only in what you see with your eyes. She was real enough to eat -sardines, though, and crunch their little bones with her teeth and then -wipe her oily fingers on one of the paper-bags, after which she drank -the rest of her tea, and then, sitting back in her chair, surveyed -Henry, sucking at her teeth as she did so.</p> - -<p>"Well, what have you come for to-day?" she asked him.</p> - -<p>"Oh, just to pay you a visit."</p> - -<p>"Me! I like that. As though I didn't know what you're after. . . . -She's in there. She'll be out in a minute. I'm off on some business of -my own for an hour or two so you can conoodle as much as you damned -well please."</p> - -<p>Henry said nothing to that.</p> - -<p>"Why didn't you make an offer for her?" Mrs. Tenssen suddenly asked.</p> - -<p>"An offer?" Henry repeated.</p> - -<p>"Yes. I'm sick of her. Been sick of her these many years. All I want -is to get a little bit as a sort of wedding present, in return, you -know, for all I've done for her, bringing her up as I have and feeding -her and clothing her. . . . You're in love with her. You've got rich -people. Make an offer."</p> - -<p>"You're a bad woman," Henry said, springing to his feet, "to sell your -own daughter as though she were. . . ."</p> - -<p>"Selling, be blowed," replied Mrs. Tenssen calmly, pursuing a -recalcitrant crumb with her finger. "She's my daughter. I had the pain -of bearing her, the trouble of suckling her, the expense of clothing -her <i>and</i> keeping her respectable. She'd have been on the streets long -ago if it hadn't been for me. I don't say I've always been all I should -have been. I'm a sinful woman, and I'm glad of it—but you'll agree -yourself she's a pure girl if ever there was one. <i>Dull</i> I call it. -However, for those who like it there it is."</p> - -<p>Henry said nothing.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen looked at him scornfully.</p> - -<p>"You're in love with her, aren't you?" she asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'd rather not talk to you about what I feel," Henry answered.</p> - -<p>"Of course you're in love with her," Mrs. Tenssen continued. "I don't -suppose she cares a rap for you. She doesn't seem to take after men -at all, and you're not, if you'll forgive my saying so, altogether -a beauty. You're young yet. But she'd do anything to get away from -me. Don't I know it and haven't I had to make my plans carefully to -prevent it? So long as her blasted uncles keep out of this country for -the next six months, with me she's got to stay, and she knows it. But -time's getting short, and I've got to make my mind up. There are one or -two other offers I'm considering, but I don't in the least object to -hearing any suggestion you'd like to make."</p> - -<p>"One suggestion I'd like to make," said Henry hotly, "is that I can get -the police on your track for keeping a disorderly house. They'll take -her away soon enough when they know what you've got in Victoria Street."</p> - -<p>"Now then," said Mrs. Tenssen calmly, "that comes very near to libel. -You be careful of libel, young man. It's got many a prettier fellow -than you into trouble before now. Nobody's ever been able to prove a -thing against me yet and it's not likely a chicken like you is going to -begin now. Besides, supposing you could, a pretty thing it would be for -Christina to be 'dragged into such an affair in the Courts.' No thank -you. I can look after my girl better than that."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen got up, went to a mirror to put her hat straight, and then -turned round upon him. She stood, her arms akimbo, looking down upon -him.</p> - -<p>"I don't understand you virtuous people," she said, "upon my word I -don't. You make such a lot of fine talk about your nobility and your -high conduct and then you go and do things that no old drab in the -street would lower herself to. Here are you, been sniffing round my -daughter for months and haven't got the pluck to lift a finger to take -her out of what you think her misery and make her happy. Oh, I loathe -you good people, damn the lot of you. You can go to hell for all I -care, so you bloody well can. . . . You'd better make the most of your -Christina while you've got the chance. You won't be coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> here many -more times." With that she was gone, banging the door behind her.</p> - -<p>Christina came in, smiled at him without speaking, carried the dirty -remnants of her mother's meal into the inner room, returned and sat -down, a book in her hand, close to him.</p> - -<p>He saw at once that she was happy to-night. The fright was not in her -eyes. When she spoke there was only a slight hint of the Danish accent -which, on days when she was disturbed, was very strong.</p> - -<p>She looked so lovely to him sitting there in perfect tranquillity, -the thin green book between her hands, that he got exultant draughts -of pleasure simply from gazing at her. They both seemed to enjoy -the silence; the room changed its atmosphere as if in submission, -perhaps, to their youth and simplicity. The bells from the church -near Shaftesbury Avenue were ringing, and the gaudy clock on the -mantelpiece, usually so inquisitive in its malicious chatter, now -tick-tocked along in amiable approval of them both.</p> - -<p>"I'm very glad you've come—at last," she said. "It's a fortnight since -the other time."</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered, flushing with pleasure that she should remember. -"I've been in the country working. What are you reading?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh!" she cried, laughing. "Do hear me read and see whether I pronounce -the words right and tell me what some of them mean. It's poetry. I -was out with mother and I saw this book open in the window with his -picture, and I liked his face so much that I went in and bought it. -It's lovely, even though I don't understand a lot of it. Now tell me -the truth. If I read it very badly, tell me:</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"It was a nymph, uprisen to the breast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To him her dripping hand she softly kist,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And anxiously began to plait and twist<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: Youth!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bitterness of love: too long indeed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> -<span class="i0">Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the bright riches of my crystal coffer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My charming rod, my potent river spells;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Meander gave me,—for I bubbled up<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fainting creatures in a desert wild.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But woe is me, I am but as a child<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is, that I pity thee; that on this day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In other regions, past the scanty bar<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From every wasting sigh, from every pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Into the gentle bosom of thy love.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have a ditty for my hollow cell.'"<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>"That's <i>Endymion</i>," Henry said. "Keats."</p> - -<p>"Keats!" she repeated, "what a funny name for a poet. When I read it in -the book I remembered very distantly when we were learning English at -school there was such a name. What kind of man was he?"</p> - -<p>"He had a very sad life," said Henry. "He had consumption and the -critics abused his poetry, and he loved a young lady who treated him -very badly. He was very young when he died in Italy."</p> - -<p>"What was the name of the girl he loved?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Brawne," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Ugh! what a horrible name! Keats and Brawne. Isn't England a funny -country? We have beautiful names at home like Norregaard and Friessen -and Christinsen and Engel and Röde. You can't say Röde."</p> - -<p>Henry tried to say it.</p> - -<p>"No. Not like that at all. It's right deep in your throat, listen! -Röde—Röde, Röde." She stared in front of her. "And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> on a summer -morning the water comes up Holman's Canal and the green tiles shine in -the water and the ships clink-clank against the side of the pier. The -ships are riding almost into Kongens Nytorv and all along the Square -in the early morning sun they are going." She pulled herself up with a -little jump.</p> - -<p>"All the same, although he was called Keats there are lovely words in -what I was reading." She turned to the book again, repeating to herself:</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"All my clear-eyed fish, golden or rainbow-sided,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My grotto-sands tawny and gold."<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>"'Tawny.' What's that?"</p> - -<p>"Rich red-brown," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Do I say most of the words right?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, nearly all."</p> - -<p>She pushed the book away and looked at him.</p> - -<p>"Now tell me," he said, "why you're happy to-day?"</p> - -<p>She looked around as though some one might be listening, then leant -towards him and lowered her voice.</p> - -<p>"I've had a letter from my uncle, Uncle Axel. It's written from -Constantinople. Luckily I got the letters before mother one morning and -found this. He's coming to London as soon as ever he can to see after -me. Mother would be terribly angry if she knew. She hates Uncle Axel -worst of them all. When he's there I'm safe!"</p> - -<p>Henry's face fell.</p> - -<p>"I feel such a fool," he said. "Even your mother said the same thing. -Here I've been hanging round for months and done nothing for you at -all. Any other man would have got you away to Copenhagen or wherever -you wanted to go. But I—I always fail. I'm always hopeless—even now -when I want to succeed more than ever before in my life."</p> - -<p>His voice shook. He turned away from her.</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "You've not failed. I couldn't have escaped like that. -Mother would only have followed me. Both my uncles are abroad. There's -no one in Copenhagen to protect me. I would rather—what do you call -it? hang on like this until everything got so bad that I <i>had</i> to run. -You've been a wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>ful friend to me these months. You don't know -what a help you've been to me. I've been the ungrateful one." She -looked at him and drew his eyes to hers. "Do you know I've thought a -lot about you these last weeks, wondering what I could do in return. -It seems unfair. I'd like to love you in the way you want me to. But I -can't. . . . I've never loved anybody, not in <i>that</i> way. I loved my -father and I love my uncles, but most of all I love places, the places -I've always known, Odense and the fields and the long line against the -sky just before the sunsets, and Kjöbenhavn when the bells are ringing -and you go up Ostngarde and it's so full of people you can't move: in -the spring when you walk out to Langlinir and smell the sea and see -the ships come in and hear them knocking with hammers on the boats, -and it's all so fresh and clean . . . and at twelve o'clock when they -change the guard and the soldiers come marching down behind the band -into Kongens Nytorv and all the boys shout . . . I don't know," she -sighed, staring again in front of her. "It's so simple there and every -one's kind-hearted. Here——" She suddenly burst into tears, hiding her -face in her arms.</p> - -<p>He came across to her, knelt down beside her, put his hands against her -neck.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry. Oh, don't cry, Christina. You'll go home soon. You will -indeed. It won't be long to wait. No, don't bother. It's only my -pince-nez. I don't mind if they do break. Your uncle will come and -you'll go home. Don't cry. Please, please don't cry."</p> - -<p>He laid his cheek against her hot one, then his heart hammering in his -breast he kissed her. She did not move away from him; her cheek was -still pressed against his, but, as he kissed her, he knew that it was -true enough that whosoever one day she loved it would not be him.</p> - -<p>He stayed there his hand against her arm. She wiped her eyes.</p> - -<p>"I'm frightened," she said. "If Uncle Axel doesn't come in time . . . . -mother . . . Mr. Leishman."</p> - -<p>"I'm here," Henry cried valiantly, feeling for his pince-nez, which to -his delight were not broken "I'll follow you any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>where. No harm shall -happen to you so long as I'm alive."</p> - -<p>She might have laughed at such a knight with his hair now dishevelled, -his eye-glasses crooked, his trouser-knees dusty. She did not. She -certainly came nearer at that moment to loving him than she had ever -done before.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVc" id="CHAPTER_IVc">CHAPTER IV</a></h2> - -<h3>DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD</h3> - - -<p>I have said before that one of the chief complaints that Henry had -against life was the abrupt fashion in which it jerked him from one set -of experiences and emotions into another. When Christina laid her head -on her arms and cried and he kissed her Time stood still and History -was no more.</p> - -<p>He had been here for one purpose and one alone, namely to guard, -protect and cherish Christina so long as she might need him.</p> - -<p>Half an hour later he was in his room in Panton Street.</p> - -<p>A telephone message said that his mother was very ill and that he was -to go at once to the Westminster house.</p> - -<p>He knew what that meant. The moment had, at last, come. His mother -was dying, was perhaps even then dead. As he stood by his shabby -little table staring at the piece of paper that offered the message, -flocks of memories—discordant, humorous, vulgar, pathetic—came to -him, crowding about him, insisting on his notice, hiding from him the -immediate need of his action. No world seemed to exist for him as he -stood there staring but that thick scented one of Garth and Rafiel -and the Westminster house and the Aunts—and through it all, forcing -it together, the strong figure of his mother fashioning it all into a -shape upon which she had already determined, crushing it until suddenly -it broke in her hands.</p> - -<p>Then he remembered where he should be. He put on his overcoat again and -hurried down the dark stairs into the street. The first of the autumn -fogs was making a shy, half-confident appearance, peeping into Panton -Street, rolling a little towards the Comedy Theatre, then frightened at -the lights tumbling back and running down the hill towards Westminster. -In Whitehall it plucked up courage to stay a little while, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> -bunched itself around the bookshop on one side and the Horse Guards -on the other and became quite black in the face peeping into Scotland -Yard. Near the Houses of Parliament it was shy again, and crept away -after writhing itself for five minutes around St. Margaret's, up into -Victoria Street, where it suddenly kicked its heels in the air, snapped -its fingers at the Army and Navy Stores, and made itself as thick and -confusing as possible round Victoria Station, so that passengers went -to wrong destinations and trains snorted their irritation and annoyance.</p> - -<p>To Henry the fog had a curious significance, sweeping him back to -that evening of Grandfather's birthday, when, because of the fog, a -stranger had lost himself and burst in upon their family sanctity for -succour—the most important moment of young Henry's life perhaps! and -here was the moment that was to close that earlier epoch, close it and -lock it up and put it away and the Fog had come once again to assist at -the Ceremony.</p> - -<p>In Rundle Square the Fog was a shadow, a thin ghostly curtain twisting -and turning as though it had a life and purpose all of its own. It hid -and revealed, revealed and hid a cherry-coloured moon that was just -then bumping about on a number of fantastically leering chimney-pots. -The old house was the same, with its square set face, its air of ironic -respectability, sniggering at its true British hypocrisy, alive though -the Family Spirit that it had once enshrined was all but dead, was -to-night to squeak its final protest. The things in the house were the -same, just the same and in the same places—only there was electric -light now where there had been gas and there was a new servant-maid to -take off his coat, a white-faced little creature with a sniffling cold.</p> - -<p>She knew him apparently. "Please, Mr. Henry, they're all upstairs," -she said. But he went straight into his father's study. There was no -human being there, but how crammed with life it was, and a life so far -from Christina and her affairs! It was surely only yesterday that he -had stood there and his father had told him of the engagement between -Katherine and Philip, and afterwards he had gone out into the passage -and seen them kissing. . . . That too was an event in his life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> - -<p>The books looked at him and remained aloof knowing so much that he did -not know, tired and sated with their knowledge of life.</p> - -<p>He went upstairs. On the first landing he met Millie. They talked in -whispers.</p> - -<p>"Shall I go up?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, you'd better for a moment."</p> - -<p>"How is she?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, she doesn't know any of us. She can't live through the night."</p> - -<p>"Who's there?"</p> - -<p>"Father and Katherine and the Aunts."</p> - -<p>"And she didn't know you?"</p> - -<p>"None of us. . . ."</p> - -<p>He went suddenly stepping on tip-toe as though he were afraid of waking -somebody.</p> - -<p>The long dim bedroom was green-shaded and very soft to the tread. -Beside the bed Katherine was sitting; nearer the window in an armchair -Henry's father; on the far side of the bed, against the wall like -images, staring in front of them, the Aunts; the doctor was talking -in a low whisper to the nurse, who was occupied with something at the -wash-hand stand—all these figures were flat, of one dimension against -the green light. When Henry entered there was a little stir; he could -not see his mother because Katherine was in the way, but he <i>felt</i> that -the bed was terrible, something that he would rather not see, something -that he ought not to see.</p> - -<p>The thought in his brain was: "Why are there so many people here? They -don't want <i>all</i> of us. . . ."</p> - -<p>Apparently the doctor felt the same thing because he moved about -whispering. He came at last to Henry. He was a little man, short and -fat. He stood on his toes and whispered in Henry's ear, "Better go -downstairs for a bit. No use being here. I'll call you if necessary."</p> - -<p>The Aunts detached themselves from the wall and came to the door. -Then Henry noticed that something was going on between his sister -Katherine and the little doctor. She was shaking her head violently. -He was trying to persuade her. No, she would not be persuaded. Henry -suddenly seemed to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> the old Katherine whom through many years now -he had lost—the old Katherine with her determination, her courage, her -knowledge of what she meant to do. She stayed, of course. The others -filed out of the door—Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, his father, himself.</p> - -<p>They were down in the dining-room, sitting round the dining-room table. -Millie had joined them.</p> - -<p>Aunt Aggie looked just the same, Henry thought—as thin and as bitter -and as pleased with herself—still the little mole on her cheek, the -tight lips, the suspicious eyes.</p> - -<p>They talked in low voices.</p> - -<p>"Well, Henry."</p> - -<p>"Well, Aunt Aggie."</p> - -<p>"And what are you doing for yourself?"</p> - -<p>"Secretarial work."</p> - -<p>"Dear, dear, I wouldn't have thought you had the application."</p> - -<p>His father was fatter, yes, a lot fatter. He had been a jolly-looking -man once. Running to seed. . . . He'd die too, one day. They'd all -die . . . all . . . himself. Die? <i>What</i> was it? <i>Where</i> was it?</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, we like Long-Masterman very much, thank you, Millie dear. -It suits Aggie's health excellently. You really should come down one -day—only I suppose you're so busy."</p> - -<p>"Yes indeed." Aunt Aggie's old familiar snort. "Millie always <i>was</i> too -busy for her poor old Aunts."</p> - -<p>How disagreeable Aunt Aggie was and how little people changed although -you might pretend. . . . But he felt that he was changing all the -time. Suppose he wasn't changing at all? Oh, but that was absurd! -How different the man who sat out in the garden at Duncombe from the -boy who, at that very table, had sat after dinner on Grandfather's -table looking for sugared cherries? Really different? . . . But, of -course. . . . Yes, but really?</p> - -<p>Aunt Aggie stood up. "I really don't know what we're all sitting round -this table for. They'll send for us if anything happens. I'm sure poor -Harriet wouldn't want us to be uncomfortable."</p> - -<p>Henry and Millie were left there alone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How quiet the house is!" Millie gave a little shiver. "Poor mother! I -wish I felt it more. I suppose I shall afterwards."</p> - -<p>"It's what people always call a 'happy release,'" said Henry. "It -really has been awful for her these last years. When I went up to see -her a few weeks ago her eyes were terrible."</p> - -<p>"Poor mother," Millie repeated again. They were silent for a little, -then Millie said: "You know, I've been thinking all the evening what -Peter once said to us about our being enchanted—because we are young. -There's something awfully true about it. When things are at their very -worst—when I'm having the most awful row with Bunny or Victoria's more -tiresome than you can imagine—although I say to myself, 'I'm perfectly -miserable,' I'm not really because there's something behind it all -that I'm enjoying hugely. I wouldn't miss a moment of it. I want every -scrap. It is <i>like</i> an enchantment really. I suppose I'll wake up soon."</p> - -<p>Henry nodded.</p> - -<p>"I feel it too. And I feel as though it must all have its climax in -some wonderful adventure that's coming to me. An adventure that I -shall remember all the rest of my life. It seems silly, after the War, -talking of adventures, but the War was too awful for one to dare to -talk about oneself in connection with it, although it was immensely -personal all the time. But we're out of the War now and back in life -again, and if I can keep that sense of magic I have now, nothing can -hurt me. The whole of life will be an adventure."</p> - -<p>"We <i>must</i> keep it," said Millie. "We must remember we had it. And when -we get ever so old and dusty and rheumatic we can say: 'Anyway we knew -what life was once.'"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know," said Henry. "And be one of those people who say to their -children and other people's children if they haven't any of their own: -'Ah, my dear, there's nothing like being young. My school-days were the -happiest.' Rot! as though most people's school-time wasn't damnable."</p> - -<p>"Oh it's nothing to do with age," said Millie scornfully. "The -enchanted people are any age, but they're always young. The only point -about them is that they're the only people who really know what life -is. All the others are wrong."</p> - -<p>"We're talking terribly like the virtuous people in books,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> said -Henry. "You know, books like Seymour's, all about Courage and Tolerance -and all the other things with capital letters. Why is it that when a -Russian or Scandinavian talks about life it sounds perfectly natural -and that when an Englishman does it's false and priggish?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know," said Millie in an absent-minded voice. "Isn't -the house quiet? And isn't it cold? . . . Poor mother! It's so horrid -being not able to do anything. Katherine's feeling it terribly. She's -longing for her to say just one word."</p> - -<p>"She won't," said Henry. "She'll hold out to the very last."</p> - -<p>At that moment Aunt Betty appeared in the doorway, beckoning to them.</p> - -<p>A moment later they were all there gathered round the bed.</p> - -<p>Now Henry could see his mother. She was lying, her eyes closed, but -with that same determined expression in the face that he had so often -seen before. She might be dead or she might be asleep. He didn't feel -any drama in connection with his vision of her. Too many years had now -intervened since his time with her. He did indeed recall with love and -affection some woman who had been very good to him, who had taken him -to Our Boys' Clothing Company to be fitted on, who had written to him -and sent him cake when he was at school, and of whom he had thought -with passionate and tearful appeal when he had been savagely bullied. -But that woman had died long ago. This stern, remorseless figure, who -had cursed her children because they would not conform to the patterns -that she had made for them, had confronted all his love of justice, of -tolerance, of freedom. There had been many moments when he had hated -her, and now when he was seeing her for the last time he could not -summon false emotion and cry out at a pain that he did not feel. And -yet he knew well that when she was gone remorse would come sweeping in -and that he would be often longing for her to return that he might tell -her that he loved her and wished to atone to her for all that he had -done that was callous and selfish and unkind.</p> - -<p>Worst of all was the unreality of the scene, the dim light, the -faint scent of medicine, the closed-in seclusion as though they were -all barred from the outside world which they were never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> to enter -again. He looked at the faces—at Aunt Betty upset, distressed, -moved deeply because in her tender heart she could not bear to see -any one or any thing unhappy; Aunt Aggie, severe, fancying herself -benign and dignified, thinking only of herself; the doctor and the -nurse professionally preoccupied, wondering perhaps how long this -tiresome old woman would be "pegging out"; his father struggling to -recover something of the old romance that had once bound him, tired -out with the effort, longing for it all to be over; Millie, perfectly -natural, ready to do anything that would help anybody, but admitting no -falseness nor hypocrisy; Katherine——!</p> - -<p>It was Katherine who restored Henry to reality. Katherine was suffering -terribly. She was gazing at her mother, an agonized appeal in her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Come back! Come back! Come and say that you forgive me for all I have -done, that you love me still——"</p> - -<p>She seemed to have shed all her married life, her home with Philip, -her bearing of children to him, her love for him, her love for them -all. She was the daughter again, in an agony of repentance and -self-abasement. Was the victory after all to Mrs. Trenchard?</p> - -<p>Katherine broke into a great cry:</p> - -<p>"Mother! Mother; speak to me! Forgive me!"</p> - -<p>She fell on her knees.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trenchard's eyes opened. There was a slight movement of the mouth: -it seemed, in that half light, ironical, a gesture of contempt. Her -head rolled to one side and the long, long conflict was at an end.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Vc" id="CHAPTER_Vc">CHAPTER V</a></h2> - -<h3>NOTHING IS PERFECT</h3> - - -<p>At that moment of Mrs. Trenchard's death began the worst battle of -Millie's life (so far). She dated it from that or perhaps from the -evening of her mother's funeral four days later.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trenchard had expressed a wish to be buried in Garth and so -down to Glebeshire they all went. The funeral took place on a day -of the dreariest drizzling rain—Glebeshire at its earliest autumn -worst. Afterwards they—Katherine, Millie, Henry, Philip and Mr. -Trenchard—sat over a spluttering fire in the old chilly house and -heard the rain, which developed at night into a heavy down-pour, beat -upon the window-panes.</p> - -<p>The Aunts had not come down, for which every one was thankful. Philip, -looking as he did every day more and more a cross between a successful -Prize-fighter and an eminent Cabinet Minister, was not thinking, as in -Henry's opinion he should have been, of the havoc that he had wrought -upon the Trenchard family, but of Public Affairs. Katherine was silent -and soon went up to her room. Henry thought of Christina, his father -retired into a corner, drank whisky and went to sleep. Millie struggled -with a huge pillow of depression that came lolloping towards her and -was only kept away by the grimmest determination.</p> - -<p>Nobody except Katherine thought directly of Mrs. Trenchard, but she -was there with them all in the room and would be with one or two of -them—Mr. Trenchard, senior, and Katherine for instance—until the very -day of their death.</p> - -<p>Yes, perhaps after all Mrs. Trenchard <i>had</i> won the battle.</p> - -<p>Millie went back to London with a cold and the Cromwell Road seemed -almost unbearable. A great deal of what was unbearable came of course -from Victoria. Had she not witnessed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> it with her own eyes Millie -could not have believed that a month at Cladgate could alter so -completely a human being as it had altered Victoria. There she had -tasted Blood and she intended to go on tasting Blood to the end of the -Chapter. It is true that Cladgate could not take all the blame for the -transformation—Mr. Bennett and Major Mereward must also bear some -responsibility. When these gentlemen had first come forward Millie had -been touched by the effect upon Victoria of ardent male attention. Now -she found that same male attention day by day more irritating. Major -Mereward she could endure, silent and clumsy though he was. It was -certainly tiresome to find yourself sitting next to him day after day -at luncheon when the most that he could ever contribute was "Rippin' -weather, what?" or "Dirty sort of day to-day"—but he did adore -Victoria and would have adored her just as much had she not possessed -a penny in the world. He thought her simply the wittiest creature in -Europe and laughed at everything she said and often long before she -said it. Yes, he was a <i>good</i> man even though he was a dull one.</p> - -<p>But if Major Mereward was good Robin Bennett was most certainly bad. -Millie very soon hated him with a hatred that made her shiver. She -hated him, of course, for himself, but was it only that? Deep down -in her soul there lurked a dreadful suspicion. Could it be that some -of her hatred arose because in him she detected some vices and low -qualities grown to full bloom that in twig, stem and leaf were already -sprouting in a younger soil? <i>Was</i> there in Robin Bennett a prophecy? -No, no. Never, never, never. . . . And yet. . . . Oh, how she hated -him! His smart clothes, his neat hair, his white hands, his soft voice! -And Bunny liked him. "Not half a bad fellow that man Bennett. Knows a -motor-car when he sees one."</p> - -<p>Millie had it not in her nature to pretend, and she did not disguise -for a moment on whose side she was.</p> - -<p>"You don't like me?" Bennett said to her one day.</p> - -<p>"No, indeed I don't," said Millie, looking him in the eyes.</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"Why? Because for one thing I'm very fond of Victoria. You're after her -money. She'll be perfectly miserable if she marries you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> - -<p>He laughed. Nothing in life could disconcert him!</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course I'm a Pirate." (Hadn't some one else somewhere said -that once?) "This is the day for Pirates. There never <i>was</i> such a -time for them. All sorts of people going about with money that they -don't know what to do with. All sorts of other people without any money -ready to do anything to get it. No morality any more. Damned good thing -for England. Hypocrisy was the only thing that was the matter with -her—now she's a hypocrite no longer! You see I'm frank with you, Miss -Trenchard. You say you don't like me. Well, I'll return the compliment. -I don't like you either. Of course you're damned pretty, about the -prettiest girl in London I should say. But you're damned conceited too. -You'll forgive me, won't you? <i>You</i> don't spare <i>me</i> you know. I tell -young Baxter he's a fool to marry you. He'll be miserable with you."</p> - -<p>"You tell him that?" Millie said furiously.</p> - -<p>"Yes, why not? You tell Victoria she'd be miserable with <i>me</i>, don't -you? Well, then. . . . You're very young, you know. When you're a bit -older you'll see that there's not so much difference between people -like me and people like yourself as you think. We all line up very much -the same in the end. I mayn't have quite your faults and you mayn't -have quite mine, but when it comes to the Judgment Day I don't expect -there'll be much to choose between Piracy and Arrogance."</p> - -<p>So far Mr. Bennett and a Victory cannot exactly be claimed for Millie -in this encounter. She was furious. She was miserable. <i>Was</i> she so -conceited? She'd ask Henry. She did ask the little doctor, who told -her—"No. Only a little self-confident." He was her only friend and -support in these days.</p> - -<p>"Be patient with Victoria," he said. "It's only a phase. She'll work -through this."</p> - -<p>"She won't if she marries Mr. Bennett," Millie said.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the old artists' colony was broomed right away. Eve was -carried down to the cellar, the voice of Mr. Block was no longer heard -in the land and the poor little Russian went and begged for meals -in other districts. Victoria danced, went to the theatre and gave -supper-parties.</p> - -<p>She was quite frank with Millie.</p> - -<p>"I don't mind telling you, Millie, that all that art wasn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> quite -genuine—not altogether. I <i>do</i> like pretty things, of course—you know -me well enough to know that. And I do want to help poor young artists. -But they're so ungrateful. Now aren't they, Millie? You can see it for -yourself. Look at Mr. Block. I really did everything I could for him. -But is he pleased? Not a bit. He's as discontented as he can be."</p> - -<p>"It's very difficult doing kindnesses to people," said Millie -sententiously. "Sometimes you want to stop before they think you ought -to."</p> - -<p>"Now you're looking at me reproachfully. That isn't fine. Why shouldn't -I enjoy myself and be gay a little? And I love dancing; I daresay I -look absurd, but so do thousands of other people, so what does it -matter? My Millie, I <i>must</i> be happy. I must. Do you know that this is -positively the first time I've been happy in all my life and I daresay -it's my last. . . . I know you often think me a fool. Oh, <i>I</i> see you -looking at me. But I'm not such a fool as you think. I know about my -age and my figure and all the rest of it. I know that if I hadn't a -penny no one would look at me. You think that I don't know any of these -things, but indeed I do. . . . It's my last fling and you can't deprive -me of it!"</p> - -<p>"Oh I don't want to deprive you of it," cried Millie, suddenly flinging -her arms round the fat, red-faced woman, "only I don't want you to go -and do anything foolish—like marrying Mr. Bennett for instance."</p> - -<p>"Now, why shouldn't I marry Mr. Bennett? Suppose I'm in love with -him—madly. Isn't it something in these days when there are so many -old maids to have a month of love even if he beats one all the rest -of one's days? And anyway I've got the purse—I could keep him in -check. . . . No, that's a nasty way of talking. And I'm certainly not -in love with Bennett, nor with Mereward neither. I don't suppose I'll -ever be in love with any one again."</p> - -<p>"You're lucky!" Millie broke out. "Oh, you are indeed! It isn't happy -to be in love. It's miserable."</p> - -<p>Indeed she was unhappy. She could not have believed that she would -ever allow herself to be swung into such a swirl of emotions as were -hers now. At one moment she hated him, feeling herself bound ignobly, -surrendering weakly all that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> best in herself; at such a moment she -determined that she would be entirely frank with him, insisting on his -own frankness, challenging him to tell her everything that he was, as -she now knew, keeping back from her . . . then she loved him so that -she wanted only his company, only to be with him, to hear him laugh, to -see him happy, and she would accept any tie (knowing in her heart that -it was a lie) if it would keep him with her and cause him to love her. -That he did love her through all his weakness she was truly aware: it -was that awareness that chained her to him.</p> - -<p>Very strange the part that Ellen played in all this. That odd woman -made no further demonstrations of affection; she was always now -ironically sarcastic, hurting Millie when she could, and she knew, as -no one else in the place did, the way to hurt her. Because of her Bunny -came now much less to the house.</p> - -<p>"I can't stand that sneering woman," he said, "and she loathes <i>me</i>."</p> - -<p>Millie tried to challenge her.</p> - -<p>"Why do you hate Bunny?" she asked. "He's never done you any harm."</p> - -<p>"Hasn't he?" Ellen answered smiling.</p> - -<p>"No, what harm has he done you?"</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you one day."</p> - -<p>"I hate these mysteries," Millie cried. "Once you asked to be my -friend. Now——"</p> - -<p>"Now?" repeated Ellen.</p> - -<p>"You seem to want to hurt me any way you can."</p> - -<p>Ellen had a habit of standing stiff against the wall, her heels -together, her head back as though she were being measured for her -height.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I don't like to see you so happy when I'm unhappy myself."</p> - -<p>Millie came to her.</p> - -<p>"Why are you unhappy, Ellen? I hate you to be. I do like you. I do want -to be your friend if you'll let me. I offended you somehow in the early -days. You've never forgiven me for it. But I don't even now know what I -did."</p> - -<p>Ellen walked away. Suddenly she turned.</p> - -<p>"What," she said, "can people like you know about people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> like us, how -we suffer, how we hate ourselves, how we are thirstier and thirstier -and for ever unsatisfied. . . . No, I don't mean you any harm. I'll -save you from Baxter, though. You're too pretty. . . . You can escape -even though I can't."</p> - -<p>There was melodrama in this it seemed to Millie. It was quite a relief -to have a fierce quarrel with Bunny five minutes later. The quarrel -came, of course, from nothing—about some play which was, Bunny said, -at Daly's, and Millie at the Lyric.</p> - -<p>They were walking furiously down Knightsbridge. An omnibus passed. The -play was at the Lyric.</p> - -<p>"Of course I was right," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're always right, aren't you?"</p> - -<p>Millie turned.</p> - -<p>"I'm not coming on with you if you're like that."</p> - -<p>"Very well then." He suddenly stepped back to her with his charming air -of penitence.</p> - -<p>"Millie, I'm sorry. Don't let's fight to-day."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, take me to see your mother."</p> - -<p>The words seemed not to be hers. At their sudden utterance -Knightsbridge, the trees of the Park were carved in coloured stone.</p> - -<p>His mouth set. "No, I can't."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"She's not—she's not in London."</p> - -<p>She knew that he was lying.</p> - -<p>"Then take me to where she is."</p> - -<p>They were walking on again, neither seeing the other.</p> - -<p>"You know that I can't. She's down in the country."</p> - -<p>"Then we'll go there."</p> - -<p>"We can't."</p> - -<p>"Yes, we can. Now. At once. If you ever want to speak to me -again. . . ."</p> - -<p>"I tell you—I've told you a thousand times—we must wait. There are -reasons——"</p> - -<p>"What reasons?"</p> - -<p>"If you're patient——"</p> - -<p>"I'm tired of being patient. Take me now or I'll never speak to you -again."</p> - -<p>"Well then, don't."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> - -<p>They parted. After an evening of utter misery she wrote to him:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Darling Bunny</span>—I know that I was hateful this -afternoon. I know that I've been hateful other afternoons and -<i>shall</i> be hateful again on afternoons to come. You're not very -nice either on these occasions. What are we to do about it? We -do love one another—I know we do. We ought to be kinder to one -another than we are to any one else and yet we seem to like to -lash out and hurt one another. And I think this is because there's -something really wrong in our relationship. You make me feel as -though you were ashamed to love me. Now why should you be ashamed? -Why can't we be open and clear before all the world?</p> - -<p>If you have some secret that you are keeping from me, tell me and -we'll discuss it frankly like friends. Take me to see your mother. -If she doesn't like me at first perhaps she will when she knows -me better. Anyway we shall be sure of where we are. Oh, Bunny, -we could be <i>so</i> happy. Why don't you let us be? I know that it -is partly my fault. I suppose I'm conceited and think I'm always -right. But I don't really inside—only if you don't pretend to -have an opinion of your own no one will ever listen to anything -you say. Oh! I don't know what I'm writing. I am tempted to -telephone to you and see if you are in and if you are to ask you -to come over here. Perhaps you will come of your own accord. Every -footstep outside the door seems to be yours and then it goes on -up the stairs. Don't let us quarrel, Bunny. I hate it so and we -say such horrid things to one another that we neither of us mean. -Forgive me for anything I've done or said. I love you. I <i>love</i> -you. . . . Bunny darling.—Your loving</p> - -<p class="tdr">M.<br /></p></blockquote> - -<p>Her letter was crossed by one from him.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Millie</span>—I didn't mean what I said this afternoon. -I love you so much that when we quarrel it's terrible. Do be -patient, darling. You want everything to be right all in a moment. -I'll tell you one day how difficult it has been all these months. -You'll see then that it isn't all my fault. I'm not perfect but -I do love you. You're the most beautiful thing ever made and I'm -a lucky devil to be allowed to kiss your hand. I'll be round at -Cromwell Road five o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Please forgive me, -Millie darling.—Your loving</p> - -<p class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Bunny</span>.<br /></p></blockquote> - -<p>"To-morrow afternoon at five o'clock" the reconciliation was complete. -No secrets were revealed.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIc" id="CHAPTER_VIc">CHAPTER VI</a></h2> - -<h3>THE RETURN</h3> - - -<p>Peter Westcott, meanwhile, had been passing his London summer in a -strange state of half-expectant happiness and tranquillity. It was -a condition quite new to him, this almost tranced state of pause as -though he were hesitating outside the door of some room; was some one -coming who would enter with him? Was he expecting to see some treasure -within that might after all not be there? Was he afraid to face that -realization?</p> - -<p>Throughout the whole of that solitary August he had with him three -joys—London, the book that was now slowly day by day growing, -and Millie. When he was young he had taken all he could get—then -everything had been snatched from him—now in his middle age life -had taught him to savour everything slowly, to expect nothing more -than he perceived actually before him; he had grown selfish in his -consciousness of his few treasures. If he shared with others perhaps -the gods would grow jealous and rob him once again.</p> - -<p>People might deride or condemn. He was shy now; his heart went out as -truly, as passionately as it had ever done, but he alone now must know -that. Henry and Millie, yes—they might know something—had he not -sworn comradeship with them? But not even to them could he truly speak -of his secrets. He had talked to Henry of his book and even discussed -it with him, but he would not put into spoken words the desires and -ambitions that, around it, were creeping into his heart. He scarcely -dared own them to himself.</p> - -<p>Of his feeling about London he did not speak to any one because he -could not put it into words. There was something mysterious in the very -soul of the feeling. He could tell himself that it was partly because -London was a middle-aged man's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> town. Paris was for youth, he said, -and New York too and Berlin perhaps, but London did not love you until -you were a little tired and had known trouble and sorrow and lost your -self-esteem. Then the grey-smoked stone, the grey of pigeon's wings -and the red-misted sky and the faint dusty green of the trees settled -about your heart and calmed you. Now when the past is something to you -at last, and the scorn of the past that you had in your youth is over, -London admits you into her comradeship. "There is no place," he said to -himself, "where one can live in such tranquillity. She is like a woman -who was once your mistress, whom you meet again after many years and -with whom at last, now that passion is gone, you can have kind, loving -friendship. Against the grey-white stone and the dim smoke-stained sky -the night colours come and go, life flashes and fades, sounds rise and -fall, and kindliness of heart is there at the end." He found now that -he could watch everything with a passionate interest. Marylebone High -Street might not be the most beautiful street in London, but it had -the charm of a small country town where, closing your eyes you could -believe that only a mile away there was the country road, the fir-wood, -the high, wind-swept down. As people down the street stopped for their -morning gossip and the dogs recognized their accustomed friends and the -little bell of the tiny Post Office jangled its bell, London rolled -back like a thick mist on to a distant horizon and its noise receded -into a thin and distant whisper of the wind among the trees. Watching -from his window he came to know faces and bodies and horses, he grew -part of a community small enough to want his company, but not narrow -enough to limit his horizon.</p> - -<p>His days during those months were very quiet and very happy. He worked -in the morning at his book, at some reviewing, at an occasional -article. His few friends, Campbell, Martha Proctor, Monteith perhaps, -James Maradick, one or two more, came to see him or he went to them. -There was the theatre (so much better than the highbrows asserted), -there were concerts. There was golf at a cheap little course at -Roehampton, and there were occasional week-ends in the country . . . -as a period of pause before some great event—those were happy months. -Perhaps the great event would never come, but never in his life before -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> he felt so deeply assured that he was moving towards something -that was to change all his life. Even the finishing of his book would -do that. It was called <i>The Fiery Tree</i>, and it began with a man who, -walking at night towards a town, loses his way and takes shelter in -an old farmhouse. In the farmhouse are two men and an old woman. They -consent to put him up for the night. He goes to his room, and looking -out from his window on to the moonlit garden he sees, hiding in an -appletree. . . . What does he see? It does not matter. In the spring of -1922 the book will be published—<i>The Fiery Tree</i>, By Peter Westcott: -Author of <i>Reuben Hallard</i>, etc.: and you be able to judge whether -or no he has improved as a writer after all these years. Whether he -has improved or no the principal fact is that day after day he got -happiness and companionship and comfort from his book. It might be -good: it might be bad: he said he did not know. Campbell was right. -He did his best, secured his happiness. What came when the book was -between its cover was another matter.</p> - -<p>Behind London and the book was Millie. She coloured all his day, all -his thoughts: sometimes she came before him with her eyes wide and -excited like a child waking on her birthday morning. Sometimes she -stood in front of him, but away from him, her eyes watching him with -that half-ironical suggestion that she knew all about life, that he -and indeed all men were children to her whom she could not but pity, -that suggestion that went so sweetly with the child in herself, the -simplicity and innocence and confidence.</p> - -<p>And then again she would be before him simply in her beauty, her -colour, gold and red and dark, her body so straight, so strong, so -slim, the loveliness of her neck, her hands, her breast. Then a mist -came before his eyes and he could see no more.</p> - -<p>Sometimes he ached to know how she was, whether she were happy with -this man to whom she was engaged; he had no thought any more of having -her for himself. That was one thing that his middle-age and his past -trouble had brought him—patience, infinite, infinite patience.</p> - -<p>Then, as unheralded as such things usually are, the crisis came. It was -a foggy afternoon. He came in about half-past three, meaning to work. -Just as he was about to sit down at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> his table his telephone bell rang. -He was surprised to hear Martha Proctor's voice: he was still more -surprised when she told him that she was at Selfridge's and would like -to come in and have tea if he were alone.</p> - -<p>Martha Proctor! The last of the Three Graces to pay him any attention -he said. But I like her. I've always liked her best of the three. . . .</p> - -<p>He got his tea things from the little brown cupboard, made some toast, -found a pot of raspberry jam; just as he had finished Martha Proctor -stalked in. He liked her clear-cut ways, the decent friendly challenge -of her smile, her liking for brown bread and jam, with no nonsense -about "not being really hungry." Yes, he liked her—and he was pleased -that she had troubled to come to him, even though it was only the fog -that had driven her in. But at first his own shyness, the eternal sense -always with him that he was a recognized failure, and that no one -wanted to hear what he had to say, held him back. There fell silences, -silences that always came when he was alone with anybody.</p> - -<p>He had not the gift of making others enthusiastic, of firing their -intelligence. Only Millie and Henry, and perhaps James Maradick and -Bobby Galleon were able to see him as he really was. With others he -always thought of the thing that he was going to say before he said it; -then, finding it priggish, or sententious, or platitudinous, didn't say -it after all. No wonder men found him dull!</p> - -<p>He liked Martha Proctor, but the first half-hour of their meeting was -not a success. Then, with a smile he broke out:</p> - -<p>"You know—you wouldn't think it—but I'm tremendously glad the fog -drove you in here to-day. There are so many things I want to talk -about, but I've lost my confidence somehow in any one being interested -in what I think."</p> - -<p>"If you imagine it was the fog," said Martha Proctor, "that brought -me in to-day, you are greatly mistaken. I've been meaning to come for -weeks. You say you're diffident, well, I'm diffident too, although I -wouldn't have any one in the world to know it. Here I am at forty-two, -and I'm a failure. No, don't protest. It's true. I know I've got a -name and something of a position and young authors are said to wait -nervously for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> my Olympian utterances, but as a matter of fact I've got -about as much influence and power as that jam-pot there. But it isn't -only with myself I'm disappointed—I'm disappointed with everybody."</p> - -<p>She paused then, as though she expected Peter to say something, so he -said:</p> - -<p>"That's pretty sweeping."</p> - -<p>"No, it isn't. The state of literature in London is rotten, more rotten -than I've ever known it. Everybody over forty is tired and down and -out, and everybody under thirty has swelled head. And they're all in -sets and cliques. And they're all hating one another and abusing one -another and running their own little pets. And all the little pets -that might have turned into good writers if they'd been let alone have -been spoiled and ruined." She paused for breath, then went on, growing -really excited: "Look at young Burnley for instance. There's quite a -promising dramatist—you know that <i>The Rivers' Family</i> was a jolly -good play. Then Monteith gets hold of him, persuades him that he's a -critic, which, poor infant, he never was and never will be, lets him -loose on his paper and ruins his character. Yes, ruins it! Six months -later he's reviewing the same book in four different papers under four -different names, and hasn't the least idea that he's doing anything -dishonest!</p> - -<p>"But Burnley isn't the point. It's the general state of things. -Monteith and Murphy and the rest think they're Olympian. They're as -full of prejudices as an egg is full of meat, and they haven't got a -grain of humour amongst the lot. They aren't consciously dishonest, -but they run round and round after their own tails with their eyes on -the ground. Now, I'm only saying what lots of us are feeling. We want -literature to become a jollier, freer thing; to be quit of schools and -groups, and to have altogether more fun in it. That's why I've come to -you!"</p> - -<p>"To me!" said Peter, laughing. "I'm not generally considered the most -amusing dog in London——"</p> - -<p>"No, you're not," said Miss Proctor. "People don't know you, of course. -Lots of them think you dull and conceited. You may be proud, but you're -certainly not conceited—and you're not dull."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Thank you," said Peter.</p> - -<p>"No, but seriously, a lot of us have been considering you lately. You -see, you're honest—no one would deny that—and you're independent, and -even if you're proud you're not so damned proud as Monteith, and you -haven't got a literary nursery of admiring pupils. You'd be surprised, -though, if you knew how many friends you have got."</p> - -<p>"I should be indeed," said Peter.</p> - -<p>"Well, you have. Of course Janet Ross and the others of her kind think -you're no good, but those are just the cliques we want to get away -from. To cut a long story short, some of us—Gardiner, Morris, Billy -Wells, Thompson, Thurtell, and there are others—want you to join us."</p> - -<p>"What are you going to do?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing very definite at the moment. We are going to be apart from all -cliques and sets——"</p> - -<p>"I see——" interrupted Peter, "be an anti-clique clique."</p> - -<p>"Not at all," said Martha Proctor. "We aren't going to call ourselves -anything or have meetings in an A.B.C. shop or anything of the kind. It -is possible that there—there'll be a paper one day—a jolly kind of -paper that will admit any sort of literature if it's good of its kind; -not only novels about introspective women and poems about young men's -stomachs on a spring morning. I don't know. All we want now is to be a -little happier about things in general, to be a little less jealous of -writing that isn't quite our kind and, above all, not to be Olympian!"</p> - -<p>She banged the table with her hand and the jam-pot jumped. "I hate the -Olympians! Damn the Olympians! Self-conscious Olympians are the worst -things God ever made . . . I'm a fool, you're not very bright, but -we're not Olympian, therefore let's have tea together once or twice a -year!"</p> - -<p>Soon after that she went. Peter had promised to come to her flat one -evening soon and meet some of her friends. She left him in a state of -very pleasureable excitement.</p> - -<p>He walked up and down his room, lurching a little from leg to leg -like a sailor on his deck. Yes, he was awfully pleased—<i>awfully</i> -pleased. . . . Somebody wanted him. Somebody thought his opinion worth -having.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> - -<p>There were friendly faces, kindly voices waiting for him.</p> - -<p>His ambition leapt up again like fire. Life was not over for him, and -although he might never write a fine book nor a word that would be -remembered after he was gone, yet he could help, take his share in the -movement, encourage a little what seemed to him good, fight against -everything that was false and pretentious and insincere.</p> - -<p>He felt as though some one were pushing the pieces of the game at last -in his favour. For long he had been baffled, betrayed, checked. Now -everything was moving together for him. Even Millie. . .!</p> - -<p>He stopped in his walk, staring at the window behind whose panes the -fog lay now like bales of dirty cotton. Millie! Perhaps this engagement -of hers was not a success. He did not know why but he had an impression -that all was not well with her. Something that Henry had said in a -letter. Something. . . . So long as she were still there so that he -might see her and tell her of his work. See her, her colour, her eyes, -her hands, her movement as she walked, her smile so kindly and then -a little scornful as though she were telling herself that it was not -grown-up to show kindness too readily, that they must understand that -she <i>was</i> grown up. . . .</p> - -<p>Oh, bless her! He would be her true friend whatever course her life -might take, however small a share himself might have in it.</p> - -<p>He stared at the window and his happiness, his new ambition and -confidence were suddenly penetrated by some chill breath. By what? He -could not tell. He stood there looking in front of him, seeing nothing -but the grey shadows that coiled and uncoiled against the glass.</p> - -<p>What was it? His heart seemed to stand still in some sudden -anticipation. What was it? Was some one coming? He listened. There -was no sound but a sudden cry from the fog, a dim taxi-whistle. -Something was about to happen. He was sure as one is sure in dreams -with a knowledge that is simply an anticipation of something that one -has already been through. Just like this once he had stood, waiting -in a closed room. Once before. Where? Who was coming? Some one out -in the fog was now looking at the number of his house-door. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> -one had stepped into the house. Some one was walking slowly up the -stairs, looking at the cards upon the doors. It was as though he were -chained, enchanted to the spot. Now his own floor. A pause outside his -door. When suddenly his bell rang he felt no surprise, only a strange -hesitation before he moved as though a voice were saying to him: "This -is going to be very difficult for you. Pull yourself together. You'll -need your courage."</p> - -<p>He opened his door and peered out. The passage was dark. A woman was -there, standing back, leaning against the bannisters.</p> - -<p>"Who's there?" he called. His voiced echoed back to him from the empty -staircase. The woman made no answer, standing like a black shadow -against the dark stain of the bannisters.</p> - -<p>"Do you want anything?" asked Peter. "Did you ring my bell?"</p> - -<p>She moved then ever so slightly. In a hoarse whisper she said: "I want -to speak to Mr. Westcott."</p> - -<p>"I'm Peter Westcott," he answered.</p> - -<p>She moved again, coming a little nearer.</p> - -<p>"I want to sit down," she said. "I'm not very well." She gave a little -sigh, her arms moved in a gesture of protest and she sank upon the -floor. He went to her, lifted her up (he felt at once how small she -was and slight), carried her into his room and laid her on his old -green-backed sofa.</p> - -<p>Then, bending over her, he saw that she was his wife, Clare.</p> - -<p>Instantly he was flooded, body and soul, with pity. He had, he could -have, no other sense but that. It had been, perhaps, all his life even -during those childish years of defiance of his father the strongest -emotion in him—it was called forth now as it had never been before.</p> - -<p>He had hurried into his bedroom, fetched water, bathed her forehead, -her hands, taken off the shabby hat, unfastened the faded black dress -at the throat, still she lay there, her eyes closed in the painted -and powdered face, the body crumpled up on the sofa as though it were -broken in every limb.</p> - -<p>Broken! Indeed she was! It was nearly twenty years since he had last -seen her, since that moment when she had turned back at the door, -looking at him with that strange appeal in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> eyes, the appeal that -had failed. He heard again, as though it had been only yesterday, her -voice in their last conversation—"I've got a headache. I'm going -upstairs to lie down. . . ." And that had been the end.</p> - -<p>She smelt of some horrible scent, the powder on her face blew off in -little dry flakes, her hair was still that same wonderful colour, -yellow gold; she must be forty now—her body was as slight and childish -as it had been twenty years ago. He rubbed her hands: they were not -clean and the nails were broken.</p> - -<p>She moved restlessly without opening her eyes, as though in her sleep, -she pushed against him, then freed her hands from his, muttering. He -caught some words: "No, Alex—no. Don't hurt me. I want to be happy! -Oh, I want to be happy! Oh, don't hurt me! Don't!"</p> - -<p>All this in a little whimper as though she had no strength left with -which to cry out. Then her eyes opened: she stared about her, first at -the ceiling, then at the table and chairs, then at Peter.</p> - -<p>She frowned at him. "I oughtn't to have come here," she said. "You -don't want me—not after all this time. Did I faint? How silly of me!" -She pushed herself up. "That's because I'm so hungry—so dreadfully -hungry. I've had nothing to eat for two days except what that man gave -me at the station . . . I feel sick but I must eat something——"</p> - -<p>"Hungry!" he sprang to his feet. "Just lie there a minute and rest. -Close your eyes. There! Lie back again! I'll have something ready in a -moment."</p> - -<p>He rushed into the little kitchen, found the kettle, filled it and put -it on the sitting-room fire. The tea-things were still on the table, a -plate with cakes, a loaf of bread, the pot of jam. She was sitting up -staring at them. She got up and moved across to the table. "Cut me some -bread quickly. Never mind about the tea."</p> - -<p>He cut her some bread and butter. She began to eat, tearing the bread -with her fingers, her eyes staring at the cakes. She snatched two of -them and began to eat them with the bread. Suddenly she stopped.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I can't!" she whispered. "I'm so hungry, but I can't—I'm going to -be sick."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> - -<p>He led her into his bedroom, his arm around her. There she was very -ill. Afterwards white and trembling she lay on his bed. He put the -counterpane over her, and then said:</p> - -<p>"Would you like a doctor?" She was shivering from head to foot.</p> - -<p>"No," she whispered. "Would you make me some tea—very hot?"</p> - -<p>He went into the sitting-room and in a fever of impatience waited for -the kettle to boil. He stood there, watching it, his own emotion so -violent that his knees and hands were trembling.</p> - -<p>"Poor little thing! Poor little thing! Poor little thing!" He found -that he was repeating the words aloud. . . . The lid of the kettle -suddenly lifted. He made the tea and carried it into the other room. It -was dark now, with the fog and the early evening. He switched on the -light and then as she turned, making a slight movement of protest with -her hand, he switched it off again. She sat up a little, catching at -the cup, and then began to drink it with eager, thirsty gulps.</p> - -<p>"Ah, that's good!" he heard her murmur. "Good!" He gave her some more, -then a third cup. With a little sigh she sank back satisfied. She lay -then without speaking and he thought she was asleep. He drew a chair to -the bedside and sat down there, leaning forward a little towards her. -He could not see her now at all: the room was quite dark.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she began to speak in a low, monotonous voice——</p> - -<p>"I oughtn't to have come. . . . Do you know I nearly came once last -year? I was awfully hard up and I got your address from the publishers. -I didn't like to go to them again this time. It was just chance that -you might still be here. I wouldn't have come to you at all if I hadn't -been so hard up. . . ."</p> - -<p>"Hush," he said, "you oughtn't to talk. Try and sleep."</p> - -<p>She laughed. "You say that just as you used to. You aren't changed very -much, fatter a bit. I'd have known you anywhere. I wouldn't have come -if I'd known where Benois was. He's in London somewhere, but he's given -me the slip. Not the first time either. . . . I'm not going to stay -here, you know. You needn't be frightened."</p> - -<p>The voice was changed terribly. He would have recognized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> it from the -thin sharp note, almost of complaint, that was still in it, but it -was thickened, coarsened, with a curious catch in it as though her -breathing were difficult.</p> - -<p>"Don't talk now. Rest!" he repeated.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you're not changed a bit. Fatter of course. I've often wondered -what you'd turned into. How you got on in the War. You know Jerry was -killed—quite early, at the beginning. He was in the French Army. He -treated me badly. But every one's treated me badly. All I wanted was to -be happy. I didn't mean to do any one any harm. It's cruel the way I've -been treated."</p> - -<p>Her voice died off into a murmur. He caught only the words -"Benois . . . Paris . . . Station."</p> - -<p>Soon he heard her breathing, soft with a little catch in it like a -strangled sob. He sat on then, hearing nothing but that little catch. -He did not think at all. He could see nothing. He was sightless in a -blind world, coil after coil of grey vapour moving about him, enclosing -him, releasing him, enclosing him again—"Poor little thing!" "Poor -little thing!" "Poor little thing!"</p> - -<p>He did not move as the evening passed into night.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIc" id="CHAPTER_VIIc">CHAPTER VII</a></h2> - -<h3>DUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE</h3> - - -<p>At the moment when Clare Westcott was climbing the stairs to her -husband's rooms Henry Trenchard was walking up the drive through the -Duncombe park. The evening air was dark and misty with a thin purple -thread of colour that filtered through the bare trees and shone in -patches of lighted shadow against tall outlines of the road. Everything -was very still: even his steps were muffled by the matted carpet of -dead leaves that had not been swept from the drive. He had told them -the time of his arrival but there had been nothing at the station to -meet him. That did not surprise him. It had happened before; you could -always find a fly at the little inn. But this evening he had wanted to -walk the few miles. Something made him wish to postpone the arrival if -he could.</p> - -<p>The day after to-morrow Duncombe was to go up to London for his -operation. Henry hated scenes and emotional atmospheres and he knew -that Duncombe also hated them. Everything of course would be very quiet -during those two days—beautifully restrained in the best English -fashion, but the emotion would be there. No one would be frank; every -one would pretend to be gay with that horrible pretence that Englishmen -succeed in so poorly. No one would be worse at it than Henry himself.</p> - -<p>As he turned the corner of the drive that gave the first view of the -house a thin white light, a last pale flicker before dusk, enveloped -the world, spread across the lawn and shone upon the square, thick-set -building as though a sheet of very thin glass had suddenly been lowered -from the sky. The trees were black as ink, the grass grey, but the -house was illumined with a ghastly radiancy under the bare branches and -the pale evening sky. The light passed and the house was in dusk.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> - -<p>When he had been up to his room and come down to the little -drawing-room he found Alicia Penrose. "She's been asked to make things -easier," he said to himself. He was glad. He was not afraid of her -as he was of some people and he fancied that she rather liked him. -In her presence he always felt himself an untidy, uncouth schoolboy, -but to-night he was not thinking of himself. He knew that beneath her -nonsense she was a good sort. She was standing, legs apart, in front of -the fire; she was wearing a costume of broad checks, like a chessboard. -It reached just below the knees, but she had fine legs, slim, strong, -sensible. Her hair, brushed straight back from her forehead, was jet -black; she had beautiful, small, strong hands.</p> - -<p>"Well, Trenchard," she said, "had enough of London?"</p> - -<p>He stammered, laughed and said nothing.</p> - -<p>"Why do you always behave like a complete idiot when you're with me?" -she asked. "You're not an idiot—know you're not from what Duncombe has -told me—always behave like one with me."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you terrify me!" said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Damn being terrified! Why be terrified of anybody? All the same, all -of us. Legs, arms—— All dead soon."</p> - -<p>"Shyness is a very difficult thing," said Henry. "I've suffered from it -all my life—partly because I'm conceited and partly because I'm not -conceited enough."</p> - -<p>"Have you indeed?" said Lady Alicia, looking at him with interest. "Now -that's the first interestin' thing you've ever said to me. Expect you -could say a lot of things like that if you tried."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm clever!" said Henry. "The trouble is that my looks are against -me. That's funny, too, because I have a most beautiful sister and -another sister is quite nice-looking. I suppose they took all the looks -of the family and there were none left for me."</p> - -<p>Lady Alicia considered him.</p> - -<p>"But you're not bad-lookin'," she said. "Not at all. It's an -interestin' face. You look as though you were a poet or something. It's -your clothes. Why do you dress so badly?"</p> - -<p>"My clothes are all right when I buy them," said Henry blushing. (This -was a sensitive point with him.) "I go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> a very good tailor. But when -I've worn them a week or two they're like nothing on earth, although I -put them under my bed and have a trousers press. I look very fine in -the morning sometimes just for five minutes, but in an hour it's all -gone."</p> - -<p>Lady Alicia laughed.</p> - -<p>"You want to marry—some woman who'll look after you."</p> - -<p>Next moment Henry had a shock. The door opened and in came Tom -Duncombe. Henry had not seen him since the day of their encounter. In -spite of himself his heart failed him. What would happen? How awful if, -in front of Lady Alicia, Duncombe went for him! What should he do? How -maintain his dignity? How not show himself the silly young fool that he -felt?</p> - -<p>Duncombe crossed the room, fat, red-faced, smiling. "Well, Alice," he -said, "glad to see you. How's everything?"</p> - -<p>Then he turned to Henry, holding out his hand.</p> - -<p>"Glad to see you, Trenchard," he said. "Hope you're fit."</p> - -<p>"Very," said Henry.</p> - -<p>They shook hands.</p> - -<p>That evening was a strange one. The comedy of <i>Old Masks to Hide a New -Tragedy</i> was played with the greatest success. A thoroughly English -piece, played with all the best English restraint and fine discipline. -Sir Charles Duncombe as the hero was altogether admirable, and Lady -Bell-Hall as the heroine won, and indeed, deserved, rounds of applause. -Lady Alicia Penrose as the Comic Guest played in her own inimitable -style a part exactly suited to her talents. Minor rôles were suitably -taken by Thomas Duncombe, Henry Trenchard and Miss Bella Smith as -Florence, a Parlourmaid. . . .</p> - -<p>Henry was amazed to see Lady Bell-Hall's splendid <i>sang-froid</i>. The -house was tumbling about her head, her beloved brother was in all -probability leaving her for ever, the whole of her material conditions -were to change and be transformed, yet she, who beyond all women -depended upon the permanence of minute signs and witnesses, gave -herself no faintest whisper of apprehension.</p> - -<p>Magnificent little woman, with her pug nose and puffing cheeks; -dreading her Revolution, screaming at the prophecies of it, turning -no hair when it was actually upon her! Threaten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> an Englishman with -imagination and he will quail indeed, face him with facts and nothing -can shake his courage and dogged pugnacity. Imagination is the Achilles -heel of the English character . . . after which great thought Henry -discovered that he was last with his soup and every one was waiting for -him.</p> - -<p>Alicia Penrose carried the evening on her shoulders. She was superb. -Her chatter gave every one what was needed—time to build up -battlements round reality so that to-morrow should not be disgraced.</p> - -<p>Tom Duncombe ably seconded her.</p> - -<p>"Seen old Lady Adela lately?" he would ask.</p> - -<p>"Adela Beaminster?" Alicia was greatly amused. "Oh, but haven't you -heard about her? She's got a medium to live with her in her flat in -Knightsbridge and talks to her mother every mornin' at eleven-fifteen."</p> - -<p>"What, the old Duchess?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. You know what a bully she was when she was alive—well, she's -much worse now she's dead. Medium's Mrs. Bateson—you must have heard -of her—Creole woman—found Peggy Nestle's pearl necklace for her last -year, said it was at the bottom of a well in a village near Salisbury, -and so it was. Of course she'd taken it first and put it there—all -the same it did her an immense amount of good. Old Lady Adela saw -her at somebody's house and carried her off there and then. Now at -eleven-fifteen every morning up springs the Duchess, says she's very -comfortable in heaven, thank you, and then tells Adela what she's to -do. Adela doesn't move a step without her. Did her best to get old Lord -John in on it too, but he said 'No thank you.' He'd had enough of his -mother when she was alive, and he wasn't goin' to start in again now he -was over eighty and is bound to be meeting her in a year or two anyway. -Why, he says, these few days left to him are all he's got and he's not -going to lose 'em. But Adela's quite mad. When you go and have tea with -her, just as she's givin' you your second cup she says, 'Hush! Isn't -that mother?' Then she calls out in her cracked voice, 'Is that you, -mother darlin'?' then, if it is, she goes away and you never see your -second cup——" . . .</p> - -<p>A sudden silence. Down every one goes, down into their own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> thoughts. -About the house, in and out of the passages, through the doors and -windows, figures are passing. Faces, pale and thin, are pressed against -the window-panes. Into the dining-room itself the figures are crowding, -turning towards the table, whispering: "Do not desert us! Do not -abandon us! We are part of you, we belong to you. You cannot leave the -past behind. You must take us with you. We love you so, take us, take -us with you!"</p> - -<p>Alicia's voice rose again.</p> - -<p>"But every one's a crank now, Charles. In this year of grace 1920 -it's the only thing to be. You've got to be queer one way or t'other. -That's why young Pomfret keeps geese in his flat in Parkside. He feeds -them in a sort of manger at the back of his dinin'-room. He likes -them for their intelligence, he says. You've simply got to be queer -or no one will look at you for a moment. That's why they started the -Pyjama Society, Luxmoore and Young Barrax, and some others. You have -to swear that you'll never wear anythin' but pyjamas, and they've got -special warm ones with fur inside for the cold weather. It's catchin' -on like anythin'. It's so comfortable and economical too after the -first expense. Then there's the Coloured Hair lot that Lady Bengin -started—you all have to wear coloured wigs, green and purple and -orange. You put on a new wig for lunch just as you used to put on a new -hat. There's a shop opened in Lover Street—Montayne's—specially for -these wigs. Expensive, of course, but not much more than a decent hat!"</p> - -<p>Closer the pale figures pressed into the room, smiling, wistfully -watching, tenderly waiting for their host so soon now to join them.</p> - -<p>"Do not leave us! Do not forsake us! We must go with you! the beauty of -life comes from us as well as from you, do not desert us! We are your -friends! We love you!"</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm sure," said Lady Bell-Hall, searching for her crystallized -sugar at the bottom of her coffee cup, "I never know whether to believe -half the things you say, Alicia."</p> - -<p>"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Tom Duncombe. "You're right, Meg, don't you -believe her. You stick to me."</p> - -<p>But as the two women went out of the room together one whispered to the -other:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You are kind, Alicia. . . . I'll never forget it."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next day was a wild one of wind and rain. Rain slashed the windows -and spurted upon the lawns, died away into grey sodden clouds, burst -forth again and was whirled by the wind with a noise like singing hail -against the shining panes. The day passed without any incident. The -normal life of the house was carried on. Henry worked in the library. -Duncombe came in, found a book, went out again. The evening—the last -evening—was upon them all with a startling suddenness. The women went -up to their rooms; Charles Duncombe, his face grey and drawn, stopped -Henry.</p> - -<p>"Wait a minute," he said. "I'm going round the house for the last time. -Come with me."</p> - -<p>He lit a candle and they started. The rain had died now to a -comfortable purr. Into every room they went, the candle, raised high, -throwing a splash of colour, marking pools of flickering light.</p> - -<p>The old bedroom near the Chapel seemed to hold Duncombe. He stood there -staring, the candlestick steady in his hand, but his eyes staring as -though in a dream.</p> - -<p>He sat down in a chair near the four-poster.</p> - -<p>"We'll stop here a moment," he said to Henry. "It's the least I can do -for the old room. It knows I'm going. This was the bridal-chamber of -the old Duncombes," he said. "Lady Emily Duncombe died in this room on -her wedding-night. Heart failure. In other words, terror. . . . Poor -little thing."</p> - -<p>"And now I'm going to die too." Henry said something in protest. "Oh, -of course there's a chance—a-million-to-one chance. . . ." He looked -up, smiling. "I'll tell you one thing, Henry. Pain, if you have much of -it, makes death a most desirable thing. Pain! Why I'd no idea at the -beginning of what pain really was until this last year. Now I know. -Many times I've wanted to die these last months, just before it comes -on, when you know it's coming. . . . Pain, yes I know something about -that now."</p> - -<p>He had placed the candle on a table near to him. He raised it now above -his head. "Dear old room. I remember crawling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> in here when I was about -three and hiding from my nurse. They couldn't find me for ever so -long. . . . And now it's all over."</p> - -<p>Henry said: "Not over if you've cared for it."</p> - -<p>"By Jove, there's something in that," Duncombe answered. "And I depend -on you to carry it on. It's strange how my thoughts have centred round -you these last weeks. If I get through this by good fortune I'll talk -to you a bit, tell you things I've never told a living soul. I've -always been alone all my life, not because I wanted to be, but just -because I'm English. I've seen other men look at me just as I've looked -at them, as though they longed to speak but their English education -wouldn't let them lest they should make fools of themselves. Then human -beings have seemed to me so disappointing, so weak, so foolish. Not -that I've thought myself any better. No, indeed. But we're a poor lot, -there's no doubt about it.</p> - -<p>"You're honest, Henry, and loyal and affectionate. Stick to those three -things for all you're worth. You've been born into a wonderful time. -Make something of it. Don't be passive. Throw yourself into it. And -take all this with you. Make the past and the present and the future -one. Join them all together for the glory of God—and sometimes think -of your old friend who loves you."</p> - -<p>He came across to Henry, kissed him on the forehead and patted him on -the shoulder.</p> - -<p>"I'm tired," he said, "damned tired. These haven't been easy weeks."</p> - -<p>Henry said: "I think you're going to come through. If you do it will be -wonderful for me. If you don't I'll never forget you. I'll think of you -always. I'll try to do as you say."</p> - -<p>Duncombe smiled. "Look after my sister. Bring out the book with a bang. -We'll meet again one day."</p> - -<p>Henry saw the candle-light trail down the passage and disappear. He -fumbled his way to his room.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Next morning Charles Duncombe went up to London. There was no sign of -emotion at his departure; it was as though he would be back before they -could turn round. He was his dry, cynical self. He merely nodded to -Henry, looking at him a little sternly before he climbed into the car. -"I'll see that Spencer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> sends you those notes," he said. "Meanwhile -you'd better be getting on with that Ballantyne press." He nodded still -sternly, smiled with his accustomed irony at his sister and was gone.</p> - -<p>Tom Duncombe and Alicia Penrose disappeared then for the day, rattling -over in a very ancient hired taxi to see the Seddons, who were living -just then some thirty miles away. Henry tried to fling himself into -his work; manfully he sat in the little library driving through the -intricacies of Ballantyne finances, striving desperately to lose -himself in that old Edinburgh atmosphere and friendly company. It -could not be done. He saw, stalking towards him across the leaf-sodden -lawn, the harshest melancholy that his young life had ever known. He -had faced before now his unhappy times—in his younger years he had -rebelled and sulked and made himself a curse to every one around him! -he was growing older now. He was becoming a man, but the struggle was -none the easier because he was learning how to deal with it.</p> - -<p>He gave up his work, stared out for a little on to the grass pale under -a thin autumn sun, then felt that he must move about or die. . . .</p> - -<p>He went out into the hall; the whole place seemed deserted and dead; -the hall door was open and from far away came the dim creaking of a -cart. A little, chill, autumnal wind blew a thin eddy of leaves a few -paces into the hall. Suddenly he heard a sound—some one was crying. -Like any boy he hated above everything to hear a grown person cry. His -immediate instinct was to run for his life. Then he was drawn against -his will but by his natural instincts of tenderness and kindness -towards the sound. He pushed back the drawing-room door that was ajar -and looked into the room. Lady Bell-Hall was sitting there, crumpled up -on the sofa, her head in her arms, crying desperately.</p> - -<p>He knew that he should go away; the English instinct deep in him that -he must not make a fool of himself warned him that she did not like -him, that she had never liked him and that she would hate that he above -all people should see her in this fashion. There was nevertheless -something so desolate and lonely in her unhappiness that he could not -go. He stood there for a moment, then very gently closed the door. -She heard the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> sound and looked up. She saw who it was and hurriedly -sat erect, tried to assume dignity, rolling a handkerchief nervously -between her hands and frowning. . . .</p> - -<p>"Well," she said in a strange little voice with a crack and a sob in -it, "what is it?"</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I wondered—I was thinking—that -perhaps there was something——"</p> - -<p>"No," she answered hurriedly, not looking at him. "Thank you. There's -nothing."</p> - -<p>She sniffed, blew her nose, then suddenly began to sob again, turning -to the mantelpiece, leaning her head upon her arms.</p> - -<p>He waited, seeing such incongruous things as that a grey lock of hair -had escaped its pins and was trailing down over the black silk collar -of her blouse, that Pretty One was fast asleep, snoring in her basket, -undisturbed by her mistress's grief, that last week's <i>Spectator</i> had -fallen from the table on to the floor, that the silver calendar on -the writing-table asserted that they were still in the month of May -whatever the weather might pretend.</p> - -<p>He came nearer to her. "I do want you to know," he said, blushing -awkwardly, "how I understand what you must be feeling, and that I -myself feel some of it too."</p> - -<p>She turned round at him, looked at him with her short-sighted eyes as -though she were seeing him for the first time, then sat down again on -the sofa.</p> - -<p>"You do think he's going to get well, don't you?" she said suddenly. -"This isn't serious, this operation, is it? Tell me, tell me it isn't."</p> - -<p>He lied to her because he knew that she knew that he was lying and that -she wanted him to lie.</p> - -<p>"Of course he's going to come through it," he said. "And be better than -he's ever been in his life before. Doctors are so wonderful now. They -can do anything."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I do hope so! I do indeed! He wouldn't let me go up with him, -although I did want to be there. I nursed my dear husband through three -terrible illnesses so I have <i>much</i> experience. . . . But I'm going up -to-morrow to Hill Street to be near in case he should need me."</p> - -<p>She blinked at Henry, then patted the sofa.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Come and sit here and talk to me. . . . It is very kind of you to -speak as you do."</p> - -<p>Henry sat down. She looked at him more closely. "I wish I liked you -better," she said. "I have tried very hard to. Charles likes you so -much and says you're so clever."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry you don't like me, Lady Bell-Hall," said Henry. "I would do -anything in the world for your brother. I think he's the finest man I -have ever known."</p> - -<p>This set Lady Bell-Hall sobbing again: "He is! Oh, he is! Indeed he -is!" she cried, waving one little hand in the air while with the other -she wiped her eyes. "No one can know as well as I know how kind he is -and good . . . and it's so wicked . . . when he's so good—that they -should take away his money and his house that he loves and has always -been in the family and give it to people who aren't nearly so good. Why -do they do it? What right have they——?" She broke off, looking at -him with sudden suspicion. "Oh, I suppose it all seems right to you," -she said. "You're the new generation, I suppose that's why I don't -like you. I don't like the new generation. All you boys and girls are -irreligious and immoral and selfish. You don't respect your parents -and you don't believe in God. You think you know everything and you're -hard-hearted. The world has become a terrible place and the wrath of -God will surely be called down upon it."</p> - -<p>Henry said quietly:</p> - -<p>"After a war like the one there's just been it always takes a long -time to settle down, doesn't it? And all the young generation aren't -as you say. For instance, I have a splendid sister who is as modern -as anybody, but she isn't immoral and she isn't hard-hearted and she -doesn't think she knows everything. I think many girls now are fine, -with their courage and independence and honesty. Hypocrisy is leaving -England at last. It's been with us quite long enough."</p> - -<p>Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "I daresay you're right. I'm sure I -don't know, I don't understand any of you. I'm lost in this new world. -The sooner I die the better." She got up and walked with great dignity -across the room. She looked back at Henry rather wistfully. "You do -seem a kind young man and Charles is very fond of you. I don't want -to be unjust.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> I don't indeed!" She suddenly put up her hand and -realized the escaping lock of hair. She cried, "Oh, dear!" in a little -frightened whisper, then hurried from the room.</p> - -<p>Henry waited a little, then, feeling his own loneliness and desolation -in the chilly place, broke out into the garden. He wandered down the -paths until he found himself in a little rough-grassed orchard that -hung precariously on the bend of the hill, above a little trout-stream -and a clumsy, chattering water-mill.</p> - -<p>Under the bare trees he stood and stared at himself. As a boy the -principal note in his character perhaps had been his suspicion of human -nature, and his suspicion of it especially in its relation to himself. -The War, his life in London, his close intimacy with Peter and Millie -had robbed him of much of this, but these influences had not brought -him to that stage of sophistication that would establish him upon such -superiority that he need never be suspicious again. He would in all -probability never become sophisticated. There was something naïve in -his character that would accompany him to his grave; he was none the -worse for that.</p> - -<p>And it was this very naïveté that Lady Bell-Hall had just roused. As -he walked in the orchard he was miserable, lonely, self-distrustful. -He seemed to be deserted of all men. Christina was far, far away. -Millie and Peter did not exist. His work was nothing. He was out of -tune with the universe. He felt behind him the house, the lands, the -country falling into ruin. His affection for Duncombe, his master, was -affronted by the vision of brother Tom, flushed and eager, selling -his family for thirty pieces of silver. He and his generation could -assist only at the breaking of the old world, not at the making of the -new. . . .</p> - -<p>He looked up and saw between the leafless branches of the trees the -sky shredding into lines of winged and fleecy little clouds that ran -in cohorts across a sky suddenly blue. The wind had fallen; there -was utter stillness. The sun, itself invisible, suddenly with a -royal gesture flung its light in sheets of silver across the brown -tree-trunks, the thick and tangled grass. The light was so suddenly -brilliant that Henry, looking up, was dazzled. It seemed to him that -for an instant the sky was filled with shining forms.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p> - -<p>He had the sense that he had known so often before that in another -moment some great vision would be granted him.</p> - -<p>He waited, his hand above his eyes, his heart suddenly flooded with -happiness and reassurance. A little wind rose, a sigh ran through the -trees and drops of rain like glittering sparks from the sun touched his -forehead. Shadow ran along the ground as though from the sweep of a -giant's wing.</p> - -<p>Strangely comforted he walked back to the house.</p> - -<p>Next morning, in the company of Lady Bell-Hall, Lady Alicia and Tom -Duncombe, he left for Hill Street.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIc" id="CHAPTER_VIIIc">CHAPTER VIII</a></h2> - -<h3>HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED</h3> - - -<p>Victoria Platt was seated in her little dressing-room surrounded -with fragments of coloured silk. She was choosing curtains for the -dining-room. She was not yet completely dressed, and a bright orange -wrapper enfolded her shapeless body. Millie stood beside her.</p> - -<p>"I know you like bright colours, my Millie," she said, "so I can't -think what you can object to in this pink. I think it's a pet of a -colour."</p> - -<p>"Pink isn't right for a dining-room," said Millie. (She had not slept -during the preceding night and was feeling in no very amiable temper.)</p> - -<p>"Not right for a dining-room?" Victoria repeated. "Why, Major Mereward -said it was just the thing."</p> - -<p>"You know perfectly well," answered Millie, "that in the first place -Major Mereward has no taste, and that secondly he always says whatever -you want him to say."</p> - -<p>"No taste! Why, I think his taste is splendid! Certainly he's not -artistic like Mr. Bennett, who may be said to have a little too much -taste sometimes——</p> - -<p>"But, dear me, that was a lovely dinner he gave us at the Carlton -last night. Now wasn't it? You can't deny it although you <i>are</i> -prejudiced——"</p> - -<p>"That <i>you</i> gave, you mean," Millie snorted. "Yes, I daresay he likes -nothing better than ordering the best dinners possible at other -people's expense. He's quite ready, I'm sure, to go on doing that to -the end of his time."</p> - -<p>Victoria forgot her silks and looked up at her young friend.</p> - -<p>"Why, Millie, what <i>has</i> come to you lately? You're not at all as you -used to be. You're always speaking contemptuously of people nowadays. -And you're not looking well. You're tired, darling——"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm all right," Millie moved impatiently away. "You know I hate -that man. He's vulgar, coarse and selfish."</p> - -<p>Victoria was offended.</p> - -<p>"You've no right to speak of my friends that way. . . . But I'm not -going to be cross with you. No, I'm not. You're tired and not yourself. -Dr. Brooker was saying so only yesterday."</p> - -<p>"There's no reason for Dr. Brooker to interfere. When I want his advice -I'll ask for it."</p> - -<p>Victoria looked as suddenly distressed as a small child whose doll has -been taken away.</p> - -<p>"I can't make you out, Millie. There's something making you unhappy."</p> - -<p>She looked up with a touching, anxious expression at the girl, whose -face was dark with some stormy trouble that seemed only to bring out -her loveliness the more, but was far indeed from the happy, careless -child Victoria had once known.</p> - -<p>Millie's face changed. She suddenly flung herself down at her friend's -feet.</p> - -<p>"Victoria, darling, I don't want you to marry that man. No, I don't, -I don't indeed. He's a bad man, bad in every way. He only wants your -money: he doesn't even pretend to want anything else. And when he's got -that he'll treat you so badly that you'll be utterly wretched. You know -yourself you will. Oh, don't marry him, don't, don't, don't!"</p> - -<p>Victoria's face was a curious mixture of offended pride and tender -affection.</p> - -<p>"There, there, my Millie. Don't you worry. Whoever said I was going -to marry him? At the same time it isn't quite true to say that he -only cares for my money. I think he has a real liking for myself. You -haven't heard all the things he's said. After all, I know him better -than you do, Millie dear, and I'm older than you as well. Yes, and -you're prejudiced. You never liked him from the first. He has his -faults, of course, but so have we all. He's quite frank about it. He's -told me his life hasn't been all that it should have been, but he's -older now and wiser. He wants to settle down with some one whom he can -really respect."</p> - -<p>"Respect!" Millie broke out. "He doesn't respect any one. He's an -adventurer. He says he is. Oh, don't you see how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> unhappy you'll be? -You with your warm heart. He'll break it in half a day."</p> - -<p>Victoria sighed. "Perhaps he will. Perhaps I'm not so blind as you -think. But at least I'll have something first. I've been an old maid -so long. I want—I want——" She brushed her eyes with her hand. "It's -foolish a woman of my age talking like this—but age doesn't, as it -ought, make as much difference."</p> - -<p>"But you can have all that," Millie cried. "The Major's a good man and -he does care for you, and he'd want to marry you even though you hadn't -a penny. I know he seems a little dull, but we can put up with people's -dullness if their heart's right. It seems to me just now," she said, -staring away across the little sunlit room, "that nothing matters in a -man beside his honesty and his good heart. If you can't trust——"</p> - -<p>Victoria felt that the girl was trembling. She put her arms closer -around her and drew her nearer.</p> - -<p>"Millie, darling, what's the matter? Tell me. Aren't you happy? Tell -me. I can't bear you to be unhappy. What does it matter what happens to -a silly old woman like me? I've only got a few more years to live in -any case. But you, so lovely, with all your life in front of you. . . . -Tell me, darling——"</p> - -<p>Millie shivered. "Never mind about me, Victoria. Things aren't easy. He -won't tell me the truth. I could stand anything if only he wouldn't lie -to me. I ought to leave him, I suppose—give him up. But I love him—I -love him so terribly."</p> - -<p>She did, what was so rare with her, what Victoria had never seen her do -before, she burst into a passion of tears, sobbing—"I love him—and I -oughtn't to—and every day I love him more."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my dear—I'm afraid it is a great deal my fault. I should have -stopped it before it went so far—but indeed I never knew that it was -on until it was over. And I liked him—I see now that I was wrong, but -I'm not perhaps very clever about people——"</p> - -<p>"No, no," Millie jumped to her feet. "You're not to say a word against -him. You're not indeed. It's myself who's to blame for things being -as they are. I should have been stronger and forced him to take me to -his mother. I despise myself. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> who thought I was so strong. But we -quarrel, and then I'm sorry, and then we quarrel again."</p> - -<p>She smiled, wiping her eyes. "Dear Victoria, I'm not so fine as I -thought myself—that's all. You see I've never been in love before. It -will come right. It must come right——"</p> - -<p>She bent forward and kissed her friend.</p> - -<p>"I'll go down now and get on with those letters. You're a darling—too -good to me by far."</p> - -<p>"I'm a silly old woman," Victoria said, shaking her head. "But I do -wish you liked the pink, Millie dear. It will be so nice at night with -the lights—so gay."</p> - -<p>"We'll have it then," said Millie. "After all, it's your house, isn't -it?"</p> - -<p>She went downstairs, and then to her amazement found Bunny waiting for -her near her desk.</p> - -<p>"Why——" Her face flushed with pleasure. How could she help loving him -when every inch of him called to her, and touched her with pity and -pride and longing and wonder?</p> - -<p>"I've come," he began rather sulkily, not looking at her but out of the -window, "to apologize for last night. I shouldn't have said what I did. -I'm sorry."</p> - -<p>How strange that now, when only a moment ago she had loved him so that -most likely she would have died for him, the sound of his sulky voice -should harden her with a curious, almost impersonal hostility.</p> - -<p>"No need to apologize," she said lightly, sitting down at her desk and -turning over the letters. "You weren't very nice last night, but last -night's last night and this morning's this morning."</p> - -<p>"Oh well," he said angrily, still not looking at her, "for the matter -of that you weren't especially charming yourself; but of course it's -always my fault."</p> - -<p>"Need we have it all over again?" she said, her heart beating, her head -hot, as though some one were trying to enclose it in a bag. "If I was -nasty I'm sorry, and you say you're sorry—so that's over."</p> - -<p>He turned towards her angrily. "Of course—if that's all you have to -say——" he began.</p> - -<p>The door opened and Ellen came in.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> - -<p>Millie had then the curious sensation of having passed through, not -very long ago, the scene that was now coming. She saw Ellen's thin -body, the faded, grey, old-fashioned dress, the sharply cut, pale -face with the indignant, protesting eyes; she saw Bunny's sudden -turn towards the door, his face hardening as he realized his old and -unrelenting enemy, then the quick half-turn that he made towards -Millie as though he needed her protection. That touched her, but -again strangely she was for a moment outside this, a spectator of the -sun-drenched room, of the silly pictures on the wall, of the desk with -the litter of papers that even now she was still mechanically handling. -Outside it and beyond it, so that she was able to say to herself, "And -now Ellen will move to that far window, she'll brush that chair with -her skirt, and now she'll say: 'Good-morning, Mr. Baxter. I won't -apologize for interrupting because I've wanted this chance—— '"</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, Mr. Baxter," Ellen said, turning from the window towards -them both with the funny jerky movement that was so especially hers. -"I won't apologize for interrupting because I've wanted this chance of -speaking to you both together for some time."</p> - -<p>Then, at the actual sound of her voice, Millie was pushed in, right -in—and with that immersion there was a sudden desperate desire to keep -Ellen off, not to hear on any account what she had to say, to postpone -it, to answer Bunny's appeal, to do anything rather than to allow -things to go as she saw in Ellen's eyes that woman intended them to go.</p> - -<p>"Leave us alone for a minute, Ellen," she said. "Bunny and I are in the -middle of a scrap."</p> - -<p>Standing up by the desk she realized the power that her looks had upon -Ellen—her miserable, wretched looks that mattered nothing to her, -less than nothing to her at all. She did not realize though that the -tears that she had been shedding in Victoria's room had given her eyes -a new lustre, that her cheeks were touched to colour with her quarrel -with Bunny, and that she stood there holding herself like a young -queen—young indeed both in her courage and her fear, in her loyalty -and her scorn.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> - -<p>Ellen stared at her as though she were seeing her for the first time.</p> - -<p>"Oh well——" she said, suddenly dropping her eyes and turning as -though she would go. Then she stopped. "No, why should I? After all, -it's for your good that you should know . . . this can't go on. I care -for you enough to see that it shan't."</p> - -<p>Millie came forward into the centre of the room that was warm with the -sun and glowing with light. "Look here, Ellen. We don't want a scene. -I'm sick of scenes. I seem to have nothing but scenes now, with Bunny -and you and Victoria and every one. If you've really got something to -say, say it quickly and let's have it over."</p> - -<p>Bunny's contribution was to move towards the door. "I'll leave you to -it," he said. "Lord, but I'm sick of women. One thing after another. -You'd think a man had nothing better to do——"</p> - -<p>"No, you don't," said Ellen quickly. "You'll find it will pay you best -to stay and listen. It isn't about nothing this time. You've <i>got</i> to -take it. You're caught out at last, Mr. Baxter. I don't want to be -unfair to you. If you'll promise me on your word of honour to tell -Millie everything from first to last about Miss Amery, I'll leave you. -If afterwards I find you haven't, I'll supply the missing details. -Millie's got to know the truth this time whatever she thinks either of -me or of you."</p> - -<p>Bunny stopped. His face stiffened. He turned back.</p> - -<p>"You dirty spy!" he said. "So you're been down to my village, have you?"</p> - -<p>"I have," said Ellen. "I've seen your mother and several other people. -Tell Millie the truth and my part of this dirty affair is over."</p> - -<p>Millie spoke: "You've seen his mother, Ellen? What right had you to -interfere? What business was it of yours?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, you can abuse me," Ellen answered defiantly. "I'm not here to -defend myself. Anyway you can't think worse of me than you seem to. I -waited and waited. I thought some one else would do something. I knew -that Victoria had heard some of the stories and thought that she would -take some steps. I thought that you would yourself, Millie. I fancied -that you'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> be too proud to go on month after month in the way you have -done, putting up with his lies and shiftings and everything else. At -last I could stand it no longer. If no one else would save you I would. -I went down to his village in Wiltshire and got the whole story. I told -his mother what he was doing. She's coming up to London herself to see -you next week."</p> - -<p>Millie's eyes were on Bunny and only on him in the whole world. She and -he were enclosed in a little room, a blurring, sun-drenched room that -grew with every moment smaller and closer.</p> - -<p>"What <i>is</i> this, Bunny?" she said, "that she means? Now at last we'll -have the whole story, if you don't mind. What <i>is</i> it that you've been -keeping from me all these months?"</p> - -<p>He laughed uneasily. "You're not going to pay any attention to a nasty, -jealous woman like that, Millie," he said. "We all know what <i>she</i> is -and why she's jealous. I knew she'd been raking around for ever so long -but I didn't think that even her spite would go so far——"</p> - -<p>"But what <i>is</i> it, Bunny?" Millie quietly repeated.</p> - -<p>"Why, it's nothing. She's gone to my home and discovered that I was -engaged last year to a girl there, a Miss Amery. We broke it off last -Christmas, but my mother still wants me to marry her. That's why it's -been so difficult all these weeks. But——"</p> - -<p>"So you're not going to tell her the truth," interrupted Ellen. "I -thought you wouldn't. I just thought you hadn't the pluck. Well, I will -do it for you."</p> - -<p>"It's lies—all lies, Millie. Whatever she tells you," Bunny broke in. -"Send her away, Millie. What has she to do with us? You can ask me -anything you like but I'm not going to be cross-questioned with her in -the room."</p> - -<p>Millie looked at him steadily, then turned to Ellen.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Ellen, you've got to say? Bunny is right, you've been -spying. That's contemptible. Nothing can justify it. But I'd like to -hear what you <i>think</i> you've discovered, and it's better to say it -before Mr. Baxter."</p> - -<p>Ellen looked at Millie steadily. "I'm thinking only of you, Millie. Not -of myself at all. You can hate me ever afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> if you like, but one -day, all the same, you'll be grateful—and you'll understand, too, how -hard it has been for me to do it."</p> - -<p>"Well," repeated Millie, scorn filling every word, "what is it that you -think you've discovered?"</p> - -<p>"Simply this," said Ellen, "that last autumn a girl in Mr. Baxter's -village, the daughter of the village schoolmaster—Kate Amery is her -name—was engaged secretly to Mr. Baxter. She is to have a baby in two -months' time from now, as all the village knows. All the village also -knows who is its father. Mr. Baxter has promised his mother to marry -the girl.</p> - -<p>"His mother insists on this, and until I told her she had no idea that -he was involved with any one else."</p> - -<p>"A nice kind of story," Bunny broke in furiously. "Just what any old -maid would pick up if she went round with her nose in the village mud. -It's true, Millie, that I was engaged to this girl last year, and then -Christmas-time we saw that we were quite unsuited to one another and we -broke it off."</p> - -<p>"Is it true," asked Millie quietly, "that your mother says that you're -to marry her?"</p> - -<p>"My mother's old-fashioned. She thinks that I'm pledged in some way. -I'm not pledged at all."</p> - -<p>"Is it true that the village thinks that you're the father of this poor -girl's child?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know what the village thinks. They all hate me there, anyway. -They'd say anything to hurt me. Probably this woman's been bribing -them."</p> - -<p>"Oh, poor girl! How old is she?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. Nineteen. Twenty."</p> - -<p>"Oh, poor, poor girl! . . . Did you promise your mother that you would -marry her?"</p> - -<p>"I had to say something. I haven't a penny. My mother would cut me off -absolutely if I didn't promise."</p> - -<p>"And you've known all this the whole summer?"</p> - -<p>"Of course I've known it."</p> - -<p>"And not said a word to me?"</p> - -<p>"I've tried to tell you. It's been so difficult. You've got such funny -ideas about some things. I wasn't going to lose you."</p> - -<p>Something he saw in Millie's face startled him. He came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> nearer to her. -They had both completely forgotten Ellen. She gave Millie one look, -then quietly left the room.</p> - -<p>"But you must understand, Millie," he began, a new note of almost -desperate urgency in his voice. "I've been trying to tell you all the -summer. I don't love this girl and she doesn't love me. It would be -perfectly criminal to force us to marry. She doesn't want to marry me. -I swear she doesn't. I don't know whose child this is——"</p> - -<p>"Could it be yours?"</p> - -<p>"There's another fellow——"</p> - -<p>"Could it be yours?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, if you want to know, it could. But she hates me now. She says she -won't marry me—she does really. And this was all before I knew you. -If it had happened after I knew you it would be different. But you're -the only woman I've ever loved, you are truly. I'm not much of a fellow -in many ways, I know, but you can make anything of me. And if you turn -me down I'll go utterly to pieces. There's never been any one since I -first saw you."</p> - -<p>She interrupted him, looking past him at the shining window.</p> - -<p>"And that's why I never met your mother? That poor girl . . . that poor -girl . . . ."</p> - -<p>"But you're not going to throw me over?"</p> - -<p>"Throw you over?" She looked at him, wide-eyed. "But you don't belong -to me—and I don't belong to you. We've nothing to do with one another -any more. We don't touch anywhere."</p> - -<p>He tried to take her hand. She moved back.</p> - -<p>"It's no good, Bunny. It's over. It's all over."</p> - -<p>"No—don't—don't let me go like this. Don't——" Then he looked at her -face.</p> - -<p>"All right, then," he said. "You'll be sorry for this."</p> - -<p>And he went.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IXc" id="CHAPTER_IXc">CHAPTER IX</a></h2> - -<h3>QUICK GROWTH</h3> - - -<p>He stayed beside the desk for a long time, turning the papers over and -over, reading, as she long afterwards remembered, the beginning of one -letter many times: "Dear Victoria—If you take the 3.45 from Waterloo -that will get you to us in nice time for tea. The motor shall meet you -at the station."</p> - -<p>"The motor shall meet you at the station. . . . The motor shall meet -you at the station. . . ."</p> - -<p>Well, and why shouldn't it? How easy for motors to meet trains—that -is, if you <i>have</i> a motor. But motors are expensive these days, and -then there is the petrol—and the chauffeur must cost something. . . . -But that's all right if you can drive yourself—drive yourself. . . . -She pulled herself up. Where was she? Oh, in Victoria's sitting-room. -How hot the room was! And the beginning of October. How hot and how -empty! Then as though something cut her just beneath the heart, -she started. She put her hand to her forehead. Her head was aching -horribly. She would go home. She knew that Victoria would not mind.</p> - -<p>Her only dominant impulse then was to be out of that house, that house -that reminded her with every step she took of something that she must -forget—but what she must forget she did not know.</p> - -<p>In the hall she found her hat and coat. Beppo was there.</p> - -<p>"Beppo," she said, "tell Miss Victoria that I have a headache and have -gone home. She'll understand."</p> - -<p>"Yes, miss," he said, grinning at her in that especially confidential -way that he had with those whom he considered his friends.</p> - -<p>In the street she took a taxi, something very foreign to her economic -habits. But she wanted to hide herself from every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>body. No one must see -her and stop her and ask her questions that she could not answer. And -she must get home quickly so that she might go into her own room and -shut her door and be safe.</p> - -<p>In the sitting-room she found Mary Cass sitting at the table with a -pile of books in front of her, nibbling a pencil.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!" cried Mary. "You back already?"</p> - -<p>Then she jumped up, the book falling from her hand to the floor.</p> - -<p>"Darling, what's the matter? . . . What's happened?"</p> - -<p>"Why, do I look funny?" said Millie smiling. "There's nothing the -matter. I've got an awful headache—that's all. I'm going to lie down."</p> - -<p>But Mary had her arms around her. "Millie, what <i>is</i> it? You look -awful. Are you feeling ill?"</p> - -<p>"No, only my headache." Millie gently disengaged herself from Mary's -embrace. "I'm going into my room to lie down."</p> - -<p>"Shall I get something for you? Let me——"</p> - -<p>"Please leave me alone, Mary dear. I want to be left alone. That's all -I want."</p> - -<p>She went into her bedroom, drew down the blinds, lay down on her bed, -closing her eyes. How weak and silly she was to come home just for a -headache, to give up her morning's work without an effort because she -felt a little ill! Think of all the girls in the shops and the typists -and the girl secretaries and the omnibus girls and all the others, they -can't go home just because they have a headache—just because . . .</p> - -<p>Mary Cass had come in and very quietly had laid on her forehead a wet -handkerchief with eau-de-cologne. Ah! That was better! That was cool. -She faded away down into space where there was trouble and disorder and -pain, trouble in which she had some share but was too lazy to inquire -what.</p> - -<p>Then she awoke sharply with a jerk, as though some one had pushed -her up out of darkness into light. The Marylebone church clock was -striking. First the quarters. Then four o'clock very slowly. . . . She -was wide awake now and realized everything. It was the middle of the -afternoon and she had been asleep for hours. Her head was still aching -very badly but it did not keep her back now as it had done.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> - -<p>She knew now what had happened. She had seen the last of Bunny, the -very, very last. She would never see him again, nor hear his voice -again, nor feel his kiss on her cheek.</p> - -<p>And at first there was the strangest relief. The matter was settled -then, and that confusing question that had been disturbing her for so -many months. There would be no more doubts about Bunny, whether he were -truthful or no, why he did not take her to his mother, whether he would -write every day, and why a letter was suddenly cold when yesterday's -letter had been so loving, as to why they had so many quarrels. . . . -No, no more quarrels, no more of that dreadful pain in the heart and -wondering whether he would telephone or whether her pride would break -first and she would speak to him. Relief, relief, relief—— Relief -connected in some way with the little dancing circle of afternoon -sunlight on the white ceiling, connected with the things on her -dressing-table, the purple pin-cushion, the silver-backed brushes -that Katherine had given her, the slanting sheet of looking-glass -that reflected the end of her bed and the chair and the piece of blue -carpet. Relief. . . . She turned over, resting her head on her hand, -looking at the pearl-grey wall-paper. Relief! . . . and she would never -see him again, never hear his voice again! Some one in the room with -her uttered a sharp, bitter cry. Who was it? She was alone. Then the -knife plunged deep into her heart, plunged and plunged again, turning -over and over. The pain was so terrible that she put her hand over -her eyes lest she should see this other woman who was there with her -suffering so badly. No, but it was herself. It was she who would never -see Bunny again, never hear his voice.</p> - -<p>She sat up, her hands clenched, summoning control and self-command with -all the strength that was in her soul. She must not cry, she must not -speak. She must stare her enemy in the face, beat him down. Well, then. -She and Bunny were parted. He did not belong to her. He belonged to -that poor girl of whose baby he was the father.</p> - -<p>She fought then, for twenty minutes, the hardest battle of her -life—the struggle to face the facts. The facts were, quite simply, -that she could never be with Bunny any more, and worse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> than that, that -he did not belong to her any more but to another woman.</p> - -<p>She had not arrived yet at any criticism of him—perhaps that would -never be. When a woman loves a man he is a child to her, so simple, -so young, so ignorant, that his faults, his crimes, his deceits are -swallowed in his babyhood. Bunny had behaved abominably—as ill as -any man could behave; she did not yet see his behaviour, but when it -came to her she would say that she should have been there to care for -him and then it would never have been. She was to remember later, and -with a desperate, wounding irony, how years before, when she had been -the merest child and Katherine had been engaged to Philip, Henry had -discovered that Philip had once in Russia had a mistress who had borne -him a child.</p> - -<p>Millie, when she had heard this, had poured indignant scorn upon the -suggestion that Katherine should leave her lover because of this -earlier affair. Had it not all had its history before Katherine had -known Philip? How ironic a parallel here! Did not Millie's indignant, -brave, fearless youth rise up here to challenge her? No, that other -woman had surrendered Philip long, long before. This woman . . . poor -child—— Only nineteen and the village mocking her, waiting for her -child with scorn and coarse gossip and taunting sneers!</p> - -<p>She got up, bathed her face, her eyes dry and hot, her cheeks flaming, -brushed her hair and went into the sitting-room.</p> - -<p>No one was there, only the evening sun like a kindly spirit moving from -place to place, touching all with gentle, tender fingers. Strange that -she could have slept for so long! She would never sleep again—never. -Always would she watch, untouched, unmoved, that strange, coloured, -leaping world moving round and round before her, moving for others, for -their delight, their pain, but only for her scorn.</p> - -<p>Mary Cass came in with her serious face and preoccupied air.</p> - -<p>"Hullo Mill! Head better?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, thanks."</p> - -<p>"That's good. Had a sleep?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Splendid. . . . Lord, I've got plenty of work here. I don't know -what they think we're made of. Talk about stuffing geese<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> to get -<i>foie-gras</i>! People say that's wicked. Nothing to what they do to us. -Had any tea?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Want any?"</p> - -<p>"No thanks."</p> - -<p>"Do your head good. But I daresay you're right. I'm going to have some -though."</p> - -<p>She moved about busying herself in her calm efficient way, lighting the -spirit lamp, getting out the cups, cutting the bread.</p> - -<p>"Sure you won't have some?"</p> - -<p>"No thanks."</p> - -<p>Tactful Mary was—none of that awful commiseration, no questions.</p> - -<p>A good pal, but how far away, what infinite distance!</p> - -<p>Millie took the book that was nearest to her, opened it and read page -after page without seeing the words.</p> - -<p>Then a sentence caught her.</p> - -<p>"<i>Nor is it altogether the remembrance of her cathedral stopping -earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the -tearlessness of arid skies that never rain. . . .</i>"</p> - -<p>"<i>The tearlessness of arid skies that never rain?</i>" How strange a -phrase! What was this queer book? She read on. "<i>Thus when the muffled -rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of the festooned frosts of -mountains; the desolate shiftings of the windrowed snows of prairies; -all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking of that buffalo robe to the -frightened colt!</i>"</p> - -<p>The murmuring of the wonderful prose consoled her, lulled her. She read -on and on. What a strange book! What was it about? She could not tell. -It did not matter. About the Sea. . . .</p> - -<p>"What's that you're reading, Mill?"</p> - -<p>She looked back to the cover.</p> - -<p>"<i>Moby-Dick.</i>"</p> - -<p>"What a name! I wonder how it got here."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Henry left it."</p> - -<p>"I daresay. He's always reading something queer."</p> - -<p>The comfortable little clock struck seven.</p> - -<p>"You'd better eat something, you know."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No thank you, Mary."</p> - -<p>"Look here, Mill—you won't tell me what the trouble is?"</p> - -<p>"Not now. . . . Later on."</p> - -<p>"All right. Sorry, old dear. But every trouble passes."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know."</p> - -<p>She read on for an hour. The little clock struck eight. She put the -book down.</p> - -<p>"I'll go to bed now I think."</p> - -<p>"Right oh! Nothing I can get you?"</p> - -<p>"No. I'm all right."</p> - -<p>"Shall I come and sleep with you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>!"</p> - -<p>She crossed and kissed her friend, then quietly went to her room. She -undressed, switched off the light, and lay on her back staring. A -terrible time was coming, the worst time of all. She knew what it would -be—Remembering Things. Remembering everything, every tiny, tiny little -thing. Oh, if that would only leave her alone for to-night, until -to-morrow when she would endure it more easily. But now. They were -coming, creeping towards her across the floor, in at the window, in at -the door, from under the bed.</p> - -<p>"I don't want to remember! I don't want to remember!" she cried.</p> - -<p>Then they came, in a long endless procession, crowding eagerly with -mocking laughter one upon another! That first day of all when she -had quarrelled with Victoria and she had come downstairs to find him -waiting for her, when they had sat upon her boxes, his arm round her. -When they had walked across the Park and he had given her tea. After -their first quarrel which had been about nothing at all, and he had -sent her flowers, when he had caught her eye across the luncheon-table -at Victoria's and they had laughed at their own joke, their secret -joke, and Clarice had seen them and been so angry. . . . Yes, and -moments caught under flashing sunlight, gathering dusk—moments at -Cladgate, dancing in the hotel with the rain crackling on the glass -above them, sudden movements of generosity and kindliness when his face -had been serious, grave, involved consciously in some holy quest . . . -agonizing moments of waiting for him, feeling sure that he would not -come, then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> suddenly seeing him swing along, his eyes searching for -her, lighting at the sight of her. . . . His hand seeking hers, finding -it, hers soft against the cool strength of his . . . jokes, jokes, -known only to themselves, nicknames that they gave, funny points of -view they had, "men like trees walking," presents, a little jade box -that he had given her, the silver frame for his photograph, a tennis -racket. . . .</p> - -<p>Oh, no, no, shut it out! I can't hear it any longer! If you come to me -still I must go to him, find him, tell him I love him whatever it is -that he has done, and that I will stay with him, be with him, hear his -voice. . . .</p> - -<p>She sat up, her hands to her head, the frenzy of another woman beating -now in her brain. She did not know the hour nor the place; the world on -every side of her was utterly still, you might hear the minutes like -drops of water falling into the pool of silence. She saw it a vast -inverted bowl gleaming white against the deep blue of the sky shredded -with stars. On the edge of this bowl she was walking perilously, as on -a rope over space.</p> - -<p>She had slept—but now she was awake, clear-headed, seeing everything -distinctly, and what she saw was that she must go to Bunny, must find -him, must tell him that she would never leave him again.</p> - -<p>She was now so clear about it because the peril she saw in front of her -was her loneliness. To go on, living for ever and ever in a completely -empty world, walking round and round on that ridge above that terrible -shining silence—could that be expected of any one? No. Seriously she -spoke aloud, shaking her head: "I can't be supposed to endure that."</p> - -<p>She got out of bed and dressed very carefully, very cautiously, -realizing quite clearly that she must not wake Mary Cass, who would -certainly stop her from going to find Bunny. Time did not occur to her, -only she saw that the moonlight was shining into her room throwing -milky splashes upon the floor, and these she avoided as though they -would contaminate her, walking carefully around them as she dressed. -She went softly into the sitting-room, softly down the stairs, softly -into the street. She was wearing her little crimson hat because that -was one that he liked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> - -<p>She stayed for a moment in the street marvelling at its coolness and -silence. The night breeze touched her cheek caressing her. Yes, the sky -blazed with stars—blazed! And the houses were ebony black, like rocks -over still deep water.</p> - -<p>Everything around her seemed to give, at regular intervals, little -shudders of ecstasy—a quiver in which she also shared. She walked down -the street with rapid steps, her face set with serious determination. -The sooner to reach Bunny! No one impeded her. It seemed to her that -as she advanced the rocks grew closer about her, hanging more thickly -overhead and shutting out the stars.</p> - -<p>She was nearing the Park. There were trees, festoons above the water -making dark patterns and yet darker shadows.</p> - -<p>Under the trees she met a woman. She stopped and the woman stopped.</p> - -<p>"You're out late," the woman said; then as Millie said nothing but -only stared at her she went on, laughing affectedly—"good evening or -morning I should say. It's nearly four."</p> - -<p>She stared at Millie with curiosity. "Which way you going? I'm for -home. Great Portland Street. Been back once to-night already. But I -thought I'd make a bit more. Had no luck the second time."</p> - -<p>"Am I anywhere near Turner's Hotel?" Millie asked politely.</p> - -<p>"Turner's Hotel, dear? And where might that be?"</p> - -<p>"Off Jermyn Street."</p> - -<p>"Jermyn Street! You walk down Park Lane and then down Piccadilly. Are -you new to London?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, I'm not new," said Millie very seriously. "I couldn't sleep so -I came out for a walk."</p> - -<p>The woman looked at her more closely. She was a very thin woman with a -short tightly-clinging skirt and a face heavily powdered.</p> - -<p>"Here, we'd better be moving a bit, dear, or the bobby will be on us. -You do look tired. I don't think I've seen you about before."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I <i>am</i> tired."</p> - -<p>"Well, so's myself if you want to know. But I've been working a bit -too hard lately. Want to save enough for a fortnight's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> holiday. -Glebeshire. That's where I come from. Of course I wouldn't go back to -my own place—not likely. But I'd like to see the fields and hedges -again. Bit different from the rotten country round London."</p> - -<p>Millie suddenly stopped.</p> - -<p>"It's very late to go now, isn't it?" she asked. "In the middle of the -night. He'll think it strange, won't he?"</p> - -<p>"I should guess he would," said the woman, tittering. "Why, you're only -a child. You've no right to be wandering about like this. You don't -know what you're doing."</p> - -<p>"It was just because I couldn't sleep," said Millie very gravely. "But -I see I've done wrong. I can't disturb him this hour of the night."</p> - -<p>She stumbled a little, her knees suddenly trembling. The woman put her -arm around her. "Steady!" she said. "Here, you're ill. You'd better be -getting home. Where do you live?"</p> - -<p>"One Hundred and Sixteen Baker Street."</p> - -<p>"I'll take you. . . . There's a taxi. Why, you're nothing but a kid!"</p> - -<p>In the taxi Millie leant her head on the woman's shoulder.</p> - -<p>"I'm very tired but I can't sleep," she said.</p> - -<p>"You're in some trouble I guess," the woman said.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am. Terrible trouble," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Some man I suppose. It's always the men."</p> - -<p>"What's your name?" asked Millie. "You're very kind."</p> - -<p>"Rose Bennett," said the woman. "But don't you remember it. I'm much -better forgotten by a child like you. Why, I'm old enough to be your -mother."</p> - -<p>The taxi stopped. Millie paid for it.</p> - -<p>"Give me a kiss, will you?" asked the woman.</p> - -<p>"Why, of course I will," said Millie. She kissed her on the lips.</p> - -<p>"Don't you go out alone at night like that," said the woman. "It isn't -safe."</p> - -<p>"No, I won't," said Millie.</p> - -<p>She let herself in. The sitting-room was just as it had been, very -quiet, so terribly quiet.</p> - -<p>She had no thought but that she must not be alone. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> opened Mary's -door. She went in. Mary's soft breathing came to her like the voice of -the room.</p> - -<p>She took a chair and sat down and stared at the bed. . . . The -Marylebone Church struck half-past seven and woke Mary. She looked up, -staring, then in the dim light saw Millie sitting there.</p> - -<p>"Why, Millie! You! All dressed. . . . Good heavens, what's the matter!"</p> - -<p>She sprang out of bed.</p> - -<p>"Why, you haven't even taken off your hat! Millie darling, what is it?"</p> - -<p>"I couldn't sleep so I went out for a walk and then I didn't want to be -alone so I came in here."</p> - -<p>Mary gave her one look, then hurriedly throwing on her dressing-gown -went into the next room, saying as she went:</p> - -<p>"Stay there, Mill dear. . . . I'll be back, in a moment."</p> - -<p>She carefully closed the door behind her then went to the telephone.</p> - -<p>"6345 Gerrard, please. . . . Yes, is that—? Yes, I want to speak to -Mr. Trenchard, please—Oh, I know he's asleep. Of course, but this -is very serious. Illness. Yes. He must come at once. . . . Oh, is -that you, Henry? Sorry to make you come down at this unearthly hour. -Yes—it's Mary Cass. You must come over here at once. It's Millie. -She's very ill. No, I don't know what the matter is, but you must come. -Yes, at once."</p> - -<p>She went back to Millie. She persuaded her to come into the -sitting-room, to take off her hat. After that, she sat there on the -little sofa without moving, staring in front of her.</p> - -<p>Half an hour later Henry came in, rough, tumbled, dishevelled. At the -sight of that familiar face, that untidy hair, those eager devoted -eyes, a tremor ran through Millie's body.</p> - -<p>He rushed across to her, flung his arms around her.</p> - -<p>"Millie darling . . . darling. . . . What is it? Mill dearest, what's -the matter?"</p> - -<p>She clung to him; she shuddered from head to foot; then she cried: "Oh, -Henry, don't leave me. Don't leave me. Never again. Oh, Henry, I'm so -unhappy!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p> - -<p>And at that the tears suddenly came, breaking out, releasing at once -the agony and the pain and the fear, pouring them out against her -brother's face, clinging to him, holding him, never never to let him go -again. And he, seeing his proud, confident, beloved Millie in desperate -need of him held her close, murmuring old words of their childhood to -her, stroking her hair, her face, her hands, looking at her with eyes -of the deepest, tenderest love.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="BOOK_IV" id="BOOK_IV">BOOK IV</a></h2> - -<h3>KNIGHT-ERRANT</h3> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a><br /><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Id" id="CHAPTER_Id">CHAPTER I</a></h2> - -<h3>MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND IS MADE UP AT LAST</h3> - - -<p>At the very moment in the afternoon when Millie was hiding herself from -a horrible world in a taxi Henry and Lady Bell-Hall were entering the -Hill Street house.</p> - -<p>The house was still and unresponsive; even Lady Bell-Hall, who was not -sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and hurried upstairs. -Henry hung up his coat and hat in the little room to the right of the -hall and went to the library.</p> - -<p>Herbert Spencer was there, seated at Sir Charles' table surrounded with -little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright new red tape. He -was making entries in a large book.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Trenchard," he said, and went on with his entries.</p> - -<p>Henry felt depressed. Although the day was sunny and warm the library -was cold. Spencer seemed most damnably in possession, his thin nose and -long thin fingers pervading everything. Henry went to his own table, -took his notes out of his despatch-box and sat down. He had a sudden -desire to have a violent argument with Spencer—about anything.</p> - -<p>"I say, Spencer—you might at least ask how Sir Charles is."</p> - -<p>Spencer carefully finished the note that he was making.</p> - -<p>"How is he?" he asked.</p> - -<p>Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table.</p> - -<p>"You're a cold-blooded fish!" he broke out indignantly. "Yes you are! -You've no feelings at all. If he dies the only sensation you'll have I -suppose is whether you'll still keep this job or no."</p> - -<p>Spencer said nothing but continued to write.</p> - -<p>"Thank heaven I am inaccurate," Henry went on. "It's awful being as -accurate as you are. It dries up all your natural feelings. There never -was a warm-blooded man yet who was really accurate. And it's the same -with languages. Any one who's a really good linguist is inhuman."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Indeed!" said Spencer, sniffing.</p> - -<p>"Yes. Indeed. . . ." retorted Henry indignantly. "I think it's -disgusting. Here's Duncombe, one of the finest men who's ever -lived. . . ."</p> - -<p>"I can't help feeling," said Spencer slowly, "that one is best serving -Sir Charles Duncombe's interests by carrying out the work that he has -left in our charge. I may be wrong, of course."</p> - -<p>He then performed one of his most regular and most irritating -habits—namely, he wiped a drop of moisture from his nose with the back -of his hand.</p> - -<p>"If you've made those notes on Cadell and Constable, Trenchard," he -added, "during these last days in the country, I shall be very glad to -have them."</p> - -<p>"Well, I haven't," said Henry. "So you can put that in your pipe and -smoke it. I haven't been able to concentrate on anything during the -last two days, and I shan't be able to either until the operation's -over."</p> - -<p>Spencer said nothing. He continued to work, then, as though suddenly -remembering something, he opened a drawer and produced from it two -sheets of foolscap paper thickly covered with writing.</p> - -<p>"I believe this is your handwriting, Trenchard," he said gravely. "I -found them in the waste-paper basket, where they had doubtless gone by -mistake."</p> - -<p>Trenchard took them and then blushed violently. The top of the first -page was headed:</p> - -<p>"Chapter XV. The Mystery of the Blue Closet."</p> - -<p>"Thanks," he said shortly, and took them to his own table.</p> - -<p>There was a silence for a long time while Henry, lost in a miserable -vague dream, gazed with unperceptive eyes at the portrait of the stout, -handsome Archibald Constable. Then came the luncheon-bell, and after -that quite a horrible meal alone with Lady Bell-Hall, who only said -two things from first to last. One: "The operation's to be on Tuesday -morning, I understand." The other: "I see coal's gone up again."</p> - -<p>After luncheon he felt that he could endure the terrible house no -longer. He must get out into the air. He must try and see Christina.</p> - -<p>Spencer returned from his luncheon just as Harry was leaving.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Are you going?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am," said Henry. "I can't stand this house to-day."</p> - -<p>"What about Cadell and Constable?" asked Spencer, sniffing.</p> - -<p>"Damn Cadell and Constable," said Henry, rushing out.</p> - -<p>In the street he thought suddenly of Millie. He stopped in Berkeley -Square thinking of her. Why? He had the strangest impulse to go off to -Cromwell Road and see her. But Christina drew him.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Millie . . . but he shook his head and hurried off towards -Peter Street.</p> - -<p>I have called this a Romantic Story because it is so largely Henry's -Story and Henry was a Romantic Young Man. He felt that it was his -solemn duty to be modern, cynical and realistic, but his romantic -spirit was so strong, so courageous, so scornful of the cynical parts -of him that it has dominated and directed him to this very day, and -will so continue to dominate, I suppose, until the hour of his death.</p> - -<p>To many a modern young man Mrs. Tenssen would have been merely a -nasty, dangerous, black-mailing woman, and Christina her pretty but -possibly not-so-innocent-as-she-appears daughter. But there the young -modern would have missed all the heart of the situation and Henry, -guided by his romantic spirit, went directly to it. He still believed -in the evil, spell-brewing, hag-like witch, the dusky wood, the -beautiful imprisoned Princess—nothing in the world seemed to him more -natural—and for once, just for once, he was exactly right!</p> - -<p>The Witch on this present occasion was, even thus early in the -afternoon, taking a cup of tea with her friend, Mrs. Armstrong. When -Henry came in they were sitting close together, and their heads were -turned towards the door as though they had suddenly been discovered -in some kind of conspiracy. Mrs. Tenssen tightened her thin lips when -she recognized her visitor, and Henry realized that a new crisis had -arrived in his adventure and that he must be prepared for a dramatic -interview.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, from the moment of his entry into that room his -depression dropped from him like the pack off Christian's back. Nothing -was ever lost by politeness.</p> - -<p>"Good afternoon, Mrs. Tenssen. Is Christina in?"</p> - -<p>He stood in the doorway smiling at the two women.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying.</p> - -<p>"No, she is not," she at length answered. "Nor is she likely to be. -Neither now nor later—not to-day and not to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"What's he asking?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong in her deep bass voice.</p> - -<p>"Whether Christina's in."</p> - -<p>Both the women laughed. It seemed to them an excellent joke.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her a message from me," Henry -said, suddenly involved in the strange miasma of horrid smell and -hateful sound that seemed to be forever floating in that room.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I will not," said Mrs. Tenssen, suddenly getting up from her -chair and facing him. "Now you've been hanging around here just about -enough, and it will please you to take yourself off once and for all or -I'll see that somebody makes you." She turned round to Mrs. Armstrong. -"It's perfectly disgusting what I've had to put up with from him. -You'll recollect that first day he broke in here through the window -just like any common thief. It's my belief it was thieving he was after -then and it's been thieving he's been after ever since. Damned little -squab.</p> - -<p>"Always sniffing round Christina and Christina fairly loathes the sight -of him. Why, it was only yesterday she said to me: 'Well, thank God, -mother, it's some weeks since we saw that young fool, bothering the -life out of me,' she said. Why, it isn't decent."</p> - -<p>"It is not," said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea. "I should have -the police in if he's any more of a nuisance."</p> - -<p>"That's a lie," said Henry, his cheeks flaming. Stepping forward, "And -you know it is. Where is Christina? What have you done with her? I'll -have the police here if you don't tell me."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen thrust her head forward, producing an extraordinary evil -expression with her white powdered face, her heavy black costume and -her hanging podgy fingers. "Call me a liar, do you? That's a nice, -pretty thing to call a lady, but I suppose it's about as much manners -as you <i>have</i> got. He's always talking about the police, my dear," -turning round to Mrs. Arm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>strong. "It's a mania he's got. Although what -good they're going to do him I'm sure I don't know. And a pretty thing -for Christina to be dragged into the courts. He's mad, my dear. That's -all there is about it."</p> - -<p>"I'm not mad," said Henry, "as you'll find out one day. You're trying -to do something horrible to Christina, but I'll prevent it if it kills -me."</p> - -<p>"And let me tell you," said Mrs. Tenssen, standing now, her arms -akimbo, "that if you set your foot inside that door again or bring -your ugly, dirty face inside this room I'll whip you out of it. I will -indeed, and you can have as many of your bloody police in as you like -to help you. All the police force if you care to. But I'll tell you -straight," here her voice rose suddenly into a violent scream, "that I -will bloody well scratch the skin off your face if you poke it in here -again . . . and now get out or I'll make you."</p> - -<p>Here I regret to say Henry's temper, never as tightly in control as it -should be, forsook him.</p> - -<p>"And I tell you," he shouted back, "that if you hurt a hair of -Christina's head I'll have you imprisoned for life and tortured too if -I can. And I'll come here just as often as I like until I'm sure of her -safety. You be careful what you do. . . . You'd better look out."</p> - -<p>He banged the door behind him and was stumbling down the dark stairs.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IId" id="CHAPTER_IId">CHAPTER II</a></h2> - -<h3>HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT</h3> - - -<p>In the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment against -a wall. He was trembling from head to foot, trembling with an -extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, indignation, and then anger -again. Christina had warned him months ago that this was coming. "When -mother makes up her mind," she said. Well, mother had made up her mind. -And to what?</p> - -<p>Where was Christina? Perhaps already she was being imprisoned in the -country somewhere and could not get word to him—punished possibly -until she consented to marry that horrible old man or some one equally -disgusting.</p> - -<p>The fear that he might now be too late—felt by him for the first -time—made him cold with dread. Hitherto, from the moment when he had -first seen the crimson feather in the Circus he had been sure that Fate -was with him, that the adventure had been arranged from the beginning -by some genial, warm-hearted Olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped -cloud, seeing Henry Trenchard and liking him in spite of his follies, -and determining to make him happy. But suppose after all, it should -not be so? What if Christina's life and happiness were ruined through -his own weakness and dallying and delay? He was so miserable at the -thought that he started back a step or two half-determining to face -the horrible Mrs. Tenssen again. But there was nothing at that moment -to be gained there. He turned down Peter Street, baffled as ever by -his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. What -was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him from his birth? -Good, practical common sense, that was what he needed. Would he ever -have it?</p> - -<p>He decided that Peter was his need. He would put his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> troubles to him -and do what he advised. Outside the upper part in Marylebone High -Street he rang the little tinkly bell, and then waited an eternity. -Nobody stirred. The house was dead. A grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and -rubbed itself against his leg. He rang again, and then again.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Peter appeared. He could not see through the dim obscurity of -the autumn afternoon.</p> - -<p>"Who's there?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"It's me. I mean I. Henry."</p> - -<p>"Henry?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Henry. Good heavens, Peter, it's as difficult to pass your gate -as Paradise's."</p> - -<p>Peter came forward.</p> - -<p>"Sorry, old man," he said. "I couldn't see. Look here——"</p> - -<p>He put his hand on Henry's shoulder hesitating. "Oh, all right. Come -in."</p> - -<p>"What! don't you want me?" said Henry, instantly, as always, suspicious -of an affront. "All right, I'll——"</p> - -<p>"No, you silly cuckoo. Come in."</p> - -<p>They passed in, and at once Henry perceived that something was -different. What was different? He could not tell. . . .</p> - -<p>He looked about him. Then in the middle of his curiosity the thought of -his many troubles overcame him and he began:</p> - -<p>"Peter, old man, I'm dreadfully landed. There's something that ought to -be done and I don't know what it is. I never do know. It's Christina -of course. I've just had the most awful scene with her mother; she's -cursed me like a fishwife and forbidden me to come near the house -again. Of course I knew that this was coming, but Christina warned me -that when it did come it would mean that her mother had finally made -up her mind to something and wasn't going to waste any time about -it. . . . Well, where's Christina, and how am I to get at her? I don't -know what's happening. They may be torturing her or anything. That -woman's capable of. . . ."</p> - -<p>He broke off, his eyes widening. The door from the inner room opened -and a woman came out.</p> - -<p>"Henry," said Peter, "let me introduce you. This is my wife."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> - -<p>Henry's first thought was: "Now I must show no surprise at this. I -mustn't hurt Peter's feelings." And his second: "Oh dear! Poor thing! -How terribly ill she looks!"</p> - -<p>His consciousness of her was at once so strong that he forgot himself -and Peter. He had never seen any one in the least like her before: this -was not Peter's wife come back to him, but some one who had peered up -for a moment out of a world so black and tragic that Henry had never -even guessed at its existence. Not his experiences in the War, not his -mother's death, nor Duncombe's tragedy, nor Christina and her horrible -parent were real to him as was suddenly this little woman with her -strange yellow hair, her large angry eyes, her shabby black dress. What -a face!—he would never forget it so long as life lasted—with its -sickness and anger and disgust and haggard rebellion.</p> - -<p>Yes, there were worse things than the War, worse things than assaults -on the body, than maiming and sudden death. His young inexperience took -a shoot into space at that instant when he first saw Clare Westcott.</p> - -<p>She stared at him scornfully, then she suddenly put her hand to her -throat and sat down on the sofa with pain in her eyes and a stare of -rebellious anger as though she were saying:</p> - -<p>"I'll escape you yet. . . . But you're damned persistent. . . . Leave -me, can't you?"</p> - -<p>Peter came to her. "Clare, this is Henry Trenchard—my best friend."</p> - -<p>Henry came across holding out his hand:</p> - -<p>"How do you do? I'm very glad to meet you?"</p> - -<p>She gave him her hand, it was hot and dry.</p> - -<p>"So you're one of Peter's friends?" she said, still scornfully. "You're -much younger than he is."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am," he said. "But that doesn't prevent our being splendid -friends."</p> - -<p>"Do you write too?" she asked, but with no curiosity, wearily, angrily, -her eyes moving like restless candles lighting up a room that was dark -for her.</p> - -<p>"I hope to," he answered, "but it's hard to get started—harder than -ever it was."</p> - -<p>"Peter didn't find it hard when he began. Did you, Peter?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> she asked, -a curious note of irony in her voice. "He began right away—with a -great flourish. Every one talking about him. . . . Didn't quite keep it -up though," she ended, her voice sinking into a mutter.</p> - -<p>"Never mind all that now," Peter said, trying to speak lightly.</p> - -<p>"Why not mind it?" she broke in sharply. "That young man's your friend, -isn't he? He ought to know what you were like when you were young. -Those happy days. . . ." She laughed bitterly. "Oh! I ruined his work, -you know," she went on. "Yes, I did. All my fault. Now see what he's -become. He's grown fat. You've grown fat, Peter, got quite a stomach. -You hadn't then or I wouldn't have married you. Are you married?" she -said, suddenly turning on Henry.</p> - -<p>"No," he answered.</p> - -<p>"Well, don't you be. I've tried it and I know. Marriage is just -this: If you're unhappy it's hell, and if you're happy it makes you -soft. . . ."</p> - -<p>She seemed then suddenly to have said enough. She leant back against -the cushion, not regarding any more the two men, brooding. . . .</p> - -<p>There was a long silence.</p> - -<p>Peter said at last: "Are you tired, dear? Would you like to go and lie -down?"</p> - -<p>She came suddenly up from the deep water of her own thoughts.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." She got up slowly. "Well, I'll -go."</p> - -<p>"No," he answered eagerly. "If you'll lie down on this sofa I'll make -it comfortable for you. Then Harry shall tell us what he's been doing."</p> - -<p>She stood, her hands on her hips, her body swaying ever so slightly.</p> - -<p>"Tum-te-tiddledy . . . Tum-te-tiddledy. Poor little thing——! Was it -ill? Must it be fussed over and have cushions and be made to lie down? -If you're ever ill," she said to Henry, "don't you let Peter nurse -you. He'll fuss the life out of you. He's a regular old woman. He -always was. He hasn't changed a bit. Fuss, fuss—fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh! -he's very kind, Peter is, so thoughtful. Well, why shouldn't I stay? -I haven't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> seen so many new faces in the last few days that a new one -isn't amusing. When did you first meet Peter?"</p> - -<p>"Oh some while ago now," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Have you read his books?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Do you like them?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do."</p> - -<p>She suddenly lay back on the sofa and, to Henry's surprise, without any -protest allowed Peter to wrap a rug round her, arrange the cushions for -her. She caught his shoulder with her hand and pressed it.</p> - -<p>"I used to like to do that," she said, nodding to Henry. "When we were -married years ago. Strong muscles he's got still. Haven't you, Peter? -Oh, we'll be a model married couple yet."</p> - -<p>She looked at Henry, more gently now and with a funny crooked smile.</p> - -<p>"Do you know how long we've been married? Years and years and years. -I'm over forty you know. You wouldn't think it, would you? . . . Say -you wouldn't think it."</p> - -<p>"Of course I wouldn't," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"That's very nice of you. Why, he's blushing! Look at him blushing, -Peter! It's a long time since I've done any blushing. Are you in love -with any one?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"When are you going to be married?"</p> - -<p>"Never," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Never! Why! doesn't she like you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but she doesn't want to be married."</p> - -<p>"That's wise of her. It's hard on Peter my coming back like this, but -I'm not going to stay long. As soon as I'm better I'm going away. Then -he can divorce me."</p> - -<p>"Clare dear, don't——"</p> - -<p>"Just the same as you used to be."</p> - -<p>"Clare dear, don't——"</p> - -<p>"Clare, dear, you mustn't. . . . Oh, men do like to have it their own -way. So long as you love a man you can put up with it, but when you -don't love him any more then it's hard to put up with. How awful for -you, Peter darling, if I'm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> never strong enough to go away—if I'm a -permanent invalid on your hands for ever—— Won't that be fun for you? -Rather amusing to see how you'll hate it—and me. You hate me now, but -it's nothing to the way you'll hate me after a year or two. . . . Do -you know Chelsea?"</p> - -<p>"I've been there once or twice," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"That's where we used to live—in our happy married days. A dear little -house we had—the house I ran away from. We had a baby too, but that -died. Peter was fond of that baby, fonder than he ever was of me."</p> - -<p>She turned on her side, beating the cushions into new shapes. "Oh, -well, that's all over long ago—long, long ago." She forgot the men -again, staring in front of her.</p> - -<p>Henry waited a little, then said a word to Peter and went.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIId" id="CHAPTER_IIId">CHAPTER III</a></h2> - -<h3>A DEATH AND A BATTLE</h3> - - -<p>Yes, life was now crowding in upon Henry indeed, crowding him in, -stamping on him, treading him down. No sooner had he received one -impact than another was upon him—— Such women as Clare, in regular -daily life, in the closest connection with his own most intimate -friend! As he hurried away down Marylebone High Street his great -thought was that he wanted to do something for her, to take that angry -tragedy out of her eyes, to make her happy. Peter wouldn't make her -happy. They would never be happy together. He and Peter would never be -able to deal with a case like Clare's, there was something too naïve, -too childish in them. How she despised both of them, as though they had -been curates on their visiting-day in the slums.</p> - -<p>Oh, Henry understood that well enough. But didn't all women despise all -men unless they were in love with them or wanted to be in love with -them or had helped to produce them?</p> - -<p>And then again, when you thought of it, didn't all men despise all -women with the same exceptions? Clare's scorn of him tingled in his -ears and made his eyes smart. And what she must have been through to -look like that!</p> - -<p>He dreamt of her that night; he was in thick jungle and she, -tiger-shaped, was hunting him and some one shouted to him: "Look to -yourself! Climb into yourself! The only place you're safe in!"</p> - -<p>But he couldn't find the way in, the door was locked and the window -barred: he knew it was quiet in there and cool and secure, but the hot -jungle was roaming with tigers and they were closer and closer. . . .</p> - -<p>He woke to Mary Cass's urgent call on the telephone.</p> - -<p>Then, when Millie was in his arms all else was forgotten by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> -him—Clare, Christina, Duncombe, work, all, all forgotten. He was -terrified, that she should suffer like this. It was worse, far worse, -than that he should suffer himself. All the days of their childhood, -all the <i>tiniest</i> things—were now there between them, holding and -binding them as nothing else could hold and bind.</p> - -<p>Now that tears could come to her she was released and free, the -strange madness of that night and day was over and she could tell -him everything. Her pride came back to her as she told him, but when -he started up and wanted to go at once and find Baxter and drag him -through the streets of London by the scruff of his neck and then hang -him from the top of the Tower she said: "No, Henry dear, it's no use -being angry. Anger isn't in this. I understand how it was. He's weak, -Bunny is, and he'll always be weak, and he'll always be a trouble to -any woman who loves him, but in his own way he did love me. But I'm not -clear yet. It's been my fault terribly as well as his. I shouldn't have -listened to Ellen, or if I did, should have gone further. I would take -him back, but I haven't any right to him. If he'd told me everything -from the beginning I could have gone and seen his mother, I could have -found out how it really was. Now I shall never know. But what I <i>do</i> -know is that somehow he thought he'd slip through, and that if there -<i>was</i> a way, he'd leave that girl to her unhappiness. If he could have -found a way he wouldn't have cared how unhappy she was. He would be -glad for her to die. I can't love him any more after that. I can't -love him, but I shall miss all that that love was . . . the little -things. . . ."</p> - -<p>By the evening of that day she was perfectly calm. For three days he -scarcely left her side—and he was walking with a stranger. She had -grown in the space of that night so much older that she was now ahead -of him. She had been a child; she was now a woman.</p> - -<p>She told him that Baxter had written to her and that she had answered -him. She went back to Victoria. She was calm, quiet—and, as he knew, -most desperately unhappy.</p> - -<p>He had a little talk with Mary.</p> - -<p>"She'll never get over it," he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh yes, she will," said Mary. "How sentimental you are, Henry!"</p> - -<p>"I'm not sentimental," said Henry indignantly. "But I know my sister -better than you know her."</p> - -<p>"You may know your sister," Mary retorted, "but you don't know anything -about women. They must have something to look after. If you take one -thing away, they'll find something else. It's their only religion, and -it's the religion they want, not the prophets."</p> - -<p>She added: "Millie is far more interested in life than I am. She is -enchanted by it. Nothing and nobody will stop her excitement about -it. Nobody will ever keep her back from it. She'll go on to her death -standing up in the middle of it, tossing it around——</p> - -<p>"You're like her in that, but you'll never see life as it really is. -She will. And she'll face it all——"</p> - -<p>"What a lot you think you know," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know Millie."</p> - -<p>"But she's terribly unhappy."</p> - -<p>"And so she will be—until she's found some one more unhappy than -herself. But even unhappiness is part of the excitement of life to her."</p> - -<p>After a dreamless night he awoke to a sudden consciousness that Millie, -Clare Westcott and Christina were in his room. He stirred, raising his -head very gently and seemed to catch the shadow of Christina's profile -in the grey light of the darkened window.</p> - -<p>He sat up and, bending over to his chair where his watch lay, saw -that it was nine o'clock. As he sprang out of bed, King entered with -breakfast and an aggrieved expression. "Knocked a hour ago, sir, and -you hanswered," he said.</p> - -<p>"Must have been in my sleep then," said Henry yawning, then suddenly -conscious of his shabby and faded pyjamas.</p> - -<p>"Can't say, I'm sure, sir . . . knocked loud enough for anything. No -letters this morning, sir."</p> - -<p>Henry was still at the innocent and optimistic age when letters are an -excitement and a hope. He always felt that the world was deliberately, -for malicious and cruel reasons of its own, forgetting him when there -were no letters.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was splashing in his tin bath, his bony and angular body like a -study for an El Greco, when he remembered. Tuesday—nine o'clock. -Why? . . . What! . . . Duncombe's operation.</p> - -<p>He hurried then as he had never hurried before, gulping down his tea, -choking over his egg, flinging on his clothes, throwing water on his -head and plastering it down, tumbling down the stairs into the street.</p> - -<p>A clock struck the half-hour as he hastened into Berkeley Square. -He had now no thought but for his beloved master; every interest in -life had faded before that. He seemed to be with him there in the -nursing home. He could watch it all, the summoning, the procession -into the operating theatre, the calm, white-clad surgeon, the nurses, -the anaesthetic. . . . His hand was on the Hill Street door bell. He -hesitated, trembling. The street was so still in the misty autumn -morning, a faint scent in the air of something burning, of tar, of -fading leaves. A painted town, a painted sky and some figures in the -foreground, breathlessly waiting.</p> - -<p>The old butler opened the door. He turned back as Henry entered, -pointing to the dark and empty hall as though that stood for all that -he could say.</p> - -<p>"Well?" said Henry. "Is there any news yet?"</p> - -<p>"Sir Charles died under the operation. . . . Her ladyship has just been -rung up——"</p> - -<p>The old man moved away.</p> - -<p>"I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe it. . . . It isn't -natural! Such a few good ones in the world. It isn't right." He stood -as though he were lost, fingering the visiting-cards on the table. He -suddenly raised dull imperceptive eyes to Henry! "They can say what -they like about new times coming and all being equal. . . . There'll -be masters all the same and not another like Sir Charles. Good he was, -good all through." He faded away.</p> - -<p>Henry went upstairs. He was so lost that he stood in the library -looking about him and wondering who that was at the long table. It was -Herbert Spencer with his packets of letters and his bright red tape.</p> - -<p>"Sir Charles is dead," Henry said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> - -<p>The books across that wide space echoed: "Sir Charles is dead."</p> - -<p>Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them drop, -glanced up.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I say! I'm sorry! . . . Oh dear!" he got up, staring at the -distant bookshelves. "After the operation?"</p> - -<p>"During it."</p> - -<p>"Dear, dear. And I thought in these days they were clever enough for -anything." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Not much use -going on working to-day, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>Henry did not hear.</p> - -<p>"Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose?" he repeated.</p> - -<p>"No, none," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"You'll be carrying the letters on, I suppose?" he said.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," Henry answered.</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, it's like this. I've got my regular work I'll have to -be getting back to it if this isn't going on. I was put on to this -until it was finished, but if it isn't going to be finished, then I'd -like to know you see——"</p> - -<p>"Of course it's going to be finished," said Henry suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Well then——" said Herbert Spencer.</p> - -<p>"And I'll tell you this," said Henry, suddenly shouting, "it's going -to be finished splendidly too. It's going to be better than you can -imagine. And you're going to work harder and I'm going to work harder -than we've ever done in our lives. It's going to be the best thing -that's ever been. . . . It's all we can do," he added, suddenly -dropping his voice.</p> - -<p>"All right," said Herbert Spencer calmly. "I'll come to-morrow then. -What I mean to say is that it isn't any use my staying to-day."</p> - -<p>"It's what he cared for more than anything," Henry cried. "It's got to -be beautiful."</p> - -<p>"I'll be here to-morrow then," said Spencer, gathered his papers -together and went.</p> - -<p>Henry walked round, touching the backs of the books with his hand. He -had known that this would be. There was no surprise here. But that -he would never see Sir Charles again nor hear his odd, dry, ironical -voice, nor see his long nose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> raise itself across the table—that was -strange. That was indeed incredible. His mind wandered back to that -day when Duncombe had first looked at the letters and then, when Henry -was expecting curses, had blessed him instead. That indeed had been -a crisis in his life—a crisis like the elopement of Katherine with -Philip, the outbreak of the War, the meeting with Christina—one of the -great steps of the ladder of life. He felt now, as we all must feel -when some one we love has gone, the burden of all the kindness undone, -the courtesy unexpressed, the tenderness untended.</p> - -<p>And then he comforted himself, still wandering, pressing with his hands -the old leather backs and the faded gilding, with the thought that at -least, out there at Duncombe, Sir Charles had loved him and had spoken -out the things that were really in his heart, the things that he would -not have said to any one for whom he had not cared. That last night in -Duncombe, the candle lighting the old room, Sir Charles had kissed him -as he might his own dearly loved son. And perhaps even now he had not -gone very far away.</p> - -<p>Henry climbed the little staircase into the gallery and moved into the -dusky corners. He came to the place that he always loved best, where -the old English novelists were, Bage and Mackenzie and absurd Clara -Reeved and Mrs. Opie and Godwin.</p> - -<p>He took out <i>Barham Downs</i> and turned over the leaves, repeating to -himself the old artificial sentences, the redundant moralizing; the -library closed about him, put its arms around him, and told him once -again, as it had told him once before, that death is not the end and -that friendship and love know no physical boundaries.</p> - -<p>Hearing a step he looked up and saw below him Lady Bell-Hall. She -raised her little pig-face to the gallery and then waited, a black -doll, for him to come down to her.</p> - -<p>When he was close to her she said very quietly: "My brother died under -the operation."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have heard," Henry said.</p> - -<p>She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: "Every one -matters now for whom he cared," she said. "And he cared for you very -much. Only yesterday when I saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> in the nursing-home he said how much -he owed to you. He wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be."</p> - -<p>"Indeed, indeed we will be," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"What I want," she said, her upper lip trembling like a child's, "is -for every one to know how good he was—how wonderfully good! So few -people knew him—they thought him stiff and proud. He was shy and -reserved. But his goodness! There never was any one so good—there -never will be again. <i>You</i> knew that. You felt it. . . . I don't -know . . . I can't believe that we shall never—never again . . . -see . . . hear . . ."</p> - -<p>She began to cry, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and he suddenly, -as though he were many years older than she, put his arm around her. -She leant her head against him and he stood there awkwardly, longing -to comfort her, not knowing what to say. But that moment between them -sealed a friendship.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless when he left the house he was in a curious rage with life. -On so many occasions he himself had been guilty of spoiling life, and -even in his worst moods of arrogance and ill-temper he had recognised -that.</p> - -<p>But often during the War he had seen cloven hoofs pushing the world, -now here, now there, and had heard the laughter of the demons watching -from their dusky woods. At such times his imagination had faded as the -sunlit glow fades from the sky, leaving steel-grey and cold horizons -all sharply defined and of a menacing reality.</p> - -<p>In his imagination he had seen Duncombe depart, and the picture had -been coloured with soft-tinted promises and gentle prophecies—now -in the harsh fact Duncombe was gone just as the letter-box stood in -Hill Street and the trees were naked in Berkeley Square. Life had no -right to do this, and even, so arrogantly certain are we all of our -personalities, he felt that this desire should be important enough to -defeat life's purpose.</p> - -<p>Christina and her mother, Millie and her lover, Duncombe and his -operation, what was life about to permit these things? How strongly he -felt in his youth his own certainty of survival, but one cock of life's -finger and where was he?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> - -<p>Well, he was in Piccadilly Circus, and once again, as many months -before, he stopped on the edge of the pavement looking across at the -winged figure, feeling all the eddy of the busy morning life about -him, swaying now here, now there, like strands of coloured silk, above -which were human faces, but impersonal, abstracted, like fish in a -shining sea. The people, the place, then suddenly through his own anger -and soreness and sense of loss that moment of expectation again when -he rose gigantic above the turmoil, when beautiful music sounded. The -movement, suddenly apprehensive, ceased! like God he raised his hand, -the fountain swayed, the ground opened and——</p> - -<p>Standing almost at his side, unconscious of him, waiting apparently for -an omnibus, was Baxter.</p> - -<p>At the sight of that hated face, seen by him before only for a moment -but never to be forgotten, rage took him by the throat, his heart -pounded, his hands shook; in another instant he had Baxter by the -waistcoat and was shaking him.</p> - -<p>"You blackguard! You blackguard! You blackguard!" he cried. Then he -stepped back; "Come on, you swine! You dirty coward! . . ." With his -hand he struck him across the face.</p> - -<p>At that moment Baxter must have been the most astonished man in -England. He was waiting for his omnibus and suddenly some one from -nowhere had caught him by the throat, screamed at him, smacked his -cheek. He was no coward; he responded nobly, and in a whirl of sky, -omnibuses, women, shop-window and noise they were involved, until, -slipping over the edge of the kerb, they fell both into the road.</p> - -<p>Baxter, rising first, muttered: "Look here! What the devil . . ." then -suddenly realized his opponent.</p> - -<p>They had no opportunity for a further encounter. A crowd had instantly -gathered and was pressing them in. A policeman had his hand on Henry's -collar.</p> - -<p>"Now, then, what's all this?"</p> - -<p>No one can tell what were Baxter's thoughts, the tangle of his -emotions, regrets, pride, remorse, since that last scene with Millie. -All that is known is that he pushed aside some small boy pressing up -with excited wonder in his face, brushed through the crowd and was -gone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p> - -<p>Henry remained. He stood up, the centre of an excited circle, the -policeman's hand on his shoulder. His glasses were gone and the world -was a blur; he had a large bump on his forehead, his breath came in -confused, excited pants, his collar was torn. So suddenly had the -incident occurred that no one could give an account of it. Some one had -been knocked down by some one—or had some one fallen? Was it a robbery -or an attempted murder? Out of the mist of voices and faces the large, -broad shoulders of the policeman were the only certain fact.</p> - -<p>"Now, then, clear out of this. . . . Move along there." The policeman -looked at Henry; Henry looked at the policeman. Instantly there was -sympathy between them. The policeman's face was round and red like a -sun; his eyes were mild as a cow's.</p> - -<p>Henry found that his hat was on his head, that he was withdrawn from -the crowd, that he and the policeman together were moving towards -Panton Street. Endeavours had been made to find the other man. There -was apparently no Other Man. There had never been one according to one -shrill-voiced lady.</p> - -<p>"Now what's all this about?" asked the policeman. His tone was fatherly -and even affectionate.</p> - -<p>"I—hit him," said Henry, panting.</p> - -<p>"Well, where is 'e?" asked the policeman, vaguely looking about.</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I don't care. You can arrest me if you like," panted -Henry.</p> - -<p>"Well, I ought to give you in charge by rights," said the policeman, -"but seeing as the other feller's 'ooked it—— What did you do it for?"</p> - -<p>"I'm not going to say."</p> - -<p>"You'll have to say if I take you to Bow Street."</p> - -<p>"You can if you like."</p> - -<p>The policeman looked at Henry, shaking his head. "It's the War," he -said. "You wouldn't believe what a number of seemingly peaceable people -are knocking one another about. You don't look very savage. You'll have -to give me your name and address."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p> - -<p>Henry gave it.</p> - -<p>"Why, here's your lodging. . . . You seem peaceable enough." He shook -his head again. "It don't do," he said, "just knocking people down when -you feel like it. That's Bolshevism, that is."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad I knocked him down," said Henry.</p> - -<p>"You'd feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in Bow Street. -But I know myself how tempting it is. You'll learn to restrain yourself -when you come to my age. Now you go in and 'ave a wash and brush up. -You need it." He patted Henry paternally on the shoulder. "I don't -expect you're likely to hear much more of it."</p> - -<p>With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry stumbled up to his -room.</p> - -<p>Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn't expecting it. -But he felt better. His head was aching like hell. But he felt better. -And to-morrow he would work at those letters like a fanatic. He washed -his face and realized with pleasure that although it was only the -middle of the morning he was extremely hungry. Millie—yes, he was glad -that he had hit Baxter.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVd" id="CHAPTER_IVd">CHAPTER IV</a></h2> - -<h3>MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH</h3> - - -<p>On the next afternoon about four of the clock Millie was writing -letters with a sort of vindictive fury at Victoria's desk. Beppo had -just brought her a cup of tea; there it stood at her side with the -bread and butter badly cut as usual. But she did not care. She must -<span class="smcap">work, work, work</span>.</p> - -<p>Like quicksilver were her fingers, her eyes flashed fire, the rain beat -upon the windows and the loneliness and desolation were held at bay.</p> - -<p>The door opened and in came Major Mereward; he looked as usual, -untidy, with his hair towselled, his moustache ragged and his trousers -baggy—not a military major at all—but now a light shone in his eyes -and his eyebrows gleamed with the reflection of it. He knew that Millie -was his friend, and coming close to her and stammering, he said:</p> - -<p>"Miss Trenchard. It's all right. It's all right. Victoria will marry -me."</p> - -<p>Her heart leaped up. She was astonished at the keenness of her -pleasure. She could then still care for other people's happiness.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I am glad! I am <i>glad</i>!" she cried, jumping up and shaking him -warmly by the hand. "I never was more pleased about anything."</p> - -<p>"Well, now, that <i>is</i> nice—that's very nice of you. It will be all -right, won't it? You know I'll do my best to make her happy."</p> - -<p>"Why, of course you will," cried Millie. "You know that I've wanted her -to marry you from ever so long ago. It's just what I wanted."</p> - -<p>He set back his shoulders, looking so suddenly a man of strength and -character that Millie was astonished.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I know that I'm not very clever," he said. "Not in your sort of way, -but cleverness isn't everything when you come to my time of life and -Victoria's."</p> - -<p>"No, indeed it isn't," said Millie with conviction.</p> - -<p>"I'm glad you think so," he said, sighing so hastily that quite a -little breeze sprang up. "I thought you'd feel otherwise. But I know -Victoria better than she thinks. I'm sure I shall make her happy."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure you will," said Millie. They shook hands again. Mereward -looked about him confusedly.</p> - -<p>"Well, I mustn't keep you from your work. Hard at it, I see. Hum, -yes . . . Hard at it, I see," and went.</p> - -<p>Millie sat at her desk, her head propped on her hands. She wasn't dead -then? She drank her tea and smoked a cigarette. Not dead as far as -others were concerned. For herself, of course, life was entirely over. -She must drag herself along, like a wounded bird, until death chose -to come and take her. The tea was delicious. She got up and looked at -herself in the glass. She was wearing an old orange jumper to-day; -she'd put it on just because it was old and it didn't matter what she -wore. Yes, it <i>was</i> old. Time to buy another one. There was one—a -kind of purple—in Debenham & Freebody's window. . . . But why think -of jumpers when her life was over? Only five days ago she had died, -and here she was thinking of jumpers. Well, that was because she was -so glad about Victoria. However finished your own personal life might -be that did not mean that you could not be interested in the lives of -others. She loved Victoria, and it would have been horrible had she -married that terrible Bennett. Now Victoria was safe and Millie was -<i>glad</i>. She must find her and tell her so.</p> - -<p>She found her, as she expected, in her bedroom. Victoria had been -wonderful to her during those three days, using a tact that you never -would have expected. She must have known what had occurred but she had -made no allusion to it, had not asked where He was, had watched over -Millie with a tenderness and solicitude that, even though a little -irritating, was very touching.</p> - -<p>Now she sat in her bedroom armchair, still wearing her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> gay hat with -peacocks' feathers; she was near laughter, nearer tears and altogether -in a considerable confusion. Millie flung her arms around her and -kissed her.</p> - -<p>"Well, now, you've got your way," said Victoria, "and I hope you're -glad. If the marriage is a terrible failure it will be all your fault; -I hope you realize your responsibility. It was simply because I -couldn't go on being nagged by you any longer. Poor man. He did look so -funny when he proposed to me, and when I said yes he just ran out of -the room. He didn't kiss me or anything."</p> - -<p>"He's just mad with delight," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Is he? Well, it's settled." She sat up, pushing her hat straight. "All -my adventures are over, my Millie. It's a very sad thing, when you come -to think of it. A quiet life for me now. It certainly wouldn't have -been quiet with Mr. Bennett."</p> - -<p>"Now don't you go sighing over him," said Millie. "Make the most of -your Major."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I shan't sigh after him," said Victoria, sighing nevertheless. -"But it would be lovely to feel wildly in love. I don't feel wildly in -love at all. Do you know, Millie mine, it's exactly what I feel if I -want to buy a dress that's too expensive for me. Excited for days and -days as to whether I will or I won't. And then I decide that I will and -the excitement's all over. Of course I have the dress. But it isn't as -nice as the excitement."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps the excitement will come with marriage," said Millie, feeling -infinitely old. "It often does."</p> - -<p>"Now how ridiculous," cried Victoria, jumping up, "to talk of -excitement at my age. I ought to be thankful that I can be married at -all. I'm sure he's a good man. Perhaps I wish that he weren't quite so -good as he is."</p> - -<p>"You wait," said Millie, "he may develop terribly after marriage. They -often do. He may beat you and spend your money riotously and leave you -for weeks at a time."</p> - -<p>"Oh, do you think so?" said Victoria, her cheeks flushing. "That would -be splendid. Just the risk of it, I mean. But I'm afraid there isn't -much hope. . . ."</p> - -<p>"You never know," Millie replied. "And now, dear, if you'll let me I'll -be off. You'll find all the letters answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> in a pile on the desk -waiting for you to sign. The one from Mr. Block I've left you to answer -for yourself." She paused. "After your marriage you won't be wanting me -any more, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"Want you! I shall want you more than ever. You darling! I'm never -going to let you go unless you——" Here she felt on dangerous ground -and ended, "unless you want to go yourself, I mean."</p> - -<p>"No, you didn't mean that," said Millie. "What you meant was unless I -marry. Well, you can make your mind easy—I'm never going to marry. -Never! I'm going to die an old maid."</p> - -<p>"And you so beautiful!" cried Victoria. "I don't think so," and she -threw her arms round Millie's neck and gave her one of those soft and -soapy kisses that Millie so especially detested.</p> - -<p>But on her way home she forgot the newly-engaged. The full tide of -her own personal wretchedness swept up and swallowed her in dark and -blinding waters. She had noticed that it was always like that. She -seemed free—coldly, indifferently free—independent of the world, -standing and watching with scorn humanity, and then of a sudden the -waters caught, at her feet, the tide drew her, the foam was in her eyes -and with agony she drowned in the flood of recollection, of vanished -tenderness, of frustrated hope.</p> - -<p>It was so now: she did not see the people with her in the Tube nor hear -their voices. Only she saw Bunny and heard his voice and felt his cheek -against hers.</p> - -<p>Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to return to -him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact or argument, -but only, as it had been that first night, the impulse to return, to -find him again, to be with him and near him at all possible cost or -sacrifice.</p> - -<p>She was fighting her own misery, staring in front of her, her hands -clenched on her lap, when she heard her name called. At first the voice -seemed to call from far away: "Millie! Millie!" Then quite close to -her. Some one, sitting almost opposite to her was leaning forward and -speaking to her. She raised her head out of her own troubles and looked -and saw that it was Peter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> - -<p>Peter! The very sight of his square shoulders and thick, resolute -figure reassured her. Peter! Strangely she had not actually thought -of him in all this recent trouble, but the consciousness of him had -nevertheless been there behind her. She smiled, her face breaking into -light, and then, with that swift sympathy that trouble gives, she -realized that he himself was unhappy. Something had happened to him, -and how tired he was! His eyes were pinched with grey lines, his head -hung forward a little as though it was tumbling to sleep.</p> - -<p>Just then Baker Street Station arrived and they got out together. He -caught her arm and they went up in the lift together. They came out -to a lovely autumn evening, the sky dotted with silver stars and the -wall of Tussaud's pearl-grey against the faint jade of the fading -light. "What's the matter, Millie?" he asked. "I haven't seen you for -a fortnight. I was watching you before I spoke to you. You looked too -tragic before I spoke to you. What's up?"</p> - -<p>"I was going to ask you the same question," she said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm only tired. Here, I'll walk with you as far as your rooms. I -want to get an evening paper anyway."</p> - -<p>"Only tired? What's made you?"</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. That is, if -you want to."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my trouble!" she shrugged her shoulders. "Ordinary enough, Peter. -But I don't think I can talk about it, if you don't mind—at least not -yet. Only this. That I'm not engaged and I'm never going to be again. -I'm a free woman Peter."</p> - -<p>She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an instant his -hand pressed against her side with such force that it hurt. Then he -took his hand from her arm and walked apart. He walked in silence, -rolling a little from leg to leg as was his way. And he said nothing. -She waited. She expected him to ask some question. He said nothing. -Then, when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his voice -husky, he said:</p> - -<p>"My trouble is that my wife's come back."</p> - -<p>It took her some little while to realize that—then she said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Your wife?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don't mean that <i>that's</i> a -trouble. But she's ill—very ill indeed. She's very unhappy. She's had -a terrible time."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Peter, I <i>am</i> sorry!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's difficult after all this time—difficult to find the -joining-points. And I'm not very good at that—clumsy and slow."</p> - -<p>"Is her illness serious? What is it?"</p> - -<p>"Everything! Everything's the matter with her—heart and all. But that -isn't her chief trouble. She's so lonely. Can't get near to anybody. -It's so difficult to help her. I'm stupid," he repeated. They had come -to Millie's door. They stood there facing one another in the dusk.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I <i>am</i> sorry," she repeated.</p> - -<p>"Well, you must help me," he suddenly jerked out, almost roughly. "Only -you can."</p> - -<p>"Help you? How?"</p> - -<p>"Come and see her."</p> - -<p>"I? . . . Oh no!" Millie shrank back.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you must. Perhaps you can talk to her. Make her laugh a little. -Make her a little less unhappy."</p> - -<p>"I make any one laugh?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Just to look at you will do her good. Something beautiful. -Something to take her out of herself——"</p> - -<p>"Oh no, Peter, I can't. Please, please don't ask me."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, you must." He was glaring at her as though he would strike -her. "Do you remember when we three were in Henry's room alone and we -swore friendship? We swore to help one another. Well, this is a way you -can help me. And you've got to do it."</p> - -<p>"Peter, don't ask me—just now——"</p> - -<p>"Yes, now—at once. You have got to."</p> - -<p>Suddenly she submitted.</p> - -<p>"Very well, then. But I'll be no good. I'm no use to any one just now."</p> - -<p>"When will you come?"</p> - -<p>"Soon. . . ."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, definitely. To-morrow. What time?"</p> - -<p>"Not to-morrow, Peter. The day after."</p> - -<p>"Yes, to-morrow. To-morrow afternoon. About five."</p> - -<p>"Very well."</p> - -<p>"I'll expect you." He strode off. It was not until she was in her room -that she realized that he had said no single word about her broken -engagement.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Vd" id="CHAPTER_Vd">CHAPTER V</a></h2> - -<h3>AND FINDS SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF</h3> - - -<p>Millie stood in Peter's room looking about her with uneasy discomfort. -She was alone there: Peter, after greeting her, had gone into the -bedroom. She felt that he was in there protesting and arguing with some -one who refused a meeting. She hated him for putting her in so false -a position. She was tired with her day's work. Victoria, now that she -was engaged, allowing, nay encouraging, moods to sweep across her as -swiftly as clouds traverse the sun. She would wait only a moment longer -and then she would go. She had kept her word to Peter by coming. That -was enough.</p> - -<p>The door opened, and a little woman, a shawl around her shoulders, came -out, moved to the sofa without looking at Millie, and lay down upon -it. Peter followed her, arranged the cushions for her, drew a little -table to her side and placed a cup and saucer upon it. Millie, in spite -of herself, was touched by the careful clumsiness of his movements. -Nevertheless she longed to do these things herself.</p> - -<p>Peter turned to her. "Clare, dear," he said, "I want you to know a very -great friend of mine, Miss Trenchard. Millie, dear, this is my wife."</p> - -<p>Millie came over to the sofa, and in spite of her proud self-control -her heart beat with pity. She realized at that instant that here was -a woman who had gone so far in life's experience beyond her own timid -venturings that there could be no comparison at all between them. Her -passionate love of truth was one of her finest traits; one glance at -Clare Westcott's face and her own little story faded into nothingness -before that weariness, that anger, that indignation.</p> - -<p>She took Clare's hand and then sat down, drawing a chair closer to the -sofa. Peter had left the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's kind of you to come and see me," Clare said indifferently, her -eyes roaming about the room.</p> - -<p>"Peter asked me," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know," Clare said. "Do come and see my poor wife. She's very -ill, she hasn't long to live. She's had a very bad time. You'll cheer -her up. Wasn't that it?"</p> - -<p>Millie laughed. "He said that you'd been ill and he'd like me to come -and see you. But I believe it was more to do me good than you. I've -been in a bit of trouble myself and have altogether been thinking too -much about myself."</p> - -<p>Millie's laugh attracted Clare's attention. Her wandering glance -suddenly settled on Millie's face.</p> - -<p>"You're beautiful," she said. "I like all that bright colour. Purple -suits you and you wear clothes well, too, which hardly any English -girls do. It's clever, that little bit of white there. . . . Nice shoes -you have . . . lovely hair. I wonder . . ."</p> - -<p>She broke off, staring at Millie. "Why, of course! You're the girl -Peter's in love with."</p> - -<p>"Me!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, you. Of course I discovered after I'd been back an hour that -there was somebody. Peter isn't so subtle but that you can't find out -what he's thinking. Besides, I knew him twenty years ago and he hasn't -changed as much as I have. <i>You're</i> the girl! Well, I'm not sorry. I -did him an injury twenty years ago, more or less ruined his life for -him, and I won't be sorry to do him a good turn before I go. You won't -have long to wait, my dear. I was very nearly finished last night, if -you want to know. I can tell you a few things about Peter that it will -be good for you to understand if you're going to live with him."</p> - -<p>"Oh, but you're wrong! You're entirely wrong!" cried Millie. "I'm sure -Peter doesn't love me, and even if he did—anyway, I don't love him. I -was engaged until a few days ago. It has just been broken off—some one -I loved very much. That's the trouble I spoke about just now."</p> - -<p>"Tell me about it," said Clare, looking at her with eyes half-closed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, but you wouldn't—it isn't——"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. . . . Remember there's nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> about -men I don't know. You look so young: you can't know very much. Perhaps -I can help you."</p> - -<p>"No," said Millie, shaking her head. "You can't help me. No one can -help me but myself. It's all over—quite, quite over."</p> - -<p>"What did he do, the young man?"</p> - -<p>"We were engaged six months ago. Meanwhile he was really engaged to -another girl in his own village. She is going to have a baby this -month—his baby. I didn't know of this. He never would have told me if -some one hadn't gone to his village and found it all out."</p> - -<p>"Some one? Who? A woman?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. She thought she was helping me."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure it's true?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. He admitted it himself."</p> - -<p>"Hum. Were you very much in love with him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, terribly."</p> - -<p>"No, not terribly, my dear, or you'd have gone off with him whatever -happened. Do you love him still?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. He doesn't seem to belong to me any more. It was -knowing that he wasn't going to help that poor girl about her baby -that came right down between us. That was cruel, and cruelty's worse -than anything. He could have been cruel to me—he was sometimes, and I -daresay I was to him. People generally are when they are in love with -one another. But that poor girl——"</p> - -<p>"Never mind that poor girl. We don't know how much of it was her -doing. Perhaps she's not going to have a baby at all. Anyway, it may -not be his baby. No, if you'd been really in love with him you'd have -gone down to that village and found it all out for yourself, the -exact truth. And then, probably you'd have married him even if it had -been true. . . . Oh, yes, you would. My dear, you're too young to -know anything about love yet. Now tell me—weren't you feeling very -uncertain about it all long before this happened?"</p> - -<p>"I had some miserable times."</p> - -<p>"Yes, more and more miserable as time went on. But not so miserable as -they are now. I know. But what you're feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> now is loneliness. And -soon you won't be lonely with your prettiness and health and love of -life."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're wrong! you're wrong!" cried Millie. "You are indeed. Love -is over for me. I'm never going to think of it again. That part of my -life's done."</p> - -<p>Clare smiled. "Good God, how young you are!" she said. "I was like that -myself once, another life, another world. But I was never like you, -never lovely as you are. I was pretty in a commonplace kind of way. -Pretty enough to turn poor Peter's head. That's about all. Now listen, -and I'll tell you a little about myself. Would you like to hear it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Millie.</p> - -<p>The memory came to her of Peter telling her this same story; for a -flashing second she saw him standing beside her, the look that he gave -her. Was she not glad now that he loved her?</p> - -<p>Clare began: "I was the daughter of a London doctor—an only child. -My parents spoilt me terribly, and I thought I was wonderful, clever, -and beautiful and everything. Of course, I always meant to be married, -and there were several young men I was considering, and then Peter -came along. He had just published his first book and it was a great -success. Every one was talking about it. He was better-looking then -than he is now, not so fat, and he had a romantic history—starving in -the slums and some one discovered him and just saved his life. He was -wildly in love with me. I thought he was going to be great and famous, -and I liked the idea of being the wife of a famous man. And then for a -moment, perhaps, I really was in love with him, physically, you know. -And I knew nothing about life, nothing whatever. I thought it would be -always comfortable and safe, that I should have my way in everything -as I always had done. Well, we were married, and it went wrong from -the beginning. Peter knew nothing about women at all. He had strange -friends whom I couldn't bear. Then I had a child and that frightened -me. Then he got on badly with mother, who was always interfering. Then -the other books weren't as successful as the first, and I thought he -ought to give me more good times and grudged the hours he spent over -his work. Then our boy died and the last link between us seemed to be -broken. . . . Well, to cut a long story short, his best friend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> came -along and made love to me, and I ran off with him to Paris."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" cried Millie, "poor Peter!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, and poor me too, although you may not believe it. I only ran off -with him because I hated my London life so and hated Peter and wanted -some one to make a fuss of me. I hadn't been in Paris a week before -I knew my mistake. Never run off with a man you're not married to, -my dear, if you're under thirty. You're simply asking for it. He was -disappointed too, I suppose—at any rate after about six months of it -he left me on some excuse and went off to the East. I wasn't sorry; I -was thinking of Peter again and I'd have gone back to him, I believe, -if my mother hadn't prevented me. . . . Well, I lived with her in Paris -for two years and then—and then—Maurice appeared."</p> - -<p>She stopped, closing her eyes, lying back against her cushions, her -hand on her heart. She shook her head when Millie wanted to fetch -somebody.</p> - -<p>At last she went on: "No, let's have this time alone together. It may -be the only time we'll get . . . Maurice . . . yes. That was love, -if you like. Didn't I know the difference? You bet! He was a French -poet. Funny! two writers, Peter and Maurice, when I myself hadn't the -brain of a snail. But Maurice didn't care about my brain. I don't -know what he did care about—but I gave him the best I had. He was -married already of course, and so was I, but we went off together and -travelled. He had some money—not very much, but enough—and things I -wouldn't have endured for Peter's sake I adored for Maurice's.</p> - -<p>"We settled down finally in Spain and had three divine years. Then -Maurice fell ill, money ran short, I fell ill, everything was wrong. -But never our love—that never changed, never faltered. We quarrelled -sometimes, of course, but even in the middle of the worst of our fights -we knew that it wasn't serious, that really nothing <i>could</i> separate us -but death—for once that sentimental phrase was justified. Well, death -<i>did</i>. Two months before the War he died. My mother had died the year -before and as I learnt later my father two years before. But I didn't -care what happened to me. When real love has come to you, then you do -know what loneliness means. The War gave me something to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> do but my -heart was all wrong. I fell ill again in Paris, was all alone, tried to -die and couldn't, tried to live and couldn't. . . . We won't talk about -that time if you don't mind.</p> - -<p>"I had often thought of Peter, of course. I felt guilty about him as -about nothing else in my life. He was so young when I married him, -such an infant, so absurdly romantic; I spoilt everything for him as -I couldn't have spoilt it for most men. He is such a child still. -That's why you ought to marry him, my dear, because you're such a child -too. And your brother—infants all three of you. I used to think of -returning to him. I myself was romantic enough to think that he might -still be in love with me, and although I was much too tired to care -for any one again, the thought of some one caring for me again was -pleasant. Twice I nearly hunted him out. Once hunger almost drove me -but I tried not to go for that reason, having, you see, still a scrap -of sentiment about me. Then a man who'd been very good to me but at -last couldn't stand my moods and tantrums any longer left me—small -blame to him!—and I gathered my last few coppers together and came -to Peter. I nearly died on his doorstep—now instead I'm going to die -inside. It's warmer and more comfortable."</p> - -<p>"No, no, no, you're not!" cried Millie. "You're going to live. Peter -and I will see to it. We're going to make you live."</p> - -<p>Clare frowned.</p> - -<p>"Don't be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be extremely -tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love with Peter but you -like him very much, and there'll be nothing more awkward for you than -having a sick woman lying round here——"</p> - -<p>Millie broke in:</p> - -<p>"There you're wrong! you're wrong indeed! I'd love to make you well. -It isn't sentiment. It's truth. How have I dared to tell you about my -silly little affair when you've suffered as you have! How selfish I am -and egoistic—give me a chance to help you and I'll show you what I can -do."</p> - -<p>Clare shook her head again. "Well, then," she said, "if I can't put you -off that way I'll put you off another. You'd bore me in a week, you and -Peter. I've been with bad people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> so long that I find good ones very -tiresome. Mother was bad. That's a terrible thing to say about your -mother, isn't it?—but it's true. And I've got a bad strain from her. -You're a nice girl and beautiful to look at, but you're too English for -me. I should feel as though you were District Visiting when you came to -see me. Just as I feel about Peter when he drops his voice and walks -so heavily on tip-toe and looks at me with such anxious eyes. No, my -dear, I've told you all this because I want you to make it up to Peter -when I've gone. You're ideally suited to one another. When I look at -him I feel as though I'd been torturing one of those white mice we used -to keep at school. I'm not for you and you're not for me. My game's -finished. I'll give you my blessing and depart."</p> - -<p>Millie flushed and answered slowly: "How do you know I'm so good? -How do you know I know nothing about life? Perhaps I <i>have</i> deceived -myself over this love affair. It was my first: I gave him all I -could. Perhaps you're right. If I'd loved him more I'd have given him -everything. . . . But I don't know. Is it being a District Visitor to -respect yourself and him? Is the body more important than anything -else? I don't call myself good. . . . I don't call myself bad. It's -only the different values we put on things."</p> - -<p>Clare looked at her curiously. "Perhaps you're right," she said. -"Physical love when that's all there is, is terribly disappointing—an -awful sell. I could have been a friend of yours if I'd been younger. -There! Get up a moment—stand over there. I want to look at you!"</p> - -<p>Millie got up, crossed the room and stood, her arms at her side, her -eyes gravely watching.</p> - -<p>Clare sat up, leaning on her elbow. "Yes, you're lovely. Men will be -crazy about you—you'd better marry Peter quickly. And you're fine too. -There's spirit in you. Move your arm. So! Now turn your head. . . . Ah, -that's good! That's <i>good</i>! . . ."</p> - -<p>She suddenly turned, buried her face in the cushions and burst into -tears. Millie ran across to her and put her arms round her. Clare lay -for a moment, her body shaken with sobs. Then she pushed her away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, no. I don't want petting. It's only—what it all might have been. -You're so young: it's all before you. It's over for me—over, over!"</p> - -<p>She gave her one more long look.</p> - -<p>"Now go," she said, "go quickly—or I'll want to poison you. Leave me -alone——"</p> - -<p>Millie took her hat and coat and went out into the rain.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VId" id="CHAPTER_VId">CHAPTER VI</a></h2> - -<h3>CLARE GOES</h3> - - -<p>That night Clare died.</p> - -<p>Peter slept always now in the sitting-room with the door open lest she -should need anything. He was tired that night, exhausted with struggles -of conscience, battles of the flesh, forebodings of the future; he -slept heavily without dreams. When at seven in the morning he came to -see whether she were awake, he found her, staring ironically in front -of her, dead.</p> - -<p>Heart-failure the doctor afterwards said. He had told Peter days before -that veronal and other things were old friends of hers. To-day no sign -of them. Nevertheless . . . had she assisted herself a little along the -inevitable road? Before he left on the evening before she had talked to -him. He was often afterwards to see her, sitting up on the sofa, her -yellow hair piled untidily on her head, her face like the mask of a -tired child, her eyes angry as always.</p> - -<p>"Well, Peter," she had said, "so you're in love with that girl?"</p> - -<p>He admitted it at once, standing stolidly in front of her, looking at -her with that pity in his eyes that irritated her so desperately.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I love her," he said, "but she doesn't love me. When you're -better we'll go away and live somewhere else. Paris if you like. We'll -make a better thing of it, Clare, than we did the first time."</p> - -<p>"Very magnanimous," she answered him. "But don't be too sure that she -doesn't love you. Or she will when she's recovered from this present -little affair. You must marry her, Peter—and if you do you'll make a -success of it. She's the honestest woman I've met yet and you're the -honestest man I know. You'll suit one another. . . . Mind you, I don't -mean that as a compliment. People as honest as you two are tiresome -for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> ordinary folks to live with. I found you tiresome twenty years -ago, Peter, I find you tiresome still."</p> - -<p>He suddenly came down and knelt beside her sofa putting his arm round -her. "Clare, please, please don't talk like that. My life's with you -now. I daresay you find me dull. I am dull I know. But I'm old enough -to understand now that you must have your freedom. All that I care -about is for you to get well; then you shall do as you like. I won't -tie you in any way; only be there if you want a friend."</p> - -<p>She suddenly put up her hand and stroked his cheek, then as suddenly -withdrew her hand and tucked it under her.</p> - -<p>"Poor Peter," she said. "It was bad luck my coming back like that just -when she'd broken with her young man. Never mind. I'll see what I can -do. I did you a bad turn once—it would be nice and Christian of me to -do you a good turn now. We ought never to have married of course—but -you <i>would</i> marry me, you know."</p> - -<p>She looked at him curiously, as though she were seeing him for the -first time.</p> - -<p>"What do you think about life, Peter? What does it mean to you, all -this fuss and agitation?"</p> - -<p>"Mean?" he repeated. "Oh, I don't know."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you do," she answered him. "I know exactly what you think. You -think it's for us all to get better in. To learn from experience, a -kind of boarding-school before the next world."</p> - -<p>"Well, I suppose I do think it's something of that sort," he answered. -"It hasn't any meaning for me otherwise. It feels like a fight and a -fight about something real."</p> - -<p>"And what about the people who get worse instead of better? It's rather -hard luck on them. It isn't their fault half the time."</p> - -<p>"We don't see the thing as it really is, I expect," he answered her, -"nor people as they really are."</p> - -<p>She moved restlessly.</p> - -<p>"Now we're getting preachy. I expect you get preachy rather easily -just as you used to. All I know is that I'm tired—tired to death. -Do you remember how frightened I used to be twenty years ago? Well, -I'm not frightened any longer. There's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> nothing left to be frightened -of. Nothing could be worse than what I've had already. But I'm -tired—damnably, damnably tired. And now I think I'll just turn over -and go to sleep if you'll leave me for a bit."</p> - -<p>He kissed her and left her, and at some moment between then and the -morning she left him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIId" id="CHAPTER_VIId">CHAPTER VII</a></h2> - -<h3>THE RESCUE</h3> - - -<p>At the very moment that Millie was knocking on Peter's door Henry -was sitting, a large bump on his forehead, looking at a dirty -piece of paper. Only yesterday he had fought Baxter in Piccadilly -Circus; now Baxter and everything and every one about him was as -far from his consciousness as Heaven was from 1920 London. The Real -had departed—the coloured life of the imagination had taken its -place. . . . The appeal for which all his life he had been waiting had -come—it was contained in that same dirty piece of paper.</p> - -<p>The piece of paper was of the blue-grey kind, torn in haste from a -washing bill; the cheap envelope that had contained it lay at Henry's -feet.</p> - -<p>On the piece of paper in a childish hand was scrawled this ill-spelt -message: "Please come as quikley as you can or it will be to late."</p> - -<p>Mr. King's factotum, a long, thin young man with carroty hair, had -brought the envelope five minutes before. The St. James' church clock -had just struck five; it was raining hard, the water running from the -eaves above Henry's attic window across and down with a curious little -gurgling chuckle that was all his life afterwards to be connected with -this evening.</p> - -<p>There was no signature to the paper; he had never seen Christina's -handwriting before; it might be a blind or a decoy or simply a -practical joke. Nevertheless, he did not for a moment hesitate as to -what he would do. He had already that afternoon decided in the empty -melancholy of the deserted Hill Street library that he must that same -evening make another attack on Peter Street. He was determined that -this time he would discover once and for all the truth about Christina -even though he had to wring Mrs. Tenssen's skinny neck to secure it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p> - -<p>He had returned to Panton Street fired with this resolve; five minutes -later the note had been delivered to him.</p> - -<p>He washed his face, put on a clean collar, placed the note carefully in -his pocket-book and started out on the great adventure of his life. The -rain was driving so lustily down Peter Street that no one was about. -He moved like a man in a dream, driven by some fantastic force of his -imagination as though he were still sitting in Panton Street and this -were a new chapter that he was writing in his romance—or as though his -body were in Panton Street and it was his soul that sallied forth. And -yet the details about Mrs. Tenssen were real enough—he could still -hear her crunching the sardine-bones, and Peter Street was real enough, -and the rain as it trickled inside his collar, and the bump on his -forehead.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless in dreams too details were real.</p> - -<p>As though he had done all this before (having as it were rehearsed it -somewhere), he did not this time go to the little door but went rather -to the yard that had seen his first attack. He stumbled in the dusk -over boxes, planks of wood and pieces of iron, hoops and wheels and -bars.</p> - -<p>Once he almost fell and the noise that he made seemed to his anxious -ears terrific, but suddenly he stumbled against the little wooden -stair, set his foot thereon and started to climb. Soon he felt the -trap-door, pushed it up with his hand and climbed into the passage. -Once more he was in the gallery, and once more he had looked through -into the courtyard beyond, now striped and misted with the driving rain.</p> - -<p>No human being was to be seen or heard. He moved indeed as in a dream. -He was now by the long window, curtained as before. This time no voices -came from the other side; there was no sound in all the world but the -rain.</p> - -<p>Again, as in dreams, he knew what would happen: that he would push at -the window, find it on this occasion fastened, push again with his -elbow, then with both hands shove against the glass. All this he did, -the doors of the window sprang apart and it was only with the greatest -difficulty that he saved himself from falling on to his knees as he had -done on the earlier occasion.</p> - -<p>He parted the curtains and walked into the room. He found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> a group -staring towards the window. At the table, her hands folded in front of -her, sat Christina, wearing the hat with the crimson feather as she -had done the first time he had seen her. On a chair sat Mrs. Tenssen, -dressed for a journey; she had obviously been bending over a large bag -that she was trying to close when the noise that Henry made at the -window diverted her.</p> - -<p>Near the door, his face puckered with alarm, a soft grey hat on his -head and very elegant brown gloves on his hands, was old Mr. Leishman.</p> - -<p>Henry, without looking at the two of them, went up to Christina and -said:</p> - -<p>"I came at once."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen, her face a dusty chalk-colour with anger, jumped up and -moved forward as though she were going to attack Henry with her nails. -Leishman murmured something; with great difficulty she restrained -herself, paused where she was and then in her favourite attitude, -standing, her hands on her hips, cried:</p> - -<p>"Then it is jail for you after all, young man. In two minutes we'll -have the police here and we'll see what you have to say then to a -charge of house-breaking."</p> - -<p>"See, Henry," said Christina, speaking quickly, "this is why I have -sent for you. My uncle has come to London at last and is to be here -to-morrow morning to see us. My mother says I am to go with her now -into the country to some house of his," nodding with her head towards -Leishman, "and I refuse and——"</p> - -<p>"Yes," screamed Mrs. Tenssen, "but you'll be in that cab in the next -ten minutes or I'll make it the worse for you and that swollen-faced -schoolboy there." There followed then such a torrent of the basest -abuse and insult that suddenly Henry was at her, catching her around -the throat and crying: "You say that of her! You dare to say that of -her! You dare to say that of her!"</p> - -<p>This was the third physical encounter of Henry's during the months of -this most eventful year: it was certainly the most confused of the -three. He felt Mrs. Tenssen's finger-nails in his face and was then -aware that she had escaped from him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> had snatched the pin from her hat -and was about to charge him with it. He turned, caught Christina by -the arm, moved as though he would go to the window, then as both Mrs. -Tenssen and Leishman rushed in that direction pushed Christina through, -the door, crying: "Quick! Down the stairs! I'll follow you!"</p> - -<p>As soon as he saw that she was through he stood with his back to the -door facing them. Again the dream-sensation was upon him. He had the -impression that when just now he had attacked Mrs. Tenssen his hands -had gone through her as though she had been air.</p> - -<p>He could hear Leishman quavering: "Let them go. . . . This will be bad -for us. . . . I didn't want . . . I don't like . . ."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tenssen said nothing, then she had rushed across at him, had one -hand on his shoulder and with the other was jabbing at him with the -hatpin, crying: "Give me my daughter! Give me my daughter! Give me my -daughter!"</p> - -<p>With one hand he held off her arm, then with a sudden wrench, he was -free of her, pushing her back with a sharp jerk, was through the door -and down the stairs.</p> - -<p>Christina was waiting for him; he caught her hand and together they ran -through the rain-driven street.</p> - -<p>Down Peter Street they ran and down Shaftesbury Avenue, across the -Circus and did not stop until they were inside Panton Street door. The -storm had emptied the street but, maybe, there are those alive who can -tell how once two figures flew through the London air, borne on the -very wings of the wind. . . . In such a vision do the miracles of this -world and the next have their birth!</p> - -<p>Up the stairs, through the door, the key turned, the attic warm and -safe about them, and at last Henry, breathless, his coat torn, his back -to the door:</p> - -<p>"Now nobody shall take you! . . . Nobody in all the world!"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIId" id="CHAPTER_VIIId">CHAPTER VIII</a></h2> - -<h3>THE MOMENT</h3> - - -<p>The miracle had been achieved. She was sitting upon his bed, her hands -in her lap, looking with curiosity about her. She was very calm and -quiet, as she always was, but she suddenly turned and smiled at him as -though she would say: "I do like you for having brought me here."</p> - -<p>His happiness almost choked him, but he was determined to be severely -practical. He found out from her the name of her uncle and the hotel at -which he was staying. He wrote a few lines saying that Miss Christina -Tenssen was here in his room, that it was urgently necessary that she -should be fetched by her uncle as soon as possible for reasons that he, -Henry, would explain later. He got Christina herself to write a line at -the bottom of the page.</p> - -<p>"You see if we went on to your uncle's hotel now at once he might not -be in and we would not be able to go up to his room. It is much better -that we should stay here. Your mother may come on here, but they shall -only take you from this room over my dead body." He laughed. "That's a -phrase," he said, "that comes naturally to me because I'm a romantic -novelist. Nevertheless, this time it's true. All the most absurd things -become true at such a time as this. If you knew what nights and days -I've dreamt of you being just like this, sitting alone with me like -this. . . . Oh, Gimini! I'm happy. . . ." He pressed the bell that -here rang and there did not. For the first time in history (but was -not to-day a fairy tale?) the carroty-haired factotum arrived with -marvellous promptitude, quite breathless with unwonted exertion. Henry -gave him the note. He looked for an instant at Christina, then stumbled -away.</p> - -<p>"If your uncle is in he should be here in half an hour. If he is out, -of course, it will be longer. At least I have half an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> hour. For half -an hour you are my guest in my own palace, and for anything in the -world that you require I have only to clap my hands and it shall be -brought to you!"</p> - -<p>"I don't want anything," she said; "only to sit here and be quiet and -talk to you." She took off her hat and it reposed with its scarlet -feather on Henry's rickety table.</p> - -<p>She looked about her, smiling at everything. "I like it -all—everything. That picture—those books. It is so like you—even the -carpet!"</p> - -<p>"Won't you lie down on the bed?" he said. "And I'll sit here, quite -close, where I can see you. And I'll take your hand if you don't mind. -I suppose we shan't meet for a long time again, and then we shall -be so old that it will all be quite different. I shall never have a -moment like this again, and I want to make the very most of it and then -remember every instant so long as I live!"</p> - -<p>She lay down as he had asked her and her hand was in his.</p> - -<p>"You don't know what it is," she said, "to be away from that place at -last. All this last fortnight my mother has been hesitating what she -was to do. She has been trying to persuade Leishman to take me away -himself, but there has been some trouble about money. There has been -some other man too. All she has wanted lately is to get the money; she -has wanted, I know, to leave the country—she has been cursing this -town every minute—but she was always bargaining for me and could not -get quite what she wanted. Then suddenly only this morning she had a -letter from my uncle to say that he had arrived. She is more afraid -of him than of any one in the world. She and the old man have been -quarrelling all the morning, but at last they came to some decision. We -were to leave for somewhere by the six o'clock train. She had hardly -for a moment her eyes off me, but I had just a minute when I could give -that note to Rose, the girl who comes in in the morning to work for us. -I was frightened that you might not be here, away from London, but it -was all I could do. . . . I was happy when I saw you come."</p> - -<p>"This is the top moment of my life," said Henry, "and for ever -afterwards I'm going to judge life by this. Just for half an hour you -are mine and I am yours, and I can imagine to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> myself that I have only -to say the word and I can carry you off to some island where no one can -touch you and where we shall be always together."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps that's true," she said, suddenly looking at him. "I have -never liked any one as I like you. My father and my uncles were quite -different. If you took me away who knows what would come?"</p> - -<p>He shook his head, smiling at her. "No, my dear. You're grateful just -now and you feel kind but you're not in love with me and you never, -never will be. I'm not the man you'll be in love with. He'll be some -one fine, not ugly and clumsy and untidy like me. I can see him—one -of your own people, very handsome and strong and brave. I'm not brave -and I'm certainly not handsome. I lose my temper and then do things on -the spur of the moment—generally ludicrous things—but I'm not really -brave. But I believe in life now. I know what it can do and what it can -bring, and no one can take that away from me now."</p> - -<p>"I believe," she said, looking at him, "that you're going to do fine -things—write great books or lead men to do great deeds. I shall be -so proud when I hear men speaking your name and praising you. I shall -say to myself: 'That's my friend whom they're speaking of. I knew him -before they did and I knew what he would do.'"</p> - -<p>"I think," said Henry, "that I always knew that this moment would -come. When I was a boy in the country and was always being scolded for -something I did wrong or stupidly I used to dream of this. I thought it -would come in the War but it didn't. And then when I was in London I -would stop sometimes in the street and expect the heavens to open and -some miracle to happen. And now the miracle <i>has</i> happened because I -love you and you are my friend, and you are here in my shabby room and -no one can ever prevent us thinking of one another till we die."</p> - -<p>"I shall always think of you," she answered, "and how good you have -been to me. I long for home and Kjöbenhaven and Langlinir and Jutland -and the sand-dunes, but I shall miss you—now I know how I shall miss -you. Henry, come back with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> me—if only for a little while. Come and -stay with my uncle, and see our life and what kind of people we are."</p> - -<p>His hand shook as it held hers. He stayed looking at her, their eyes -lost in one another. It seemed to him an eternity while he waited. Then -he shook his head.</p> - -<p>"No. . . . It may be cowardice. . . . I don't know. But I don't want to -spoil this. It's perfect as it is. I want you always to think about me -as you do now. You wouldn't perhaps when you knew me better. You don't -see me as I really am, not all the way round. For once I know where to -stop, how to keep it perfect. Christina darling, I love you, love you, -love you! I'll never love any one like this again. Let me put my arms -around you and hold you just once before you go."</p> - -<p>He knelt on the floor beside the bed and put his arms around her. Her -cheek was against his. She put up her hand and stroked his hair.</p> - -<p>They stayed there in silence and without moving, their hearts beating -together.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was a knock on the door.</p> - -<p>"Give me something," he said. "Something of yours before you go. The -scarlet feather!"</p> - -<p>She tore it from her hat and gave it to him. Then he went to the door -and opened it.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IXd" id="CHAPTER_IXd">CHAPTER IX</a></h2> - -<h3>THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR</h3> - - -<p>It was the morning of November 11, 1920, the anniversary of the -Armistice, the day of the burial of the Unknown Warrior.</p> - -<p>Millie, who was to watch the procession with Henry, was having -breakfast with Victoria in her bedroom. Last night Victoria had given -a dinner-party to celebrate her engagement, and she had insisted that -Millie should sleep there—"the party would be late, a little dancing -afterwards, and no one is so important for the success of the whole -affair as you are, my Millie."</p> - -<p>Victoria, sitting up in her four-poster in a lace cap and purple -kimono, was very fine indeed. She felt fine; she held an imaginary -reception, feeling, she told Millie, exactly like Teresia Tallien, -whose life she had just been reading, so she said to Millie.</p> - -<p>"Not at all the person to feel like," said Millie, "just before you're -married."</p> - -<p>"If you're virtuous," said Victoria, "and are never likely to be -anything else to the end of your days it is rather a luxury to imagine -yourself grand, beautiful and wicked."</p> - -<p>"You have got on rather badly with Tallien," said Millie, "and you -wouldn't have liked Barras any better."</p> - -<p>"Well, I needn't worry about it," said Victoria, "because I've got -Mereward, who is quite another sort of man." She drank her tea, and -then reflectively added: "Do you realize, Millie, darling, that you've -stuck to me a whole eight months, and that we're more 'stuck' so to -speak than we were at the beginning?"</p> - -<p>"Is that very marvellous?" asked Millie.</p> - -<p>"Marvellous! Why, of course it is! You don't realize how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> many I had -before you came. The longest any one stayed was a fortnight."</p> - -<p>"I've very nearly departed on one or two occasions," said Millie.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know you have." Victoria settled herself luxuriously. "Just -give me that paper, darling, before you go and some of the letters. -Pick out the nicest ones. You've seen me dear, at a most turbulent -point of my existence, but I'm safe in harbour now, and even if it -seems a little dull I daresay I shall be able to scrape up a quarrel or -two with Mereward before long." Millie gave her the papers; she caught -her hand. "You've been happier these last few weeks, dear, haven't -you? I'd hate to think that you're still worrying. . . . That—that -man. . . ." She paused.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you needn't be afraid to speak of him." Millie sat down on the -edge of the bed. "I don't know whether I'm happier exactly, but I'm -quiet again—and that seems to be almost all I care about now. It's -curious though how life arranges things for you. I don't think that I -should ever have come out of that miserable loneliness if I hadn't met -some one—a woman—whose case was far worse than mine. There's always -some one deeper down, I expect, however deep one gets. She took me -out of myself. I seem somehow suddenly to have grown up. Do you know, -Victoria, when I look back to that first day that I came here I see -myself as such a child that I wonder I went out alone."</p> - -<p>Victoria nodded her head.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you are older. You've grown into a woman in these months; we've -all noticed it."</p> - -<p>Millie got up. She stretched out her arms, laughing. "Oh! life's -wonderful! How any one can be bored I can't think. The things that go -on and the people and these wonderful times! Bunny hasn't killed any of -that for me. He's increased it, I think. I see now what things other -people have to stand. That woman, Victoria, that I spoke of just now, -her life! Why, I'm only at the beginning—at the beginning of myself, -at the beginning of the world, at the beginning of everything! What a -time to be alive in!"</p> - -<p>Victoria sighed. "When you talk like that, dear, and look<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> like that -it makes me wish I wasn't going to marry Mereward. It's like closing a -door. But the enchantment is over for me. Money can't bring it back nor -love—not when the youth's gone. Hold on to it, Millie—your youth, my -dear. Some people keep it for ever. I think you will."</p> - -<p>Millie came and flung her arms round Victoria.</p> - -<p>"You've been a dear to me, you have. Don't think I didn't notice how -good and quiet you were when all that trouble with Bunny was going -on. . . . I love you and wish you the happiest married life any woman -could ever have."</p> - -<p>A tear trickled down Victoria's fat cheek. "Stay with me, Millie, until -you're married. Don't leave us. We shall need your youth and loveliness -to lighten us all up. Promise."</p> - -<p>And Millie promised.</p> - -<p>In the hall she met Ellen.</p> - -<p>"Ellen, come with my brother and me to see the procession."</p> - -<p>Ellen regarded her darkly.</p> - -<p>"No, thank you," she said.</p> - -<p>Then as she was turning away, "Have you forgiven me?"</p> - -<p>"Forgiven you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, for what I did. Finding out about Mr. Baxter."</p> - -<p>"There was nothing to forgive," said Millie. "You did what you thought -was right."</p> - -<p>"Right!" answered Ellen. "Always people like you are thinking of what -is right. I did what I wanted to because I wanted to." She came close -to Millie. "I'm glad though I saved you. You've been kind to me after -your own lights. It isn't your fault that you don't understand me. I -only want you to promise me one thing. If you're ever grateful to me -for what I did be kind to the next misshapen creature you come across. -Be tolerant. There's more in the world than your healthy mind will ever -realize." She went slowly up the stairs and out of the girl's sight.</p> - -<p>Millie soon forgot her; meeting Henry at Panton Street, pointing out to -him that he must wear to-day a black tie, discussing the best place for -the procession, all these things were more important than Ellen.</p> - -<p>Just before they left the room she looked at him. "Henry," she said, -"what's happened to you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Happened?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes. You're looking as though you'd just received a thousand pounds -from a noble publisher for your first book—both solemn and sanctified."</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you all about it one day," he said. He told her something -then, of the rescue, the staying of Christina in his room, the arrival -of the uncle.</p> - -<p>He spoke of it all lightly. "He was a nice fellow," he said, "like a -pirate. He said the mother wouldn't trouble us again and she hasn't. -He carried Christina off to his hotel. He asked me to dinner then, but -I didn't go . . . yes, and they left for Denmark two days later. . . . -No, I didn't see them off. I didn't see them again."</p> - -<p>Millie looked in her brother's eyes and asked no more questions. -But Henry had grown in stature; he was hobbledehoy no longer. More -than ever they needed one another now, and more than ever they were -independent of all the world.</p> - -<p>They found a place in the crowd just inside the Admiralty Arch. It was -a lovely autumn day, the sunlight soft and mellow, the grey patterns of -the Arch rising gently into the blue, the people stretched like long -black shadows beneath the walls.</p> - -<p>When the procession came there was reverence and true pathos. For -a moment the complexities, turmoils, selfishnesses, struggles that -the War had brought in its train were drawn into one simple issue, -one straightforward emotion. Men might say that that emotion was -sentimental, but nothing so sincerely felt by so many millions of -simple people could be called by that name. The coffin passed with the -admirals and the generals; there was a pause and then the crowd broke -into the released space, voices were raised, there was laughter and -shouting, every one pushing here and there, multitudes trying to escape -from the uneasy emotion that had for a moment caught them, multitudes -too remembering some one lost for a moment but loved for ever, typified -by that coffin, that tin hat, that little wailing tune.</p> - -<p>Millie's hand was through Henry's arm. "Wait a moment," she said. -"There'll be the pause at eleven o'clock. Let's stay here and listen -for it."</p> - -<p>They stood on the curb while the crowd, noisy, cheerful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> exaggerated, -swirled back and forwards around them. Suddenly eleven o'clock boomed -from Big Ben. Before the strokes were completed there was utter -silence; as though a sign had flashed from the sky, the waters of the -world were frozen into ice. The omnibuses in Trafalgar Square stayed -where they were; every man stood his hat in his hand. The women held -their children with a warning clasp. The pigeons around the Arch -rose fluttering and crying into the air, the only sound in all the -world. The two minutes seemed eternal. Tears came into Millie's eyes, -hesitated, then rolled down her cheeks. For that instant it seemed -that the solution of the earth's trouble must be so simple. All men -drawn together like this by some common impulse that they all could -understand, that they would all obey, that would force them to forget -their individual selfishnesses, but would leave them, in their love for -one another, individuals as they had never been before. "Oh! it can -come! It <i>must</i> come!" Millie's heart whispered. "God grant that I may -live until that day."</p> - -<p>The moment was over; the world went on again, but there were many there -who would remember.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Xd" id="CHAPTER_Xd">CHAPTER X</a></h2> - -<h3>THE BEGINNING</h3> - - -<p>They were to lunch with Peter in Marylebone. Millie had some commission -to execute for Victoria and told Henry that she would meet him in -Peter's room.</p> - -<p>When she was gone he felt for a moment lost. He had been in truth -dreaming ever since that last sight of Christina. He had no impulse -to follow her—he knew that in that he had been wise—but he was busy -enthroning her so that she would always remain with every detail of -every incident connected with her until he died.</p> - -<p>In this perhaps he was sentimental; nevertheless clearer-sighted than -you would suppose. He knew that he had all his life before him, that -many would come into it and would go out again, that there would be -passions and desires satisfied and unsatisfied. But he also knew that -nothing again would have in it quite the unselfish devotion that his -passion for Christina had had. The first love is not the only love, but -it is often the only love into which self does not enter.</p> - -<p>His feet led him to Peter Street. The barrows were there with their -apples and oranges and old clothes and boots and shoes and gimcrack -china. The old woman with the teary eye was there, the policeman -good-humouredly watching. It was all as it had been on that first -afternoon now so long, long, long ago!</p> - -<p>Henry looked at the yard, at the little blistered door, at the balcony. -No sign of life in any of them.</p> - -<p>The Peter Street romance had just begun, but it had passed away from -Peter Street.</p> - -<p>He walked to Marylebone in a dream, and when he was there he had to -pull himself together to listen with sympathy to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> Peter's excitement -about this new monthly paper of which Peter was to be editor, the paper -that was to transform the world.</p> - -<p>He left Peter and Millie talking at the table, went to the window and -looked out. As he saw the people passing up and down below them of a -sudden he loved them all.</p> - -<p>The events of the last month came crowding to him—everything that -had happened: the first sight of Christina in the Circus, the first -visit to Duncombe, the Hill Street library and his love for it, his -interviews with Mrs. Tenssen, the day when he had given Christina -luncheon in the little Spanish restaurant, Duncombe and the garden and -Lady Bell-Hall, his struggles with his novel, his recovery of the old -Edinburgh life, Sir Walter and his smile, the row with Tom Duncombe, -the meals and the theatres and the talks with Peter. Millie's trouble -and Peter's wife, his fight with Baxter, Duncombe's last talk with -him and his death, the last time with Christina, to-day's Unknown -Warrior—yes, and smaller things than these: sunsets and sunrises, -people passing in the street, the wind in the Duncombe orchard, books -new and old, his little room in Panton Street, the vista of Piccadilly -Circus on a sunlit afternoon, all London and beyond it, England whom -he loved so passionately, and beyond her the world to its furthest and -darkest fastnesses. What a time to be alive, what a time to be young -in, the enchantment, the miraculous enchantment of life!</p> - -<p>"<i>I am he attesting sympathy (shall I make my list of things in the -house and ship the house that supports them?).</i></p> - -<p>"<i>I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet -of wickedness also.</i></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"<i>My gait is no fault-finder's or rejector's gait, I moisten the roots -of all that has grown.</i></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"<i>This minute that comes to me over the past decillions.</i></p> - -<p>"<i>There is no better than it and now. What behaved well in the past or -behaves well to-day is not such a wonder.</i></p> - -<p>"<i>The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an -infidel.</i>"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> - -<p>He turned round to speak to Peter, then saw that he had his hand on -Millie's shoulder, she seated at the table, looking up and smiling at -him.</p> - -<p>Millie and Peter? Why not? Only that would be needed to complete his -happiness, his wonderful, miraculous happiness.</p> - - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Enchanted, by Hugh Walpole - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG ENCHANTED *** - -***** This file should be named 60324-h.htm or 60324-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/3/2/60324/ - -Produced by David T. 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