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diff --git a/old/60326-0.txt b/old/60326-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4235893..0000000 --- a/old/60326-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15410 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Maradick at Forty, 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: Maradick at Forty - A Transition - -Author: Hugh Walpole - -Release Date: September 19, 2019 [EBook #60326] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARADICK AT FORTY *** - - - - -Produced by David T. Jones, Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - NOVELS BY HUGH WALPOLE - - _STUDIES IN PLACE_ - THE WOODEN HORSE - MARADICK AT FORTY - THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN - - - _TWO PROLOGUES_ - THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE - FORTITUDE - - - _THE RISING CITY_ - 1. THE DUCHESS OF WREXE - 2. THE GREEN MIRROR - (_In preparation_) - - - - - MARADICK - AT FORTY - - _A Transition_ - BY - HUGH WALPOLE - Author of the “Fortitude” “The Duchess of Wrexe” etc. - - . . . . Bless us, all the while - How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! - A second, and the angels alter that. - _How it strikes a contemporary._ - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - TO THE - MARQUIS D’ALCEDO - - - - - CONTENTS - PART I - THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS - - I The Place 11 - - II In Which Our Hero and the Place Meet - Once Again 13 - - III In Which the Admonitus Locorum Begins to - Have Fun with Two Entirely Respectable - Members of Society 28 - - IV In Which the Aforesaid Admonitus Leads - the Aforesaid Members of Society a Dance 53 - - V Maradick Makes a Promise and Meets an - Itinerant Optimist 79 - - VI Supper with Janet Morelli 103 - - VII Maradick Learns that “Getting a View” - May Have Its Dangers as Well as Its - Rewards 125 - - VIII They All Eat Chicken in the Gorse and Fly - Before the Storm 136 - - PART II - PUNCH - - IX Morelli Breaks Some Crockery and Plays a - Little Music 167 - - X In Which Everyone Feels the After Effect - of the Picnic 196 - - XI Of Love—and Therefore to be Skipped by All - Those Who are Tired of the Subject 216 - - XII Our Middle-aged Hero is Burdened by Responsibility - but Boldly Undertakes the Adventure 230 - - XIII More of the Itinerant Optimist; Alice du - Cane Asks Maradick a Favour 256 - - XIV Maradick in a New Rôle—He Afterwards - Sees Tony’s Face in a Mirror 279 - - XV Why It Is to be the Twenty-seventh, and - what the Connexion was Between Janet’s - Being Frightened and Toby’s Joining - the Great Majority 297 - - PART III - THE TOWER - - XVI Mrs. Lester, Too, Would Like It to be the - Twenty-seventh, but Maradick Is Afraid - of the Devil 325 - - XVII Morning and Afternoon of the Twenty- - seventh—Tony, Maradick, Janet, and Miss - Minns Have a Ride After the Wedding 343 - - XVIII Afternoon and Evening of the Twenty- - seventh—Maradick Goes to Church and - Afterwards Pays a Visit to Morelli 368 - - XIX Night of the Twenty-seventh—Maradick and - Mrs. Lester 387 - - XX Maradick Tells the Family, Has Breakfast - with His Wife, and Says Good-bye to Some - Friends 402 - - XXI Six Letters 421 - - XXII The Place 427 - - - - - PART I - - THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS - - - - - CHAPTER I - - - THE PLACE - -The grey twilight gives to the long, pale stretches of sand the sense of -something strangely unreal. As far as the eye can reach, it curves out -into the mist, the last vanishing garments, as it were, of some fleeing -ghost. The sea comes, smoothly, quite silently, over the breast of it; -there is a trembling whisper as it catches the highest stretch of sand -and drags it for a moment down the slope, then, with a little sigh, -creeps back again a defeated lover. - -The sky is grey, with an orange light hovering on its outer edges, the -last signal of the setting sun. A very faint mist is creeping gradually -over the sea, so faint that the silver circle of the rising moon shines -quite clearly through the shadows; but it changes the pale yellow of the -ghostly sand into a dark grey land without form and void, seeming for a -moment to be one with sea and sky, and then rising again, out of -obscurity, into definite substance. - -There is silence here in the creek, save for the rustling and whisper of -the sea, but round the bend of the rocks the noises of the town come -full upon the ear. - -The town is built up from the sand on the side of the hill, and rises, -tier upon tier, until it finds its pinnacle in the church tower and the -roofs of the “Man at Arms.” - -Now, in the dusk, the lights shine, row upon row, out over the sand. -From the market comes the sound of a fair—harsh, discordant tunes -softened by the distance. - -The church clock strikes eight, and a bell rings stridently somewhere in -the depths of the town. - -There is a distant rumble, a roar, a flash of light, and a train glides -into the station. - -But the sea pays no heed, and, round the bend of the creek, the sand -gleams white beneath the moon, and the mist rises from the heart of the -waves. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - - IN WHICH OUR HERO AND THE PLACE MEET ONCE AGAIN - -The Maradicks had reserved four seats by the 10.45, and so really there -was no reason for arriving at Paddington a few minutes after ten. But, -as it happened, it was quite fortunate, because there were so many -people travelling that the porters seemed to have little scruple as to -whether you’d reserved something or not, and just went about pulling -pink labels off and sticking pink labels on in a way that was really -grossly immoral. But Mrs. Maradick, having discovered that her own pink -ticket was all right—“James Maradick, Esq.: Four seats by the 10.45. -Travelling to Treliss”—could afford to be complacent about other -people, and even a little triumphant over the quite amusing misfortunes -of a party of six who seemed to have no chance whatever of securing a -seat. - -Mrs. Maradick always shut her mouth very tight indeed when going off for -a holiday. She entered the station with the air of one who had a very -sharp battle to fight and wasn’t going to be beaten under any -circumstances. She selected a porter with the confidence of a very old -general who could tell a man at a glance, and she marshalled him up and -down the platform with a completeness and a magnificent strategy that -left him at last breathless and confused, with scarcely energy enough to -show indignation at the threepence with which she rewarded his services. -But to-day things were finished sooner than usual, and by half-past ten, -with a quarter of an hour to spare, she was able to pay attention to her -friends. - -Quite a number of them had come to see her off—Mrs. Martin Fraser, -Louie Denis, Mrs. Mackintosh, Maggie Crowder, and those silly girls, the -Dorringtons; and actually Tom Craddock—very short, very fat, very -breathless—a little bit of a bounder, perhaps, but a man who served her -husband with a quite pathetic devotion. Yes, of course, _he’d_ come to -say good-bye to James, so he didn’t count in quite the same way, but -still it was nice of him. - -“Oh! the papers! James, I _must_ have papers! Oh! thank you, Mr. -Craddock. What? Oh, I think, perhaps, the _Lady’s Pictorial_ and the -_Queen_—and oh! if you wouldn’t mind, the _Daily Mail_ and the -_Mirror_, and—oh! James has the _Mail_, so perhaps the _Express_ would -be better—and yes, just something for the girls—what do you say, Annie -dear? The _Girl’s Realm_? Yes, please, the _Girl’s Realm_, Mr. Craddock, -and the _Girl’s Own Paper_ for Isabel. Rather a lot, isn’t it, Louie, -but it’s _such_ a long journey—hours and hours—and the girls get so -restless.” - -The ladies gathered in a little phalanx round the carriage window. They -always felt this departure of Emmy Maradick’s; every year it was the -same. Epsom wasn’t a bit the same place whilst she was away, and they -really couldn’t see why she should go away at all. Epsom was at its very -nicest in August, and that was the month of the year when she could be -most useful. Everyone gave their tennis-parties then; and there were -those charming little summer dances, and there was no garden in Epsom -like the Maradicks’! Besides, they liked her for herself. Things always -seemed to go so well when she was there, she had such a—what was the -word?—a French phrase—_savoire-vivre_ or _savoir-faire_—yes, it -really was a pity. - -“We shall miss you, dear.” This from Mrs. Mackintosh. - -“That’s sweet of you, Katie darling. And I shall miss all of you, ever -so much. And a hotel’s never the same thing, is it? And the garden’s -just beginning to look lovely. You’ll go in, once or twice, won’t you, -Louie, and see that things are all right? Of course they ought to be; -but you never can tell, with quite a new gardener, too. I think he’s -steady enough—at least, he had excellent testimonials, and James heard -from Mr. Templeton, where he was before, you know, that he was quite a -reliable man; but you know what it is when one’s away, how everything -seems to go——Oh! no, it’s all right, Mr. Craddock, I don’t think it’s -going just yet. Sit down, Annie dear, and don’t lean against the door.” - -The ladies then passed before the door, one after another, delivered -their little messages, and lined up on the other side. Thus Mrs. -Mackintosh— - -“Well, dear, I _do_ hope you have the rippingest time. I’m sure you -deserve it after that old bazaar—all the worry——” - -And Mrs. Martin Fraser— - -“Mind, a postcard, dear—when you get there—just a line. We shall all -so want to know.” - -And Louie Denis— - -“Darling, don’t forget the sketch you promised. I shall have a frame all -ready—waiting.” - -And Maggie Crowder— - -“I hope it will be fine, dear—such a nuisance if it’s wet; and then -there’s our tennis dance next week, it won’t be a bit the same thing -if——” - -Lastly the Dorrington girls together— - -“Dear Mrs. Maradick—good-bye—ripping—awfully sorry——” the rest lost -in nervous laughter. - -And then began that last dreadful minute when you do so wish in spite of -yourself that the train would go. You have said your last words, you -have given your last embrace, and you stare passionately down the -platform hoping for that final whistle and the splendid waving of a -green flag. - -At last it came. The ladies surged forward in a body and waved their -handkerchiefs. Mrs. Maradick leaned for a moment out of the window and -waved hers. Tom Craddock shouted something hoarsely about James that no -one could hear, and Epsom was finally bereft of its glory. - -Mrs. Maradick collected her bags with her rugs, and then considered her -girls. They were seated quietly, each in a corner, their faces bent -studiously over their magazines. They were very much alike, with -straight flaxen hair and pink and white complexions, light blue cotton -frocks, and dark green waistbands. - -Yes, they were nice girls—they were dear girls. Then she thought of her -husband. James Maradick had stood in the background during the -farewells. He had, indeed, been busy up to the very last moment, but he -was a reserved and silent man, and he really hadn’t anything very much -to say. He was well over six feet, and broad in proportion. He was clean -shaven, with features very strongly marked, and a high forehead from -which the hair, closely cut and a little grey at the temples, was -brushed back and parted on the right side. His eyes were grey and, at -times, wonderfully expressive. Epsom said that he was a dreadful man for -looking you through. He wore a suit of dark brown excellently cut. He -was sitting now opposite his wife and looking out of the window. He was -thinking of Tom Craddock. - -“James dear, where is my book? You know—that novel you gave me—‘Sir -Somebody or other’s heir’ or something. I just like to know where -everything is before I settle down. It was really awfully nice of Louie -Denis coming all that way to say good-bye—and of the others too. I -wonder Jack Hearne wasn’t there. He could have seen Louie back, and it -would have been a good chance; but perhaps he didn’t know she was -coming. It was nice of Mr. Craddock coming up, though of course he came -to see you.” - -She paused for a denial, but he didn’t say anything, so she went -on—“But, poor fellow, he’s getting dreadfully fat. I wonder whether he -couldn’t take something for it—baths or something—though of course -exercise is the thing——” - -Maradick looked up. “Yes, poor old Tom. He’s a good chap. But he’s -getting on—we’re all getting on. I shall be stout soon—not as young as -we were——” - -“Nonsense, James. I’m sure you haven’t altered a bit since you were -twenty. Mr. Craddock was always stout.” - -She leaned back and put her hand to her forehead. “This train does shake -most dreadfully. I’m going to have one of those horrible headaches -again. I can feel it coming. Just look for my smelling-salts, will you? -I think they are in that little black handbag.” - -He, wise through much experience, soon found what she wanted, settled -cushions at her back, drew the blind down the window to keep the sun -from her eyes, and then sank back into his seat again and watched the -country flash past. - -How many holidays had there been before exactly like this one? He could -not count them. There had always been people to see them off—people who -had said the same things, made the same jokes, smiled and laughed in the -same way. There had always been the same hurried breakfast, the agitated -drive, the crowded station, the counting of boxes. There had not, of -course, been always the girls; there had been a nurse, and they had -travelled in another carriage because the noise troubled his wife. His -wife! He looked at her now as she lay back against her cushions with her -eyes closed. She had changed very little during all those married years; -she was still the same dainty, pretty little woman—something delicate -and fragile—whom he had loved so passionately fifteen years before. He -thought of those years before he had met her. They had been exciting, -adventurous years. Whenever he went out, were it only to pay a call, -there had been always the thought that now, perhaps, at last, he was to -meet that wonderful Fate that was waiting somewhere for him. He had -often thought that he had met it. He remembered Miss Suckling, a pretty -girl, a parson’s daughter, and then Lucy Armes with her wonderful dark -hair and glorious eyes, and then little Rose Craven—yes, he had loved -her pretty badly, only some one else had stepped in and carried her off. - -And then at last his Fate had come; there had been a delirious courting, -a glorious proposal, a rapturous engagement, and a wonderful wedding. It -was all so swift and so exciting that he had not had time to think about -it at all. The world had seemed a very wonderful, glowing place then, -and he had wondered why people thought that rapture faded and gave place -to other feelings—mistrust and criticism and then estrangement. He -remembered the wonderful letters that he had written, and the sealing of -them with great blots of red sealing-wax—every night he had written. On -looking back, it seemed that he had done most of the wooing; she had -been very charming and dainty and delightful, but she had taken things -very quietly and soberly. - -And now? He looked at her again, and then out of the window. Nothing had -happened, of course. He could look to no definite act or event and point -to it as the dividing line. He had discovered very quickly that she had -nothing to give him, that there was no question, nor indeed could ever -be, of partnership or companionship. That, of course, had been at first. -He had put it down to his own stupidity, his ignorance, his blindness; -but he had tried her on every side, he had yielded her every allowance, -and there was nothing there, simply nothing at all. - -Then he had discovered another thing. She had not married him for -himself, nor indeed, to do her justice, for his position or anything -material that he could give her, but simply that she might have -children. He did not know how he had discovered this, but he had known -it by the end of the first year of their life together, and then, as -their girls had grown, he had seen it increasingly plainly. Any other -man would have done equally well—some men might have done better—and -so he had done his duty. - -Then, when he saw what had happened and that there was an end to his -dreams, he had set his teeth and given his soul for the making of money. -Whether it had been a fair exchange he did not know, but he had -succeeded. They had plenty—plenty for the present, plenty for the -future. He need not do another day’s work all his life unless he wished, -and he was only forty. - -He smiled grimly as he looked out of the window. He did not whine or -complain. There were doubtless thousands and thousands of other people -in the same case—only, what a muddle! what a silly, hideous muddle. - -He was forty, and in perfect health. He looked at his wife again. She -was happy enough; she had her house and her friends and her girls! She -did not want anything at all. And they would go on, of course, to the -end of things like that. For years now it had been the same thing. He -had played the game, and she had never guessed that he wanted anything; -she had probably never thought about him at all. - -He was forty, and life was over—its adventures, its emotions, its -surprises, its vices, its great romance; he was a bird in a cage, and he -had put himself inside and locked the door. He looked at his girls; they -aroused no emotion whatever, he did not care for them at all. That was -wrong, of course, but it was quite true; and then it was equally true -that they didn’t care for him. His head began to nod, and at last he was -asleep. He was dreaming of the station and poor Tom Craddock—he grew -fatter and fatter—he filled the carriage—everyone had to squeeze -against the wall to get out of his way—Tom, Tom—this won’t do, -really—have some consideration. . . . - -There was perfect silence in the carriage. The girls had not spoken a -word since the journey began. The shining landscape flew past them; -things darted up at the window; cows and trees and hedges and telegraph -wires leapt wildly up and down for no apparent reason whatever. At last -an official arrived and commanded them to take their places for lunch, -and there was instant confusion. Mrs. Maradick sailed into the -dining-car followed closely by her girls; Maradick brought up the rear. - -Her sleep had refreshed her, and she was bright and amusing. “Now, -James, look your brightest. Well, Annie darling, and was the _Girl’s -Realm_ amusing? Yes? I’m so glad, and what was the thing that you liked -best?” - -Annie spoke softly and deliberately. “There was a story, mother, about a -girl’s adventures in America that I liked rather, also an article on -‘How to learn the Violin’ was very good.” She folded her hands on her -lap and looked straight in front of her. - -But Mrs. Maradick was deep in the menu. “It’s always roast mutton or -boiled lamb,” she exclaimed; “I never knew anything so monotonous—and -cheese _or_ sweet”—she dived into her soup with relish. - -“It’s really not so bad,” she cried a little later. “And they do have -the things hot, which is so important. Think, girls, we’re half-way -already. We’ll be in splendid time for dinner. I wonder who’ll be there -this year. There were those nice Jacksons last year—you remember—that -Miss Jackson with the fuzzy hair and the short skirt—quite nice people, -they were. I don’t think you took to them much, James.” - -“No, I didn’t care very much about them,” he replied grimly. - -“No—such a pity. We so often like different people. And then there were -the Dalrymples—quite nice—and Lucy Dalrymple was such a good friend -for the girls; you remember Lucy, don’t you, dears?” - -And so it was to be the same thing again—the same monotonous round that -it had been before. He had liked Treliss at first. It had been quaint, -romantic, interesting, and he had loved the sea. And then the hotel with -its quaint name, “The Man at Arms,” and its picturesque Elizabethan -architecture. If he could be there alone, just for a day! - -They went back to their carriage, and found that the two extra seats, -tenanted hitherto by a man and his wife who were negligible from every -point of view, were now occupied by two very young people. A further -glance classified them as “honeymooners,” and Mrs. Maradick found them -no longer interesting. She sank into her novel, and there was absolute -stillness save for the soft whirr of the wheels beneath them and the -rush of the air outside the windows. - -The couple opposite him were very quiet—sometimes there was a whisper -or a laugh as their eyes met. He knew that look in the eyes and that -clasp of the hand. He knew that they were, both of them, outside the -train, flying through space, without thought of time or any confining -boundaries. What fools they were; he would like to tell them so. He -would like to show them that he had been like that once, fifteen years -before. He had thought that there would never be an end to it, and it -had lasted barely a year. - -And so they passed into Cornwall. Every year at that moment there came -the same strange thrill, the same emotion as of something ancient and -immutable crossing the very modern and changing texture of his own life. - -Mrs. Maradick put down her novel and looked about her. - -“It will soon be Truro,” she said; “and then there’ll be all that -troublesome changing at Trewth. It’s really too absurd that one should -have that all the time. Dear Louie! I wonder what she’s doing now—gone -to look at the garden, I expect, like the dear girl she is. I hope they -will give us the same rooms again this year. You wrote for them, didn’t -you?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“Because you know last year they tried to put those stupid Jones’s in, -and if I hadn’t made quite a row about it they’d have turned us into the -east wing with that great dreary sweep of sea and not a glimpse of the -town in front.” - -He remembered that he had rather envied those rooms in front; there had -been a magnificent view of the sea, and a little corner with an old -greystone pier and red fishing-boats. - -Mrs. Maradick turned her attention to the girls. - -“Now, dears, come and talk.” They moved towards her, and sat one on each -side, expectant. “I had your reports, dears, just before I left home, -and they were both most satisfactory. Miss Maynard says about your -French, Isabel, that you show some ability and great diligence. Which -was Miss Maynard, dear, at the prize-giving? That nice-looking girl with -that rather smart frock? I remember noticing her at the time.” - -“No, mother, that was Miss Lane; Miss Maynard had pince-nez.” - -“Oh, yes; and beat time to the songs, I remember. As for the -arithmetic——” - -He watched them, and knew that he had been forgotten altogether. Were -other people’s children like that? He knew some little girls who climbed -on to their father’s knee, and pulled his moustache and clutched his -hand; but then, it must be largely his own fault, because he knew that -if his girls had tried to do that he would have prevented them. He -should not have known what to say! - -There was a wonderful glow over the land as they came into Trewth. -Already he felt the breath of the sea and the salt sting in the air; -down the long platform the winds came laughing and screaming round the -boxes and the bundles and the absurd mortals who clung to their hats and -cloaks and neatly bound hair. - -“Come, girls.” Mrs. Maradick collared her porter and shouted “Treliss!” -into his ear. “Don’t forget anything, James. Have you my green bag and -the little brown holdall? and—oh, yes—my black bag there on the seat.” -She hurried down the platform. - -It was always at this moment that a general review took place, and you -discovered whether there was going to be anyone you knew at Treliss. -Everyone was waiting for the other train to come in, so that you had a -splendid time for inspection. Mrs. Maradick was an adept at the -difficult art of knowing all about people in half a minute without -looking anywhere near them. - -“No, the Dalrymples aren’t there. I dare say they’ve come already. What -a wind! Really, it’s most annoying having to wait. James, have you got -all the boxes there? Twelve altogether, counting that portmanteau of -yours——” - -She was looking very pretty indeed, her colour heightened by the wind, -her hair blowing in little golden whisps about her cheek, the light -green of her dress, and the little jingle of gold bracelets, and the -pearl necklace at her throat. - -They walked up and down the platform silently until the train came in. -They never talked when they were together because there was nothing to -say. When other people were there they kept it up because they had to -play a game, but when they were alone it really wasn’t worth while. He -wondered sometimes whether she realised that he was there at all. He -would have liked to make her angry; he had tried once, but it was no -good, she only smiled and stared through him as though he had been a -brick wall. - -They got into the train and sped on that fairy-journey to Treliss. It -was always the most magical thing in the world. The trains helped to add -to the romance of it—strange lumbering, stumbling carriages with a -ridiculous little engine that shrieked for no reason and puffed and -snorted in order to increase its own importance. They often stopped -suddenly while something was put right; and they would lie there, for -several minutes, in the heart of the golden sand with the blue sea -smiling below. He was often tempted to get out and strike across the -green dunes, and so down into the heart of the little town with its red -roofs and shining spires. He caught the gleam of the wet sand, and he -saw the red-brown outline of the rocks as they rounded the curve. - -That platform was crowded, and he had some difficulty in securing a cab; -but they were settled at last, and turned the corner down the cobbled -street. - -Mrs. Maradick lay back quite exhausted. “We’d never have got that cab if -I hadn’t held on to that man’s arm,” she said breathlessly. “It was -positively the last, and we should have had to wait at that station -hours before we got another. I call it regular bad management. It’s the -most important train in the day and they ought to have had plenty of -things to meet it.” - -Treliss has not, as yet, been spoiled by the demands of modern -civilisation. “Touristy” it is in August, and the “Man at Arms” is one -of the most popular hotels in the West of England; but it has managed to -keep undefiled its delightfully narrow streets, its splendidly -insufficient shops, its defective lighting, and a quite triumphant lack -of competition. Its main street runs steeply up the hill, having its -origin in the wet, gleaming sands of the little bay and its triumphant -conclusion in the splendid portals and shining terraces of the “Man at -Arms.” The street is of cobbles, and the houses still hang over it with -crooked doorposts and bending gables, so that the Middle Ages stalks by -your side as you go, and you expect some darkly cloaked figure to point -menacingly with bony fingers up the dark alleys and twisting corners. -There are shops of a kind along the way, but no one has ever taken them -seriously. “You can buy nothing in Treliss” is the constant cry of all -visitors; and it is generally followed by the assertion that you have to -pay double West End prices all the same. - -The ancient four-wheeler containing the Maradicks bumped slowly up the -hill, and at every moment it seemed as though the avalanche of boxes on -the top must come down with a rush and a roar and scatter their contents -over the cobbles. - -Mrs. Maradick said nothing, her mind was fixed on the forthcoming -interview with her hotel manager. She would have to fight for those -rooms, she knew, but she would win her victory and give no quarter. The -charm of the place had caught Maradick once more in its arms. In the -dust and heat of the London year he had thought that he had lost it -altogether; but now, with a glimpse of the curving bay and the cobbled -street, with that scent of spray and onions and mignonette and -fishing-nets (it was compounded of all those things) in his nostrils, -his heart was beating excitedly, and he was humming a little tune that -he had heard the year before. What was the tune? He had forgotten it; he -had never thought of it in London, but now it was with him again. He had -heard a sailor sing it in an inn on the quay. He had stood outside in -the dusk and listened. He remembered the last line:— - - And there’s gold in the creek and the sands of the sea, - So ho! for the smuggler’s cargo! - -It meant nothing, of course—a kind of “Pirates of Penzance” -absurdity—but the little tune was beating in his brain. - -Half-way up the hill there is the market-place, standing on a raised -plateau as it were, with the town-hall as its central glory. - -They drove through with difficulty, because there was a fair that filled -the market and overflowed into the crooked streets up and down the hill. -They only caught a passing glimpse as they bumped and stumbled through: -a merry-go-round and rows of booths and shouting crowds of men and -girls, and a strange toothless old woman in a peaked hat seated on a -barrel and selling sweets. - -“How they can allow it I don’t know!” Mrs. Maradick leant back from the -window. “One might as well—Whitechapel, you know, and all that sort of -thing.” - -The last turn of the road to the hotel was very steep indeed, and the -weight of the boxes seemed to accumulate with every step; the horses -strained and tugged, and for a moment they hesitated and half slid -backward, then with a hoarse shout from the driver, a gigantic straining -of limb and muscle, they were through the hotel gates. For the hotel -stands in its own grounds, and, as you approach it up a drive of larch -and birch, its privacy is startling and unusual. - -One hundred years before it had been the manor of the estate, the feudal -castle of a feudal town, ruling, like some Italian despot, the country -at its feet. Then its masters had fallen at the feet of the Juggernaut -of modern civilisation and improvement, and their tyranny had passed -into the hands of others. For some years the house had lain desolate and -threatened to fall into utter ruin and decay; its gardens had been -transformed into a wilderness, and its rooms had gathered dust and -mildew into their quarters. Then in 1850 or thereabouts young Mr. -Bannister of Manchester had seen his chance. Treliss, at that time, was -an obscure and minute village of no fame whatever; but it had fishing, -colour and bathing, so Mr. Bannister seized his opportunity. - -He had large resources at his back and a very original brain at his -service, so he set to work and was immediately successful. He had no -intention of turning it into a modern watering-place—there was enough -of that (speaking now of 1860) to be done elsewhere—he had Pendragon -and Port Looth in his mind. No, he would let it keep its -character—indeed, he would force it to keep its character. For some -years there were other things to do and his plans were still in embryo; -then in 1870 (no longer young Mr. Bannister, but stout and prosperous -Mr. Bannister) he took the house in hand. - -He interfered in no way with its original character. There were a great -many alterations, of course, but, through it all, it retained that -seventeenth-century charm and spaciousness—that air of surprise and -unexpected corners, the sudden visions of hidden gardens bordered by -close-clipped box and the broad depths of wide stone staircases and dark -oak panelling—a charm that was to be found in no other hotel in -England, a delicious survival that gave you seventeenth-century England -without any of its discomforts and drawbacks, sanitary or otherwise. - -For now, in 1908, it had all the very latest improvements. There were -lifts, and the very best methods of ventilation; the electric light was -of a delicious softness, and carpets and chairs were so luxurious that -it was difficult to force oneself outside. But then, when you were -outside, you wondered how you could ever stay in; for there were lawns -with the most wonderful views of the sea and tennis and croquet and -badminton and—and now the Maradicks were at the door. - -There were several people scattered about the grounds who watched them -with curiosity; but it was nearly dressing-time, and already the shadows -were lengthening over the lawns and the yews flung long fantastic shapes -over the roses and pinks. There was a little breeze in the tops of the -trees, and very faintly, like some distant solemn music, came the roll -of the sea. - -The doors closed on the Maradicks. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - - IN WHICH THE ADMONITUS LOCORUM BEGINS TO HAVE FUN - WITH TWO ENTIRELY RESPECTABLE MEMBERS OF - SOCIETY - -The hall of the “Man at Arms” was ever a place of mystery. The high roof -seemed to pass into infinite space, and on every side there appeared -passages and dark oaken doors that led, one fancied, into the very heart -of secrecy. - -At the other end, opposite to the great doors, was the wide stone -staircase leading to other floors, and down the passages to right and -left deep-set windows let in shafts of light. - -Mrs. Maradick greeted Mr. Bannister cordially, but with reserve. He was -a little stout man like a top, scrupulously neat and always correct. He -liked to convey to his guests the spirit of the place—that they were -received from no mercenary point of view, but rather with the greeting -of a friend. Of course, there would ultimately be a bill—it was only -the horrid necessity of these, our grasping times—but let it be -forgotten and put aside until the final leave-taking. He would have -preferred, if possible, to send bills afterwards by post, directed by -another hand; but that gave opportunity to unscrupulous adventurers. He -would have liked to have entertained the whole world, at any rate the -whole social world, free of charge; as it was—well, the bills were -heavy. He was always disappointed when his guests failed to grasp this -point of view; sometimes they were blustering and domineering, sometimes -they were obsequious and timorous—either manner was disagreeable. - -About Mrs. Maradick he was never quite sure. He was afraid that she -scarcely grasped the whole situation; there was no doubt that she found -it impossible to eliminate the bill altogether. - -“And our rooms?” - -Mrs. Maradick looked up at him. She was smiling, but it was a smile that -threatened to disappear. - -“I think you will be completely satisfied, Mrs. Maradick. A most -delightful suite on the second floor with a view of the sea——” - -“Ah—but our rooms. My husband wrote, I think. We had the same last -year—I——” - -“I’m afraid that there’s been a little difficulty. We had had previous -orders. I would have written to explain had I not been sure that the -rooms that we had allotted you would be completely satisfactory.” - -“Now, Mr. Bannister, that is too bad of you.” The smile had gone and her -eyes flashed. There was to be a battle as she had foreseen. “We had the -same trouble last year, I think——” - -“I am extremely sorry, Mrs. Maradick.” He watched her a little -anxiously. This was one of the occasions on which he was not certain of -her. Would she remember the true ethics of the situation? He hoped for -her sake that she would. “I am really very sorry, but I am afraid in -this case that there is nothing to be done. Sir Richard and Lady Gale -ordered the rooms so long ago as last Christmas. It is of some -importance to him, I believe, owing to reasons of health. They laid some -stress on it.” - -“Lady Gale?” - -“Yes.” Mr. Bannister smiled again. “Really, Mrs. Maradick, I think that -you would be perfectly satisfied with your rooms if you would come up -for a moment.” - -“Is Lady Gale here?” Mrs. Maradick was considering. - -“Yes. They arrived last night.” - -“Well,” this slowly and with hesitation, “let us go and see them, James. -One never knows, after all.” - -Maradick was relieved. He always waited in the background during these -interviews—there were many throughout the year. But this was -delightfully over. Had it been the Jones’s! Well, he had no doubt that -it would have been a prolonged struggle; after all, there _was_ a -difference. - -Mrs. Maradick hurried to the lift, her girls in close attendance, and -Mr. Bannister at her side. Maradick was about to follow, when he felt a -touch on his elbow and turned round. At his side stood a young man with -dark curly hair and a snub nose; not snub enough to mind, but just -enough to give you the impression that “everything turned up”—the -corners of his mouth and the tips of his ears. - -He seemed very young indeed, and had that very clean, clear skin that is -the best thing in a decent young man; at least, that is more or less how -Maradick summed him up. He was in evening dress, and it suited him. - -“I say, I’m most awfully sorry.” - -He was smiling, so Maradick smiled too. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. - -“About the rooms, you know. It is my people—my name is Gale—who have -them. I’m afraid it was most annoying, and I’m sure my mother will be -extremely sorry.” He blushed and stammered. - -“Oh, please——” Maradick felt quite embarrassed. “It really doesn’t -matter at all. My wife liked those rooms—we were there last year—and -she’s naturally asked about them; but these others will suit us -splendidly.” - -“No, but your being there last year seems almost as though you had a -right, doesn’t it? It is true about my father, it makes rather a -difference to him, and they are ripping rooms.” - -“Yes, of course,” Maradick laughed again, “we shall be perfectly -comfortable.” - -There was a moment’s pause. There was nothing more to say: then -suddenly, simultaneously—“It’s very decent . . .” and at that they -laughed again. Then Maradick hurried up the stairs. - -The boy stayed where he was, the smile lingering at the corners of his -mouth. Although it was half-past seven the daylight streamed into the -hall. People were passing to and fro, and every now and again glanced at -him and caught his infectious smile. - -“By Jove, a pretty woman, but a bit of a Tartar,” he said, thinking of -Mrs. Maradick; then he turned round and walked up the stairs, down a -passage to the right, and in a moment young Gale had opened their -sitting-room door. The rooms under discussion were certainly very -delightful and the view was charming, down over the town and out to the -sea beyond. There were glimpses of the crooked streets and twisted -gables, and, at last, the little stone pier and a crowd of herring-boats -sheltering under its protection. - -In the sitting-room was Lady Gale, waiting to go down to dinner. At this -time she was about fifty years of age, but she was straight and tall as -she had been at twenty. In her young days as Miss Laurence, daughter of -Sir Douglas Laurence, the famous Egyptologist, she had been a beauty, -and she was magnificent now with a mass of snow-white hair that, piled -high on her head, seemed a crown worthily bestowed on her as one of the -best and gentlest women of her generation; but perhaps it was her eyes -that made you conscious at once of being in the presence of some one -whose judgment was unswerving with a tenderness of compassion that made -her the confidante of all the failures and wastrels of her day. “Lady -Gale will tell you that you are wrong,” some one once said of her; “but -she will tell you so that her condemnation is better than another -person’s praise.” - -At her side stood a man of about thirty, strikingly resembling her in -many ways, but lacking in animation and intelligence. You felt that his -carefully controlled moustache was the most precious thing about him, -and that the cut of his clothes was of more importance than the cut of -his character. - -“Well, Tony?” Lady Gale greeted him as he closed the door behind him. -“Getting impatient? Father isn’t ready. I told him that we’d wait for -him; and Alice hasn’t appeared——” - -“No, not a bit.” He came over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. -“I’m not hungry, as a matter of fact, too big a tea. Besides, where’s -Alice?” - -“Coming. She told us not to wait, but I suppose we’d better.” - -“Oh, I say! Mother! I’ve discovered the most awfully decent fellow -downstairs, really; I hope that we shall get to know him. He looks a -most thundering good sort.” - -The red light from the setting sun had caught the church spire and the -roofs of the market-place; the town seemed on fire; the noise of the -fair came discordantly up to them. - -“Another of your awfully decent chaps!” This from his brother. “My dear -Tony, you discover a new one every week. Only I wish you wouldn’t thrust -them on to us. What about the charming painter who borrowed your links -and never returned them, and that delightful author-fellow who was so -beastly clever that he had to fly the country——?” - -“Oh, chuck it, Rupert. Of course one makes mistakes. I learnt a lot from -Allison, and I know he always meant to send the links back and forgot; -anyhow he’s quite welcome to them. But this chap’s all right—he is -really—he looks jolly decent——” - -“Yes; but, Tony,” said his mother, laughing, “I agree with Rupert there. -Make your odd acquaintances if you like, but don’t bring them down on to -us; for instance, that horrid little fat man you liked so much at one -time, the poet——” - -“Oh, Trelawny. He’s all right now. He’s going to do great things one -day.” - -“And meanwhile borrows money that he never intends to repay. No, Tony, -these sudden acquaintances are generally a mistake, take my word for it. -How long have you known this man downstairs?” - -“Only a minute. He’s just arrived with his wife and two little girls.” - -“And you know him already?” - -“Well, you see his wife wanted these rooms—said she ordered them or -something—and then went for old Bannister about it, and he, naturally -enough, said that we’d got them; and then he stuck it on about their -rooms and said that they were much the nicest rooms in the place, and -then she went off fairly quiet.” - -“Well, where did the man come in?” - -“He didn’t at all, and, from the look of her, I shouldn’t think that he -ever does. But I went up and said I was jolly sorry, and all that sort -of thing——” - -“Well, I’m——!” from Rupert. “Really, Tony! And what on earth was there -to apologise for! If we are going to start saying pretty things to -everyone in the hotel who wants these rooms we’ve got our work cut out.” - -“Oh! I didn’t say pretty things; I don’t know why I really said anything -at all. The spirit moved me, I suppose. I’m going to be friends with -that man. I shall like him.” - -“How do you know?” - -“By three infallible signs. He looks you straight in the eyes, he’s got -a first-class laugh, and he doesn’t say much.” - -“Characteristics of most of the scoundrels in the kingdom,” Rupert said, -yawning. “By Jove! I wish father and Alice would hurry up.” - -A girl came in at that moment; Tony danced round her and then caught her -hand and led her to his mother. - -“Your Majesty! I have the honour of presenting her Grace the Duchess -of——” - -But the girl broke from him. “Don’t, Tony, please, you’re upsetting -things. Please, Lady Gale, can’t we go down? I’m so hungry that no -ordinary dinner will ever satisfy me.” - -“Don’t you pretend, Alice,” cried Tony, laughing. “It’s the dress, the -whole dress, and nothing but the dress. That we may astonish this our -town of Treliss is our earnest and most humble desire.” He stopped. “It -is high time, you know, mother; nearly half-past eight.” - -“I know, but it’s your father. You might go and see if he’s nearly -ready, Tony.” - -As he moved across the room her eyes followed him with a devotion that -was the most beautiful thing in the world. Then she turned to the girl. - -Miss Alice Du Cane was looking very lovely indeed. Her dress was -something wonderful in pink, and that was all that the ordinary observer -would have discovered about it; very beautiful and soft, tumbling into -all manner of lines and curves and shades as she walked. Quite one of -the beauties of the season, Miss Alice Du Cane, and one of the loveliest -visions that your dining-halls are likely to behold, Mr. Bannister! She -was dark and tall and her smile was delightful—just a little too -obviously considered, perhaps, but nevertheless delightful! - -“Yes, dear, you look very nice.” Lady Gale smiled at her. “I only wish -that all young ladies nowadays would be content to dress as simply; but, -of course, they haven’t all got your natural advantages!” - -Then the door opened once more and Sir Richard Gale appeared, followed -closely by Tony. He was a man of magnificent presence and wonderful -preservation, and he was probably the most completely selfish egoist in -the kingdom; on these two facts he had built his reputation. The first -gave him many admirers and the second gave him many enemies, and a -splendid social distinction was the result. - -He was remarkably handsome, in a military-cum-Embassy manner; that is, -his moustache, his walk, and the swing of his shoulders were all that -they should be. He walked across the room most beautifully, but, -perhaps, just a little too carefully, so that he gave the onlooker the -impression of something rather precariously kept together—it was the -only clue to his age. - -He spent his life in devising means of enabling his wife to give sign -and evidence to the world of her affection. He was entirely capricious -and unreliable, and took violent dislikes to very many different kinds -of people. He had always been a very silent man, and now his -conversation was limited to monosyllables; he disliked garrulous -persons, but expected conversation to be maintained. - -The only thing that he said now was “Dinner!” but everyone knew what he -meant, and an advance was made: Lady Gale and her husband, Miss Du Cane -between Rupert and Tony, accompanied by laughter and a good deal of wild -jesting on the part of the last named. - -The going in to dinner at home was always a most solemn affair, even -when no one save the family were present. Sir Richard was seen at his -best in the minutes during which the procession lasted, and it -symbolised the dignity and solemnity befitting his place and family. The -Gales go in to dinner! and then, Sir Richard Gale goes in to dinner!—it -was the moment of the day. - -And now how greatly was the symbolism increased. Here we are in the -heart of the democracy, sitting down with our fellow-creatures, some of -whom are most certainly commoners, sitting down without even a raised -platform; not at the same table, it is true, but nevertheless on the -same floor, beneath the same ceiling! It was indeed a wonderful and -truly British ceremony. - -He generally contrived to be a little late, but to-day they were very -late indeed, and his shoulders were raised just a little higher and his -head was just a little loftier than usual. - -The room was full, and many heads were raised as they entered. They were -a fine family, no doubt—Sir Richard, Lady Gale, Rupert—all -distinguished and people at whom one looked twice, and then Alice was -lovely. It was only Tony, perhaps, who might have been anybody; just a -nice clean-looking boy people were inclined to call him, but they always -liked him. Their table was at the other end of the room, and the -procession was slow. Tony always hated it—“making a beastly monkey-show -of oneself and the family”—but his father took his time. - -The room was charming, with just a little touch of something unusual. -Mr. Bannister liked flowers, but he was wise in his use of them; and -every table had just that hint of colour, red and blue and gold, that -was needed, without any unnecessary profusion. - -There were a great many people—the season was at its height—and the -Maradicks, although late, were fortunate to have secured a table by the -windows. The girls were tired and were going to have supper in bed—a -little fish, some chicken and some shape—Mrs. Maradick had given -careful directions. - -Through the windows came the scents of the garden and a tiny breeze that -smelt of the sea. There were wonderful colours on the lawn outside. The -moon was rising, a full moon like a stiff plate of old gold, and its -light flung shadows and strange twisted shapes over the grass. The trees -stood, tall and dark, a mysterious barrier that fluttered and trembled -in the little wind and was filled with the whispers of a thousand -voices. Beyond that again was the light pale quivering blue of the -night-sky, in which flashed and wheeled and sparkled the stars. - -Mr. and Mrs. Maradick were playing the game very thoroughly to-night; -you could not have found a more devoted couple in the room. She looked -charming in her fragile, kittenish manner, something fluffy and white -and apparently simple, with a slender chain of gold at her throat and a -small spray of diamonds in her hair. She was excited, too, by the place -and the people and the whole change. This was, oh! most certainly! -better than Epsom, and Mrs. Martin Fraser and Louie had faded into a -very distant past. This was her métier!—this, with its lights and its -fashion! Why didn’t they live in London, really in London? She must -persuade James next year. It would be better for the girls, too, now -that they were growing up; and they might even find somewhere with a -garden. She chattered continuously and watched for the effect on her -neighbours. She had noticed one man whisper, and several people had -looked across. - -“It is so wonderful that I’m not more tired after all that bolting and -jolting, and you know I felt that headache coming all the time. . . only -just kept it at bay. But really, now, I’m quite hungry; it’s strange. I -never could eat anything in Epsom. What is there?” - -The waiter handed her the card. She looked up at him with a smile. “Oh! -no consommé! thank you. Yes, Filet de sole and Poularde braisée—oh! and -Grouse à la broche—of course—just in time, James, to-day’s only the -fifteenth. Cerises Beatrice—Friandises—oh! delightful! the very -thing.” - -“Bannister knows what to give us,” he said, turning to her. - -She settled back in her seat with a little purr of pleasure. “I hope the -girls had what they wanted. Little dears! I’m afraid they were -dreadfully tired.” - -He watched her curiously. There had been so many evenings like -this—evenings when those around him would have counted him a lucky -fellow; and yet he knew that he might have been a brick wall and she -would have talked in the same way. He judged her by her eyes—eyes that -looked through him, past him, quite coldly, with no expression and no -emotion. She simply did not realise that he was there, and he suddenly -felt cold and miserable and very lonely. Oh! if only these people round -him knew, if they could only see as he saw. But perhaps they were, many -of them, in the same position. He watched them curiously. Men and women -laughing and chatting with that intimate note that seemed to mean so -much and might, as he knew well, mean so little. Everybody seemed very -happy; perhaps they were. Oh! he was an old, middle-aged marplot, a -kill-joy, a skeleton at the feast. - -“Isn’t it jolly, dear?” he said, laughing across the table; “this grouse -is perfection.” - -“Tell me,” she said, with that little wave of her wrist towards him that -he knew so well—“tell me where the Gales are. I don’t suppose you know, -though, but we might guess.” - -“I do know,” he answered, laughing; “young Gale came and spoke to me -just before I came up to dress. He seemed a nice young fellow. He came -up and said something about the rooms—he had heard you speaking to -Bannister. They came in just now; a fine-looking elderly man, a lady -with beautiful white hair, a pretty girl in pink.” - -“Oh! of course! I noticed them! Oh, yes! one could tell they were -somebody.” She glanced round the room. “Yes, there they are, by the wall -at the back; quite a lovely girl!” She looked at them curiously. “Oh, -you spoke to young Gale, did you? He looks quite a nice boy. I hope they -have liked the rooms, and, after all, ours aren’t bad, are they? Really, -I’m not sure that in some ways——” - -She rattled on, praising the grouse, the bread sauce, the vegetables. -She speculated on people and made little jokes about them, and he threw -the ball back again, gaily, merrily, light-heartedly. - -“You know I don’t think Louie really cares about him. I often hoped for -her sake, poor girl, that she did, because there’s no denying that she’s -getting on; and it isn’t as if she’s got looks or money, and it’s a -wonder that he’s stuck to her as he has. I’ve always said that Louie was -a marrying woman and she’d make him a good wife, there’s no doubt of -that.” - -Her little eyes were glittering like diamonds and her cheeks were hot. -People were arriving at the fruit stage, and conversation, which had -murmured over the soup and hummed over the meat, seemed to Maradick to -shriek over the grapes and pears. How absurd it all was, and what was -the matter with him? His head was aching, and the silver and flowers -danced before his eyes. The great lines of the silver birch were purple -over the lawn and the full moon was level with the windows. It must have -been the journey, and he had certainly worked very hard these last -months in town; but he had never known his nerves like they were -to-night, indeed he had often wondered whether he had any nerves at all. -Now they were all on the jump; just as though, you know, you were on one -of those roundabouts, the horses jumping up and down and round, and the -lights and the other people jumping too. There was a ridiculous man at a -table close to them with a bald head, and the electric light caught it -and turned it into a fiery ball. Such a bald head! It shone like the -sun, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from it: and still his wife went -on talking, talking, talking—that same little laugh, that gesticulating -with the fingers, that glance round to see whether people had noticed. -In some of those first years he had tried to make her angry, had -contradicted and laughed derisively, but it had had no effect. She -simply hadn’t considered him. But she _must_ consider him! It was -absurd; they were husband and wife. He had said—what had he said that -first day in church? He couldn’t remember, but he knew that she ought to -consider him, that she oughtn’t to look past him like that just as -though he wasn’t there. He pulled himself together with a great effort -and finished the champagne in his glass: the waiter filled it again; -then he leant back in his chair and began to peel an apple, but his -fingers were trembling. - -“That woman over there,” said Mrs. Maradick, addressing a table to her -right and then glancing quickly to her left, “is awfully like Mrs. -Newton Bassett—the same sort of hair, and she’s got the eyes. Captain -Bassett’s coming home in the autumn, I believe, which will be rather a -blow for Muriel Bassett if all they say is true. He’s been out in -Central Africa or somewhere, hasn’t he? Years older than her, they say, -and as ugly as—Oh, well! people do talk, but young Forrest has been in -there an awful lot lately, and he’s as nice a young fellow as you’d want -to meet.” - -He couldn’t stand it much longer, so he put the apple down on his plate -and finished the champagne. - -“If I went out to Central Africa,” he said slowly, “I wonder -whether——” - -“These pears are delicious,” she answered, still looking at the table to -her left. - -“If I went out to Central Africa——” he said again. - -She leant forward and played with the silver in front of her. - -“Look here, I want you to listen.” He leant forward towards her so that -he might escape the man with the bald head. “If I went out to Central -Africa, you—well, you wouldn’t much mind, would you? Things would be -very much the same. It’s rather comforting to think that you wouldn’t -very much mind.” - -Maradick’s hands were shaking, but he spoke quite calmly, and he did not -raise his voice because he did not want the man with the bald head to -hear. - -“You wouldn’t mind, would you? Why don’t you say?” Then suddenly -something seemed to turn in his brain, like a little wheel, and it hurt. -“It’s been going on like this for years, and how long do you think I’m -going to stand it? You don’t care at all. I’m just like a chair, a -table, anything. I say it’s got to change—I’ll turn you out—won’t have -anything more to do with you—you’re not a wife at all—a man -expects——” He did not know what he was saying, and he did not really -very much care. He could not be eloquent or dramatic about it like -people were in books, because he wasn’t much of a talker, and there was -that little wheel in his head, and all these people talking. It had all -happened in the very briefest of moments. He hardly realised at the time -at all, but afterwards the impression that he had of it was of his -fingers grating on the table-cloth; they dug into the wood of the table. - -For only a moment his fingers seemed, of their own accord, to rise from -the table and stretch out towards her throat. Sheer animal passion held -him, passion born of her placidity and indifference. Then suddenly he -caught her eyes; she was looking at him, staring at him, her face was -very white, and he had never seen anyone look so frightened. And then -all his rage left him and he sat back in his chair again, shaking from -head to foot. There were all those years between them and he had never -said a word until now! Then he felt horribly ashamed of himself; he had -been intolerably rude, to a lady. He wasn’t quite certain of what he had -said. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly, “I have been very rude. I didn’t -quite know what I was saying.” - -For a moment they were silent. The chatter went on, and the waiter was -standing a little way away; he had not heard anything. - -“I am rather tired,” said Mrs. Maradick; “I think I’ll go up, if you -don’t mind.” - -He rose and offered her his arm, and they went out together. She did not -look at him, and neither of them spoke. - -Tony Gale was absurdly excited that evening, and even his father’s -presence scarcely restrained him. Sir Richard never said very much, but -he generally looked a great deal; to-night he enjoyed his dinner. Lady -Gale watched Tony a little anxiously. She had always been the wisest of -mothers in that she had never spoken before her time; the whole duty of -parents lies in the inviting of their children’s confidence by never -asking for it, and she had never asked. Then she had met Miss Alice Du -Cane and had liked her, and it had struck her that here was the very -girl for Tony. Tony liked her and she liked Tony. In every way it seemed -a thing to be desired, and this invitation to accompany them to Cornwall -was a natural move in the right direction. They were both, of course, -very young; but then people did begin very young nowadays, and Tony had -been “down” from Oxford a year and ought to know what he was about. -Alice was a charming girl, and the possessor of much sound common-sense; -indeed, there was just the question whether she hadn’t got a little too -much. The Du Canes were excellently connected; on the mother’s side -there were the Forestiers of Portland Hall down in Devon, and the -Craddocks of Newton Chase—oh! that was all right. And then Tony had a -fortune of his own, so that he was altogether independent, and one -couldn’t be quite sure of what he would do, so that it was a -satisfaction to think that he really cared for somebody that so -excellently did! It promised to be a satisfactory affair all round, and -even Sir Richard, a past master in the art of finding intricate -objections to desirable plans, had nothing to say. Of course, it was a -matter that needed looking at from every point of view. Of the Du Canes, -there were not many. Colonel Du Cane had died some years before, and -Lady Du Cane, a melancholy, faded lady who passed her time in such -wildly exciting health-resorts as Baden-Baden and Marienbad, had left -her daughter to the care of her aunt, Miss Perryn. There _were_ other Du -Canes, a brother at Eton and a sister in France, but they were too young -to matter; and then there was lots of money, so really Alice had nothing -to complain of. - -But Lady Gale was still old-fashioned enough to mind a little about -mutual affection. Did they really care for each other? Of course it was -so difficult to tell about Tony because he cared about everyone, and was -perpetually enthusiastic about the most absurdly ordinary people. His -geese were all swans, there was no question; but then, as he always -retorted, that was better than thinking that your swans, when you did -meet them, were all geese. Still, it did make it difficult to tell. -When, for instance, he rated a man he had met in the hall of the hotel -for the first time, and for one minute precisely, on exactly the same -scale as he rated friends of a lifetime, what were you to think? Then -Alice, too, was difficult. - -She was completely self-possessed and never at a loss, and Lady Gale -liked people who made mistakes. You always knew exactly what Alice would -say or think about any subject under discussion. She had the absolutely -sane and level-headed point of view that is so annoying to persons of -impulsive judgment. Not that Lady Gale was impulsive; but she was wise -enough to know that some of the best people were, and she distrusted old -heads on young shoulders. Miss Du Cane had read enough to comment -sensibly and with authority on the literature of the day. She let you -express your opinion and then agreed or differed with the hinting of -standards long ago formed and unflinchingly sustained, and some laughing -assertion of her own ignorance that left you convinced of her wisdom. -She always asserted that she was shallow, and shallowness was therefore -the last fault of which she was ever accused. - -She cared for Tony, there was no doubt of that; but then, so did -everybody. Lady Gale’s only doubt was lest she was a little too -matter-of-fact about it all; but, after all, girls were very different -nowadays, and the display of any emotion was the unpardonable sin. - -“Grouse! Hurray!” Tony displayed the menu. “The first of the year. I’m -jolly glad I didn’t go up with Menzies to Scotland; it’s much better -here, and I’m off shooting this year——” - -“That’s only because you always like the place you’re in better than any -other possible place, Tony,” said Alice. “And I wish I had the virtue. -Oh! those dreary months with mother at Baden! They’re hanging over me -still.” - -“Well, I expect they gave your mother a great deal of pleasure, my -dear,” said Lady Gale, “and that after all is something, even nowadays.” - -“No, they didn’t, that’s the worst of it. She didn’t want me a bit. -There was old Lady Pomfret and Mrs. Rainer, and oh! lots of others; -bridge, morning, noon, and night, and I used to wander about and mope.” - -“You ought to have been writing letters to Tony and me all the time,” -said Rupert, laughing. “You’ll never get such a chance again.” - -“Well, I did, didn’t I, Tony? Speak up for me, there’s a brick!” - -“Well, I don’t know,” said Tony. “They were jolly short, and there -didn’t seem to be much moping about it.” - -“That was to cheer you up. You didn’t want me to make you think that I -was depressed, did you?” - -Sir Richard had finished his grouse and could turn his attention to -other things. He complained of the brilliancy of the lights, and some of -them were turned out. - -“Where’s your man, Tony?” said Rupert. “Let’s see him.” - -“Over there by the window—a man and a woman at a table by themselves—a -big man, clean shaven. There, you can see him now, behind that long -waiter—a pretty woman in white, laughing.” - -“Oh, well! He’s better than some,” Rupert grudgingly admitted. “Not so -bad—strong, muscular, silent hero type—it’s a pretty woman.” He -fastened his eye-glass, an attention that he always paid to anyone who -really deserved it. - -“Yes, I like him,” said Lady Gale; “what did you say his name was?” - -“I didn’t quite catch it; Marabin, or Mara—no, I don’t -know—Mara—something. But I say, what are we going to do to-night? We -must do something. I was never so excited in my life, and I don’t a bit -know why.” - -“Oh, that will pass,” said Rupert; “we know your moods, Tony. You must -take him out into the garden, Alice, and quiet him down. Oh! look, -they’re going, those Marabins or whatever their names are. She carries -herself well, that woman.” - -Dinner always lasted a long time, because Sir Richard enjoyed his food -and had got a theory about biting each mouthful to which he entirely -attributed his healthy old age; it entailed lengthy meals. - -They were almost the last people in the room when at length they rose to -go, and it was growing late. - -“It’s so sensible of them not to pull blinds down,” said Tony, “the moon -helps digestion.” Sir Richard, as was his custom, went slowly and -majestically up to his room, the others into the garden. - -“Take Alice to see the view from the terraces, Rupert,” said Lady Gale. -“Tony and I will walk about here a little.” - -She put her arm through her son’s, and they passed up and down the walks -in front of the hotel. The vision of the town in the distance was black, -the gardens were cold and white under the moon. - -“Oh! it is beautiful.” Lady Gale drew a deep breath. “And when I’m in a -place like this, and it’s England, I’m perpetually wondering why so many -people hurry away abroad somewhere as soon as they’ve a minute to spare. -Why, there’s nothing as lovely as this anywhere!” - -Tony laughed. “There’s magic in it,” he said. “I hadn’t set foot in the -place for quarter of an hour before I knew that it was quite different -from all the other places I’d ever been in. I wasn’t joking just now at -dinner. I meant it quite seriously. I feel as if I were just in for some -enormous adventure—as if something important were most certainly going -to happen.” - -“Something important’s always happening, especially at your time of -life; which reminds me, Tony dear, that I want to talk to you -seriously.” - -He looked up in her face. “What’s up, mother?” - -“Nothing’s up, and perhaps you will think me a silly interfering old -woman; but you know mothers are queer things, Tony, and you can’t say -that I’ve bothered you very much in days past.” - -“No.” He suddenly put his arm round her neck, pulled her head towards -his and kissed her. “It’s all right. There’s nobody here to see, and it -wouldn’t matter a bit if there were. No, you’re the very sweetest and -best mother that mortal man ever had, and you’re cursed with an -ungrateful, undutiful scapegrace of a son, more’s the pity.” - -“Ah,” she said, shaking her head, “that’s just what I mean. Your mother -is a beautiful and delightful joke like everything and everybody else. -It’s time, Tony, that you were developing. You’re twenty-four, and you -seem to me to be exactly where you were at eighteen. Now I don’t want to -hurry or worry you, but the perpetual joke won’t do any longer. It isn’t -that I myself want you to be anything different, because I don’t. I only -want you to be happy; but life’s hard, and I don’t think you can meet it -by playing with it.” - -He said nothing, but he gave her arm a little squeeze. - -“Then you know,” she went on, “you have absolutely no sense of -proportion. Everybody and everything are on exactly the same scale. You -don’t seem to me to have any standard by which you estimate things. -Everybody is nice and delightful. I don’t believe you ever disliked -anybody, and it has always been a wonder to all of us that you haven’t -lost more from suffering so many fools gladly. I always used to think -that as soon as you fell in love with somebody—really and properly fell -in love with some nice girl—that that seriousness would come, and so I -didn’t mind. I don’t want to hurry you in that direction, dear, but I -would like to see you settled. Really, Tony, you know, you haven’t -changed at all, you’re exactly the same; so much the same that I’ve -wondered a little once or twice whether you really care for anybody.” - -“Poor old mother, and my flightiness has worried you, has it? I am most -awfully sorry. But God made the fools as well as the wits, and He didn’t -ask the fools which lot they wanted to belong to.” - -“No, but, Tony, you aren’t a fool, that’s just it. You’ve got the brain -of the family somewhere, only you seem to be ashamed of it and afraid -that people should know you’d got it, and your mother would rather they -did know. And then, dear, there is such a thing as family pride. It -isn’t snobbery, although it looks like it; it only means, don’t be too -indiscriminate. Don’t have just anybody for a friend. It doesn’t matter -about their birth, but it does matter about their opinions and -surroundings. Some of them have been—well, scarcely clean, dear. I’m -sure that Mr. Templar wasn’t a nice man, although I dare say he was very -clever; and that man to-night, for instance: I dare say he’s an -excellent man in every way, but you owe it to the family to find out -just a little about him first; you can’t tell just in a minute——” - -He stopped her for a minute and looked up at her quite seriously. “I’ll -be difficult to change, mother, I’m afraid. How you and father ever -produced such a vagabond I don’t know, but vagabond I am, and vagabond -I’ll remain in spite of Oxford and the Bond Street tailor. But never you -grieve, mother dear, I’ll promise to tell you everything—don’t you -worry.” - -“Yes. But what about settling?” - -“Oh, settling!” he answered gravely. “Vagabonds oughtn’t to marry at -all.” - -“But you’re happy about everything? You’re satisfied with things as they -are?” - -“Of course!” he cried. “Just think what kind of a beast I’d be if I -wasn’t. Of course, it’s splendid. And now, mother, the jaw’s over and -I’m the very best of sons, and it’s a glorious night, and we’ll be as -happy as the day is long.” - -They knelt on the seat at the south end and looked down into the crooked -streets; the moon had found its way there now, and they could almost -read the names on the shops. - -Suddenly Lady Gale put her hand against his cheek. “Tony, dear, I care -for you more than anything in the world. You know it. And, Tony, always -do what you feel is the straight thing and I shall know it is right for -you, and I shall trust you; but, Tony, don’t marry anybody unless you -are quite certain that it is the only person. Don’t let anything else -influence you. Marriage with the wrong person is——” Her voice shook -for a moment. “Promise me, Tony.” - -“I promise,” he answered solemnly, and she took his arm and they walked -back down the path. - -Rupert and Alice were waiting for them and they all went in together. -Lady Gale and Rupert said good night. Rupert was always tired very early -in the evening unless there was bridge or a dance, but Alice and Tony -sat in the sitting-room by the open window watching the moonlight on the -sea and listening to the muffled thunder of the waves. Far out into the -darkness flashed the Porth Allen Lighthouse. - -For a little while they were silent, then Tony suddenly said: - -“I say, am I awfully young?” - -She looked up. “Young?” - -“Yes. The mater has been talking to me to-night. She says that it is -time that I grew up, that I haven’t grown a bit since I was eighteen, -and that it must be very annoying for everybody. Have you felt it, too?” - -“Well, of course I know what she means. It’s absurd, but I always feel -years older than you, although by age I’m younger. But oh! it’s -difficult to explain; one always wants to rag with you. I’m always at my -silliest when you’re there, and I _hate_ being at my silliest.” - -“I know you do, that’s your worst fault. But really, this is rather -dreadful. I must proceed to grow up. But tell me honestly, am I a fool?” - -“No, of course you’re not, you’re awfully clever. But that’s what we all -think about you—you could do so many things and you’re not doing -anything.” - -He sat on the window-sill, swinging his legs. - -“There was once,” he began, “the King of Fools, and he had a most -splendid and widely attended Court; and one day the Wisest Man in -Christendom came to see and be seen, and he talked all the wisest things -that he had ever learnt, and the fools listened with all their ears and -thought that they had never heard such folly, and after a time they -shouted derisively, not knowing that he was the Wisest Man, ‘Why, he is -the biggest fool of them all!’” - -“The moral being?” - -“Behold, the Wisest Man!” cried Tony, pointing dramatically at his -breast. “There, my dear Alice, you have the matter in a nutshell.” - -“Thanks for the compliment,” said Alice, laughing, “only it is scarcely -convincing. Seriously, Tony, Lady Gale is right. Don’t be one of the -rotters like young Seins or Rocky Culler or Dick Staines, who spend -their whole day in walking Bond Street and letting their heads wag. Not, -of course, that you’d ever be that sort, but it would be rather decent -if you did something.” - -“Well, I do,” he cried. - -“What?” she said. - -“I can shoot a gun, I can ride a horse, I can serve corkers from the -back line at tennis, and score thirty at moderate cricket; I can read -French, German, Italian. I can play bridge—well, fairly—I can speak -the truth, eat meringues all day with no evil consequences, stick to a -pal, and walk for ever and ever, Amen. Oh, but you make me vain!” - -She laughed. “None of those things are enough,” she said. “You know -quite well what I mean. You must take a profession; why not Parliament, -the Bar, writing?—you could write beautifully if you wanted to. Oh, -Tony!” - -“I have one,” he said. - -“Now! What?” - -“The finest profession in the world—Odysseus, Jason, Cœur-de-Lion, St. -Francis of Assisi, Wilhelm Meister, Lavengro. By the beard of Ahasuerus -I am a wanderer!” - -He struck an attitude and laughed, but there was a light in his eyes and -his cheeks were flushed. - -Then he added: - -“Oh! what rot! There’s nobody so boring as somebody on his hobby. I’m -sorry, Alice, but you led me on; it’s your own fault.” - -“Do you know,” she said, “that is the first time, Tony, that I’ve ever -heard you speak seriously about anything, and really you don’t do it -half badly. But, at the same time, are you quite sure that you’re right -. . . now? What I mean is that things have changed so. I’ve heard people -talk like that before, but it has generally meant that they were -unemployed or something and ended up by asking for sixpence. It seems to -me that there’s such a lot to be done now, and such a little time to do -it in, that we haven’t time to go round looking for adventure; it isn’t -quite right that we should if we’re able-bodied and can work.” - -“Why, how serious we are all of a sudden,” he cried. “One would think -you ran a girls club.” - -“I do go down to Southwark a lot,” she answered. “And we’re badly in -need of subscriptions. I’d meant to ask you before.” - -“Who’s the unemployed now?” he said, laughing. “I thought it would end -in that.” - -“Well, I must go to bed,” she said, getting up from the window-sill. -“It’s late and cold, and I’m sure we’ve had a most inspiring talk on -both sides. Good night, old boy.” - -“Ta-ta,” said Tony. - -But after she had gone he sat by the window, thinking. Was it true that -he was a bit of a loafer? Had he really been taking things too easily? -Until these last two days he had never considered himself or his -position at all. He had always been radiantly happy; self-questioning -had been morbid and unnecessary. It was all very well for pessimists and -people who wrote to the _Times_, but, with Pope, he hummed, “Whatever -is, is best,” and thought no more about it. - -But this place seemed to have changed all that. What was there about the -place, he wondered? He had felt curiously excited from the first moment -of his coming there, but he could give no reason for it. It was a sleepy -little place, pretty and charming, of course, but that was all. But he -had known no rest or peace; something must be going to happen. And then, -too, there was Alice. He knew perfectly well why she had been asked to -join them, and he knew that she knew. Before they had come down he had -liked the idea. She was one of the best and true as steel. He had almost -decided, after all, it was time that they settled down. And then, on -coming here, everything had been different. Alice, his father, his -mother, Rupert had changed; something was wrong. He did not, could not -worry it out, only it was terribly hot, it was a beautiful night -outside, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours. - -He passed quietly down the stairs and out into the garden. He walked -down to the south end. It was most wonderful—the moon, the stars, the -whirling light at sea, and, quite plainly, the noise of the fair. - -He leant over the wall and looked down. He was suddenly conscious that -some one else was there; a big man, in evening dress, smoking a cigar. -Something about him, the enormous arms or the close-cropped hair, was -familiar. - -“Good evening,” said Tony. - -It was Maradick. He looked up, and Tony at once wished that he hadn’t -said anything. It was the face of a man who had been deep in his own -thoughts and had been brought back with a shock, but he smiled. - -“Good evening. It’s wonderfully beautiful, isn’t it?” - -“I’m Gale,” said Tony apologetically, “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.” - -“Oh no,” Maradick answered. “One can think at any time, and I wanted -company. I suppose the rest of the hotel is in bed—rather a crime on a -night like this.” Then he suddenly held up a warning finger. “Listen!” -he said. - -Quite distinctly, and high above the noise of the fair, came the voice -of a man singing in the streets below. He sang two verses, and then it -died away. - -“It was a tune I heard last year,” Maradick said apologetically. “I -liked it and had connected it with this place. I——” Then suddenly they -heard it again. - -They were both silent and listened together. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - - IN WHICH THE AFORESAID ADMONITUS LEADS THE AFORESAID - MEMBERS OF SOCIETY A DANCE - -The two men stood there silently for some minutes; the voice died away -and the noise of the fair was softer and less discordant; past them -fluttered two white moths, the whirr of their wings, the heavy, clumsy -blundering against Tony’s coat, and then again the silence. - -“I heard it last year, that song,” Maradick repeated; he puffed at his -cigar, and it gleamed for a moment as some great red star flung into the -sky a rival to the myriads above and around it. “It’s funny how things -like that stick in your brain—they are more important in a way than the -bigger things.” - -“Perhaps they are the bigger things,” said Tony. - -“Perhaps,” said Maradick. - -He fell into silence again. He did not really want to talk, and he -wondered why this young fellow was so persistent. He was never a talking -man at any time, and to-night at any rate he would prefer to be left -alone. But after all, the young fellow couldn’t know that, and he had -offered to go. He could not think connectedly about anything; he could -only remember that he had been rude to his wife at dinner. No gentleman -would have said the things that he had said. He did not remember what he -had said, but it had been very rude; it was as though he had struck his -wife in the face. - -“I say,” he said, “it’s time chaps of your age were in bed. Don’t -believe in staying up late.” He spoke gruffly, and looked over the wall -on to the whirling lights of the merry-go-round in the market-place. - -“You said, you know,” said Tony, “that you wanted company; but, of -course——” He moved from the wall. - -“Oh! stay if you like. Young chaps never will go to bed. If they only -knew what they were laying in store for themselves they’d be a bit more -careful. When you get to be an old buffer as I am——” - -“Old!” Tony laughed. “Why, you’re not old.” - -“Aren’t I? Turned forty, anyhow.” - -“Why, you’re one of the strongest-looking men I’ve ever seen.” Tony’s -voice was a note of intense admiration. - -Maradick laughed grimly. “It isn’t your physical strength that counts, -it’s the point of view—the way you look at things and the way people -look at you.” - -The desire to talk grew with him; he didn’t want to think, he couldn’t -sleep—why not talk? - -“But forty anyhow,” said Tony, “isn’t old. Nobody thinks you’re old at -forty.” - -“Oh, don’t they? Wait till you are, you’ll know.” - -“Well, Balzac——” - -“Oh, damn your books! what do they know about it? Everyone takes things -from books nowadays instead of getting it first hand. People stick -themselves indoors and read a novel or two and think they know -life—such rot!” - -Tony laughed. “I say,” he said, “you don’t think like that always, I -know—it’s only just for an argument.” - -Maradick suddenly twisted round and faced Tony. He put his hand on his -shoulder. - -“I say, kid,” he said, “go to bed. It doesn’t do a chap of your age any -good to talk to a pessimistic old buffer like myself. I’ll only growl -and you won’t be the better for it. Go to bed!” - -Tony looked up at him without moving. - -“I think I’ll stay. I expect you’ve got the pip, and it always does a -chap good, if he’s got the pip, to talk to somebody.” - -“Have you been here before?” asked Tony. - -“Oh yes! last year. I shan’t come again.” - -“Why not?” - -“It unsettles you. It doesn’t do to be unsettled when you get to my time -of life.” - -“How do you mean—unsettles?” - -Maradick considered. How exactly did he mean—unsettles? There was no -doubt that it did, though. - -“Oh, I’m not much good at explaining, but when you’ve lived a certain -time you’ve got into a sort of groove—bound to, I suppose. I’ve got my -work, just like another man. Every morning breakfast the same time, same -rush to the station, same train, same morning paper, same office, same -office-boy, same people; back in the evening, same people again, same -little dinner, same little nap—oh, it’s like anyone else. One gets into -the way of thinking that that’s life, bounded by the Epsom golf course -and the office in town. All the rest one has put aside, and after a time -one thinks that it isn’t there. And then a man comes down here and, I -don’t know what it is, the place or having nothing to do upsets you and -things are all different.” Then, after a moment, “I suppose that’s what -a holiday’s meant for.” - -He had been trying to put his feelings into words, but he knew that he -had not said at all what he had really felt. It was not the change of -life, the lazy hours and the pleasant people; besides, as far as that -went, he might at any moment, if he pleased, change things permanently. -He had made enough, he need not go back to the City at all; but he knew -it was not that. It was something that he had felt in the train, then in -the sight of the town, some vague discontent leading to that outbreak at -dinner. He was not a reading man or he might have considered the -Admonitus Locorum. He had never read of it nor had he knowledge of such -a spirit; but it _was_, it must be, the place. - -“Yes,” said Tony, “of course I’ve never settled down to anything, yet, -you know; and so I can’t quite see as you do about the monotony. My -people have been very decent; I’ve been able to wander about and do as I -liked, and last year I was in Germany and had a splendid time. Simply -had a _rucksack_ and walked. And I can’t imagine settling down anywhere; -and even if I had somewhere—Epsom or anywhere—there would be the same -looking for adventure, looking out for things, you know.” - -“Adventures in Epsom!” - -“Why not? I expect it’s full of it.” - -“Ah, that’s because you’re young! I was like that once, peering round -and calling five o’clock tea a romance. I’ve learnt better.” - -Tony turned round. “It’s so absurd of you, you know, to talk as if you -were eighty. You speak as if everything was over, and you’re only -beginning.” - -Maradick laughed. “Well, that’s pretty good cheek from a fellow half -your age! Why, what do you know about life, I’d like to know?” - -“Oh, not much. As a matter of fact, it’s rather funny your talking like -that, because my people have been talking to me to-night about that very -thing—settling down, I mean. They say that my roving has lasted long -enough, and that I shall soon be turning into a waster if I don’t do -something. Also that it’s about time that I began to grow up. I don’t -know,” he added apologetically, “why I’m telling you this, it can’t -interest you, but they want me to do just the thing that you’ve been -complaining about.” - -“Oh no, I haven’t been complaining,” said Maradick hastily. “All I’m -saying is, if you do get settled down don’t go anywhere or do anything -that will unsettle you again. It’s so damned hard getting back. But -what’s the use of my giving you advice and talking, you young chaps -never listen!” - -“They sound as if they were enjoying themselves down there,” said Tony a -little wistfully. The excitement was still in his blood and a wild idea -flew into his brain. Why not? But no, it was absurd, he had only known -the man quarter of an hour. The lights of the merry-go-round tossed like -a thing possessed; whirl and flash, then motionless, and silence again. -The murmured hum of voices came to their ears. After all, why not? - -“I say,” Tony touched Maradick’s arm, “why shouldn’t we stroll down -there, down to the town? It might be amusing. It would be a splendid -night for a walk, and it’s only twenty to eleven. We’d be back by -twelve.” - -“Down there? Now!” Maradick laughed. But he had a strange yearning for -company. He couldn’t go back into the hotel, not yet, and he would only -lose himself in his own thoughts that led him nowhere if he stayed here -alone. A few days ago he would have mocked at the idea of wandering down -with a boy he didn’t know to see a round-about and some drunken -villagers; but things were different, some new impulse was at work -within him. Besides, he rather liked the boy. It was a long while since -anyone had claimed his companionship like that; indeed a few days ago he -would have repelled anyone who attempted it with no uncertain hand. - -Maradick considered it. - -“Oh, I say, do!” said Tony, his hand still on Maradick’s arm, and -delighted to find that his proposal was being seriously considered. -“After all, it’s only a stroll, and we’ll come back as soon as you wish. -We can get coats from the hotel; it might be rather amusing, you know.” - -He was feeling better already. It was, of course, absurd that he should -go out on a mad game like that at such an hour, but—why not be absurd? -He hadn’t done anything ridiculous for fifteen years, nothing at all, so -it was high time he began. - -“It _will_ be a rag!” said Tony. - -They went in to get their coats. Two dark conspirators, they plunged -down the little crooked path that was the quickest way to the town. On -every side of them pressed the smell of the flowers, stronger and -sweeter than in the daylight, and their very vagueness of outline gave -them mystery and charm. The high peaks of the trees, outlined against -the sky, assumed strange and eerie shapes—the masts of a ship, the high -pinnacle of some cathedral, scythes and swords cutting the air; and -above them that wonderful night sky of the summer, something that had in -its light of the palest saffron promise of an early dawn, a wonderful -suggestion of myriad colours seen dimly through the curtain of dark -blue. - - “By night we lingered on the lawn, - For underfoot the herb was dry; - And genial warmth, and o’er the sky - The silvery haze of summer drawn: - - “And bats went round in fragrant skies, - And wheeled or lit the filmy shapes - That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes - And woolly breasts and beaded eyes:” - -quoted Tony. “Tennyson, and jolly good at that.” - -“Don’t know it,” said Maradick rather gruffly. “Bad for your business. -Besides, what do those chaps know about life? Shut themselves up in -their rooms and made rhymes over the fire. What could they know?” - -“Oh, some of them,” said Tony, “knew a good bit. But I’m sorry I quoted. -It’s a shocking habit, and generally indulged in to show superiority to -your friends. But the sky is just like that to-night. Drawn lightly -across as though it hid all sorts of things on the other side.” - -Maradick made no answer, and they walked on in silence. They reached the -end of the hotel garden, and passed through the little white gate into a -narrow path that skirted the town wall and brought you abruptly out into -the market-place by the church. It passed along a high bank that towered -over the river Ess on its way to the sea. It was rather a proud little -river as little rivers go, babbling and chattering in its early, higher -reaches, with the young gaiety suited to country vicarages and the paper -ships of village children; and then, solemn and tranquil, and even, -perhaps, a little important, as it neared the town and gave shelter to -brown-sailed herring-boats, and then, finally, agitated, excited, -tumultuous as it tumbled into its guardian, the sea. - -To-night it passed contentedly under the walls of the town, singing a -very sleepy little song on its way, and playing games with the moonlight -and the stars. Here the noise of the fair was hidden and everything was -very still and peaceful. The footsteps of the two men were loud and -clear. The night air had straightened Maradick’s brain and he was more -at peace with the world, but there was, nevertheless, a certain feeling -of uneasiness, natural and indeed inevitable in a man who, after an -ordered and regulated existence of many years, does something that is -unusual and a little ridiculous. He had arrived, as was, indeed, the -case with so many persons of middle age, at that deliberate exclusion of -three sides of life in order to grasp fully the fourth side. By -persistent practice he had taught himself to believe that the other -three sides did not exist. He told himself that he was not adaptable, -that he had made his bed and must lie on it, that the moon was for -dreamers; and now suddenly, in the space of a day, the blind was drawn -from the window before which he had sat for fifteen years, and behold! -there were the stars! - -Then Tony began again. It had been said of him that his worst fault was -his readiness to respond, that he did not know what it was to be on his -guard, and he treated Maradick now with a confidence and frankness that -was curiously intimate considering the length of their acquaintance. At -length he spoke of Alice Du Cane. “I know my people want it, and she’s -an awful good sort, really sporting, and the kind of girl you’d trust to -the end of your days. A girl you’d be absolutely safe with.” - -“Do you care about her?” said Maradick. - -“Of course. We’ve known each other for years. We’re not very sentimental -about it, but then for my part I distrust all that profoundly. It isn’t -what you want nowadays; good solid esteem is the only thing to build -on.” - -Tony spoke with an air of deep experience. Maradick, with the thought of -his own failure in his mind, wondered whether, after all, that were not -the right way of looking at it. It had not been his way, fifteen years -before; he had been the true impetuous lover, and now he reaped his -harvest. Oh! these considering and careful young men and girls of the -new generation were learning their lesson, and yet, in spite of it all, -marriage turned out as many failures as ever. But this remark of the -boy’s had been little in agreement with the rest of him; he had been -romantic, impetuous, and very, very young, and this serious and rather -cynical doctrine of “good solid esteem” was out of keeping with the rest -of him. - -“I wonder if you mean that,” he said, looking sharply at Tony. - -“Of course. I’ve thought a great deal about marriage, in our set -especially. One sees fellows marrying every day, either because they’re -told to, or because they’re told not to, and both ways are bad. Of -course I’ve fancied I was in love once or twice, but it’s always passed -off. Supposing I’d married one of those girls, what would have come of -it? Disaster, naturally. So now I’m wiser.” - -“Don’t you be too sure. It’s that wisdom that’s so dangerous. The Fates, -or whatever they are, always choose the cocksure moment for upsetting -the certainty. I shouldn’t wonder if you change your views before you’re -much older. You’re not the sort of chap, if you’ll pardon my saying so, -to do those things so philosophically. And then, there’s something in -the air of this place——” - -Tony didn’t reply. He was wondering whether, after all, he was quite so -cocksure. He had been telling himself for the last month that it was -best, from every point of view, that he should marry Miss Du Cane; his -people, his future, his certainty of the safety of it, all urged him, -and yet—and yet . . . His mother’s words came back to him. “Tony, don’t -marry anybody unless you are quite certain that it is the only person. -Don’t let anything else influence you. Marriage with the wrong person is -. . .” - -And then, in a moment, the fair was upon them. It had just struck eleven -and the excitement seemed at its height. The market-place was very -French in its neatness, and a certain gathering together of all the -life, spiritual and corporate, of the town; the church, Norman, and of -some historical interest, filled the right side of the square. Close at -its side, and squeezed between its grey walls and the solemn dignity of -the Town Hall, was a tall rectangular tower crowded with little slits of -windows and curious iron bars that jutted out into the air like pointing -fingers. - -There was something rather pathetically dignified about it; it protested -against its modern neglect and desertion. You felt that it had, in an -earlier day, known brave times. Now the ground floor was used by a -fruiterer; apples and plums, cherries and pears were bought and sold, -and the Count’s Tower was Harding’s shop. - -There were several other houses in the Square that told the same tale, -houses with fantastic bow-windows and little pepper-pot doors, tiny -balconies and quaintly carved figures that stared at you from hidden -corners; houses that were once the height of fashion now hid themselves -timidly from the real magnificence of the Town Hall. Their day was over, -and perhaps their very life was threatened. The Town Hall, with its -dinners and its balls and its speeches, need fear no rivalry. - -But to-night the Town Hall was pushed aside and counted for nothing at -all. It was the one occasion of the year on which it was of no -importance, and the old, despised tower was far more in keeping with the -hour and the scene. - -Down the centre of the Square were rows of booths lighted by gas-jets -that flamed and flared in the night-air with the hiss of many serpents. -These filled the middle line of the market. To the right was the -round-about; its circle of lights wheeling madly round and round gave it -the vitality of a living thing—some huge Leviathan on wheels bawling -discordantly the latest triumph of the Halls, and then, excited by its -voice, whirling ever swifter and swifter as though it would hurl itself -into the air and go rioting gaily through the market, and then suddenly -dropping, dead, exhausted, melancholy at the ceasing of its song:— - - Put me amongst the—girls! - Those wi-th the curly curls! - -and then a sudden vision of dark figures leaping up and down into the -light and out of it again, the wild waving of an arm, and the red, green -and yellow of the horses as they swirled up and down and round to the -tune. - -In another corner, standing on a plank laid upon two barrels, his arms -raised fantastically above his head, was a preacher. Around him was -gathered a small circle of persons with books, and faintly, through the -noise of the merry-go-round and the cries of those that bought and sold, -came the shrill, wavering scream of a hymn:— - - So like little candles - We shall shine, - You in your small corner - And I in mine. - -Down the central alley passed crowds of men and women, sailors and their -sweethearts, for the most part; and strangely foreign looking a great -many of them were—brown and swarthy, with black curling hair and dark, -flashing eyes. - -There were many country people wearing their Sunday clothes with an -uneasiness that had also something of admitted virtue and pride about -it. Their ill-fitting and absurdly self-conscious garments hung about -them and confined their movements; they watched the scene around them -almost furtively, and with a certain subdued terror. It was the day, the -night of the year to them; it had been looked forward to and counted and -solemnised with the dignity of a much-be-thumbed calendar, and through -the long dreary days of winter, when snow and the blinding mist hemmed -in solitary farms with desolation, it had been anticipated and foreseen -with eager intensity. Now that it was here and was so soon to stand, a -lonely pillar in the utterly uneventful waste-land of the year, they -looked at it timorously, fearfully, and yet with eager excitement. These -lights, this noise, this crowd, how wonderful to look back upon it all -afterwards, and how perilous it all was! They moved carefully through -the line of booths, wondering at the splendour and magnificence of them, -buying a little once or twice, and then repenting of what they had done. -Another hour and it would be over; already they shuddered at the -blackness of to-morrow. - -With the townspeople, the fishermen and sailors from Penzance, it was an -old affair; something amusing and calculated to improve materially -matters financial and matters amatory, but by no means a thing to wonder -at. The last night of the three days fair was, however, of real -importance. According to ancient superstition, a procession was formed -by all the citizens of the town, and this marched, headed by flaming -torches and an ancient drum, round the walls. This had been done, so -went the legend, ever since the days of the Celts, when naked invaders -had marched with wild cries and derisive gestures round and round the -town, concluding with a general massacre and a laying low of the walls. -The town had soon sprung to life again, and the ceremony had become an -anniversary and the anniversary a fair. The last dying screams of those -ancient peoples were turned, now, into the shrieking of a merry-go-round -and the sale of toffy and the chattering of many old women; and there -were but few in the place who remembered what those origins had been. - -Excitement was in the air, and the Square seemed to grow more crowded at -every moment. The flaring of the gas flung gigantic shadows on the -walls, and the light was on the town so that its sides shone as though -with fire. The noise was deafening—the screaming of the roundabout, the -shouts of the riders, the cries and laughter of the crowd made a -confused babel of sound, and in the distance could be heard the beating -of the drum. It was the hour of the final ceremony. - -“I wonder,” said Maradick, “what the people in those houses think of it. -Sleep must be a difficulty under the circumstances.” - -“I should think,” said Tony, laughing, “that they are all out here. I -expect that most of the town is here by this time.” And, indeed, there -was an enormous crowd. The preacher was in danger of being pushed off -his plank; the people surged round dancing, singing, shouting, and his -little circle had been caught in the multitude and had been swallowed -up. Very few of the people seemed to be listening to him; but he talked -on, waving the book in his hand, standing out sharply against the -shining tower at his back. - -Words came to them: “To-morrow it will be too late. I tell you, my -friends, that it is now and now only that . . . And the door was shut -. . . We cannot choose . . .” - -But the drum was in the Square. Standing on the steps of the Town Hall, -clothed in his official red, the Town Clerk, a short, pompous man, -saluted the fair. No words could penetrate the confusion, but people -began to gather round him shouting and singing. The buying and selling -entered into the last frenzied five minutes before finally ceasing -altogether. Prices suddenly fell to nothing at all, and wise and -cautious spirits who had been waiting for this moment throughout the day -crowded round and swept up the most wonderful bargains. - -The preacher saw the crowd had no ears for him now, and so, with a last -little despairing shake of the arm, he closed his book and jumped off -his plank. The round-about gave a last shriek of enthusiasm and then -dropped exhausted, with the happy sense that it had added to the gaiety -of the nations and had brought many coppers into the pockets of its -master. - -The crowd surged towards the little red beadle with the drum, and -Maradick and Tony surged with it. It was beyond question a very lively -crowd, and it threatened to be livelier with every beat of the drum. The -sound was intoxicating beyond a doubt, and when you had already paid a -visit to the “Red Lion” and enjoyed a merry glass with your best friend, -of course you entered into the spirit of things more heartily than ever. - -And then, too, this dance round the town was the moment of the year. It -was the one occasion on which no questions were asked and no surprise -ever shown. Decorum and propriety, both excellent things, were for once -flung aside; for unless they were discarded the spirit of the dance was -not enjoyed. It was deeply symbolic; a glorious quarter of an hour into -which you might fling all the inaction of the year—disappointment, -revenge, jealousy, hate went, like soiled and useless rags, into the -seething pot, and were danced away for ever. You expressed, too, all -your joy and gratitude for a delightful year and a most merry fair, and -you drank in, as it were wine, encouragement and hope for the year to -come. There had been bad seasons and disappointing friends, and the sad -knowledge that you weren’t as strong as you had once been; but into the -pot with it all! Dance it away into limbo! and, on the back of that -merry drum, sits a spirit that will put new heart into you and will send -your toes twinkling down the street. - -And then, best of all, it was a Dance of Hearts. It was the great moment -at which certainty came to you, and, as you followed that drum down the -curving street, you knew that the most wonderful thing in the world had -come to you, and that you would never be quite the same person again; -perhaps she had danced with you down the street, perhaps she had watched -you and listened to the drum and known that there was no question any -more. I do not know how many marriages in Treliss that drum had been -answerable for, but it knew its business. - -The crowd began to form into some kind of order with a great deal of -pushing and laughter and noise. There were whistles and little flags and -tin horns. It was considered to bring good luck in the succeeding year, -and so every kind of person was struggling for a place. If you had not -danced then your prospects for the next twelve months were poor indeed, -and your neighbours marked you down as some one doomed to misfortune. -Very old women were there, their skirts gathered tightly about them, -their mouths firm set and their eyes on the drum. Old men were pushed -aside by younger ones and took it quietly and with submission, -contenting themselves with the thought of the years when they had done -their share of the fighting and had had a place with the best. Towards -the front most of the young men were gathered. The crowd wound round the -market, serpent-wise, coiling round and over the booths and stalls, -twisting past the grey tower, and down finally into grey depths where -the pepper-pot houses bent and twisted under the red flare of the -lights. - -Maradick and Tony were wedged tightly between flank and rear; as things -were it was difficult enough to keep one’s feet. At Maradick’s side was -an old woman, stout, with her bonnet whisked distractingly back from her -forehead, her grey hairs waving behind her, her hands pressed tightly -over a basket that she clasped to her waist. - -“Eh sirs . . . eh sirs!” pantingly, breathlessly she gasped forth, and -then her hand was hurriedly pressed to her forehead; with that up flew -the lid of the basket and the scraggy lean neck of a hen poked miserably -into the air and screeched frantically. “Down, Janet; but the likes of -this . . . never did I see.” But nevertheless something triumphant in it -all; at least she kept her place. - -Already feet were beating to the tune of the drum; a measured stamp, -stamp on the cobbles spoke of an itching to be off, a longing for the -great moment. Waves of excitement surged through the crowd. For a moment -it seemed as though everyone would be carried away, feet would lose -their hold of the pavement and the multitude would tumble furiously down -the hill; but no, the wave surged to the little red drum and then surged -back again. The drum was not ready; everyone was not there. -“Patience”—you could hear it speak, stolidly, resolutely, in its -beats—“Patience, the time is coming if you will only be patient. You -must trust me for the great moment.” - -Maradick was crushed against the old lady with the basket; for an -instant, a movement in the crowd flung him forward and he caught at the -basket to steady himself. Really, it was too ridiculous! His hat had -fallen to the back of his head, he was hot and perspiring, and he wanted -to fling off his overcoat, but his hands were pressed to his sides. -Mechanically his feet were keeping time with the drum, and suddenly he -laughed. An old man in front of him was crushed sideways between two -stalwart youths, and every now and again he struggled to escape, making -pathetic little movements with his hands and then sinking back again, -resigned. His old, wrinkled face, with a crooked nose and an expression -of timid anxiety, seemed to Maradick infinitely diverting. “By Jove,” he -cried, “look at that fellow!” But Tony was excited beyond measure. - -He was crushed against Maradick, his cap balancing ridiculously on the -back of his head; his mouth was smiling and his feet were beating time. -“Isn’t it a rag? I say, isn’t it? Such fun! Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m -afraid that I stepped on you. But there is a crowd, isn’t there? It’s -really awfully hard to help it. Oh! let me pick it up for you—a -cucumber, you said? Oh, there it is, rolled right away under that man -there.” “Oh thank you, if you wouldn’t mind!” “No, it’s none the worse, -missis. I say, Maradick, aren’t they decent; the people, I mean?” - -And then suddenly they were off. The red coat of the town-crier waved in -the wind and the drum moved. - -For a moment a curious silence fell on the crowd. Before, there had been -Babel—a very ocean of voices mingled with cries and horns and the -blaring of penny whistles—you could scarcely hear yourself speak. But -now there was silence. The drum beat came clearly through the air—one, -two, one, two—and then, with a shout the silence was broken and the -procession moved. - -There was a sudden linking of arms down the line and Tony put his -through Maradick’s. With feet in line they passed down the square, -bending forward, then back; at one moment the old woman’s basket jumped -suddenly into Maradick’s stomach, then he was pushed from behind. He -felt that his cap was wobbling and he took it off, and, holding it -tightly to his chest, passed on bareheaded. - -At the turning of the corner the pace became faster. The beat of the -drum, heard faintly through the noise of the crowd, was now “two, three, -two, three.” “Come along, come along, it’s time to move, I’m tired of -standing still!” - -A delirium seemed to seize the front lines, and it passed like a flame -down the ranks. Faster, faster. For heaven’s sake, faster! People were -singing, a strange tune that seemed to have no words but only a -crescendo of sound, a murmur that rose to a hum and then to a scream, -and then sank again back into the wind and the beat of the drum. - -They had left the market-place and were struggling, pressing, down the -narrow street that led to the bay. Some one in front broke into a kind -of dance-step. One, two, three, then forward bending almost double, your -head down, then one, two, three, and your body back again, a leg in air, -your head flung behind. It was the dance, the dance! - -The spirit was upon them, the drum had given the word, and the whole -company danced down the hill, over the cobbles. One, two, three, bend, -one, two, three, back, leg in air! “Oh, but I can’t!” Maradick was -panting. He could not stop, for they were pressing close behind him. The -old woman had lost all sense of decorum. She waved her basket in the -air, and from its depths came the scream of the hen. Tony’s arm was -tight through his, and Tony was dancing. One, two, three, and everyone -bent together. One, two, three, legs were in the air. Faces were flushed -with excitement, hands were clenched, and the tune rose and fell. For an -instant Maradick resisted. He must get out of it; he tried to draw his -arm away. It was held in a vice and Tony was too excited to listen, and -then propriety, years, tradition went hustling to the winds and he was -dancing as the others. He shouted wildly, he waved his cap in the air; -then he caught the tune and shouted it with the others. - -A strange hallucination came upon him that he was some one else, that -he, as Maradick, did not exist. Epsom was a lie and the office in town a -delusion. The years seemed to step off his back, like Pilgrim’s pack, -and so, shouting and singing, he danced down the street. - -They reached the bottom of the hill and turned the corner along the path -that led by the bay. The sea lay motionless at their feet, the path of -the moon stretching to the horizon. - -The tune was wilder and wilder; the dance had done its work, and enough -marriages were in the making to fill the church for a year of Sundays. -There was no surprise at the presence of Tony and Maradick. This was an -occasion in which no one was responsible for their actions, and if -gentlemen chose to join, well, there was nothing very much to wonder at. - -To Tony it seemed the moment of his life. This was what he had been born -to do, to dance madly round the town. It seemed to signify comradeship, -good fellowship, the true equality. It was the old Greek spirit come to -life again; that spirit of which he had spoken to Alice—something that -Homer had known and something that Whitman had preached. And so up the -hill! madly capering, gesticulating, shouting. Some one is down, but no -one stops. He is left to pick himself up and come limping after. Mr. -Trefusis the butcher had been for a twelvemonth at war with Mr. Curtis -the stationer, now they are arm in arm, both absurdly stout; the collar -of Mr. Curtis is burst at the neck, but they are friends once more. Mrs. -Graham, laundress, had insulted Miss Penny, dressmaker, four months ago, -and they had not spoken since; now, with bonnets awry and buttons -bursting down the back, it is a case of “Mary” and “Agnes” once again. - -Oh! the drum knew its work. - -And then it was suddenly over. The top of the hill completed the circle -and the market was reached again. The drum beat a frantic tattoo on the -steps of the Town Hall, the crowd surged madly round the square, and -then suddenly the screams died away, a last feeble beat was heard, and -there was silence. People leaned breathlessly against any support that -might be there and thought suddenly of the disorder of their dress. -Everyone was perhaps a little sheepish, and some had the air of those -who had suddenly awaked from sleep. - -Maradick came speedily to his senses. He did not know what he had been -doing, but it had all been very foolish. He straightened his tie, put on -his cap, wiped his forehead, and drew his arm from Tony’s. He was very -thankful that there was no one there who knew him. What would his clerks -have said had they seen him? Fancy the office-boy! And then the Epsom -people. Just fancy! Louie, Mrs. Martin Fraser, old Tom Craddock. -Maradick, James Maradick dancing wildly down the street with an old -woman. It was incredible! - -But there was still that strange, half-conscious feeling that it had not -been Maradick at all, or, at any rate, some strange, curious Maradick -whose existence until to-night had never been expected. It was not the -Maradick of Epsom and the City. And then the Admonitus Locorum, perched -gaily on his shoulder, laughed hilariously and winked at the Tower. - -Tony was excited as he had never been before, and was talking eagerly to -an old deaf man who had managed to keep up with the company but was -sadly exhausted by the doing of it. - -“My last,” sighed the old man between gasps for breath. “Don’t ’ee tell -me, young feller, I shan’t see another.” - -“Nonsense,” Tony waved his arms in the air, “why, you’re quite young -still. You’re a fisherman, aren’t you? How splendid. I’d give anything -to be a fisherman. I’ll come down and watch you sometimes and you must -come up and have tea.” - -At this point Maradick intervened. - -“I say, let’s get out of this, it’s so hot. Come away from the crowd.” -He pulled Tony by the arm. - -“All right.” Tony shook the old man by the hand. “Good-bye, I’ll come -and watch you fish one morning. By Jove, it is hot! but what fun! Where -shall we go?” - -“I propose bed,” said Maradick, rather grimly. He felt suddenly out of -sympathy with the whole thing. It was as though some outside power had -slipped the real Maradick, the Maradick of business and disillusioned -forty, back into his proper place again. The crowd became something -common and even disgusting. He glanced round to assure himself that no -one who mattered had been witness of his antics as he called them; he -felt a little annoyed with Tony for leading him into it. It all arose, -after all, from that first indiscreet departure from the hotel. He now -felt that an immediate return to his rooms was the only secure method of -retreat. The dance stood before him as some horrible indiscretion -indulged in by some irresponsible and unauthorised part of him. How -could he! The ludicrous skinny neck of the shrieking hen pointed the -moral of the whole affair. He felt that he had, most horribly, let -himself down. - -“Yes, bed,” he said. “We’ve fooled enough.” But for Tony the evening was -by no means over. The dance had been merely the symbol of a new order of -things. It was the physical expression of something that he had been -feeling so strangely, so beautifully, during these last few days. He had -called it by so many names—Sincerity, Simplicity, Beauty, the Classical -Spirit, the Heroic Age—but none of these names had served, for it was -made up of all these things, and, nevertheless, was none of them alone. -He had wondered at this new impulse, almost, indeed, new knowledge; and -yet scarcely new, because he felt as if he had known it all, the impulse -and the vitality and the simplicity of it, some long time before. - -And now that dance had made things clearer for him. It was something -that he had done in other places, with other persons, many hundreds, -nay, thousands of years ago; he had found his place in the golden chain -that encircled the world. And so, of course, he did not wish to go back. -He would never go back; he would never go to sleep again, and so he told -Maradick. - -“Well, I shall go,” said Maradick, and he led the way out of the crowd. -Then Tony felt that he had been rude. After all, he had persuaded -Maradick to come, and it was rather discourteous now to allow him to -return alone. - -“Perhaps,” he said regretfully, “it would be better. But it is such a -splendid night, and one doesn’t get the chance of a game like that very -often.” - -“No,” said Maradick, “perhaps it’s as well. I don’t know what led me; -and now I’m hot, dusty, beastly!” - -“I say a drink,” said Tony. They had passed out of the market-place and -were turning up the corner of the crooked street to their right. A -little inn, the “Red Guard,” still showed light in its windows. The door -flung open and two men came out, and, with them, the noise of other -voices. Late though the hour was, trade was still being driven; it was -the night of the year and all rules might be broken with impunity. - -Maradick and Tony entered. - -The doorway was low and the passage through which they passed thick with -smoke and heavy with the smell of beer. The floor was rough and uneven, -and the hissing gas, mistily hanging in obscure distance, was utterly -insufficient. They groped their way, and at last, guided by voices, -found the door of the taproom. This was very full indeed, and the air -might have been cut with a knife. Somewhere in the smoky haze there was -a song that gained, now and again, at chorus point, a ready assistance -from the room at large. - -Tony was delighted. “Why, it’s Shelley’s Inn!” he cried. “Oh! you know! -where he had the bacon,” and he quoted: “‘. . . A Windsor chair, at a -small round beechen table in a little dark room with a well-sanded -floor.’ It’s just as though I’d been here before. What ripping chaps!” - -There was a small table in a corner by the door, and they sat down and -called for beer. The smoke was so thick that it was almost as though -they had the room to themselves. Heads and boots and long sinewy arms -appeared through the clouds and vanished again. Every now and again the -opening of the door would send the smoke in whirling eddies down the -room and the horizon would clear; then, in a moment, there was mist -again. - -“‘What would Miss Warne say?’” quoted Tony. “You know, it’s what -Elizabeth Westbrook was always saying, the sister of Harriet; but poets -bore you, don’t they? Only it’s a Shelley night somehow. He would have -danced like anything. Isn’t this beer splendid? We must come here -again.” - -But Maradick was ill at ease. His great overwhelming desire was to get -back, speedily, secretly, securely. He hated this smelly, smoky tavern. -He had never been to such a place in his life, and he didn’t know why he -had ever suffered Tony to lead him there. He was rather annoyed with -Tony, to tell the truth. His perpetual enthusiasm was a trifle wearisome -and he had advanced in his acquaintanceship with a rapidity that -Maradick’s caution somewhat resented. And then there was a lack of scale -that was a little humiliating. Maradick had started that evening with -the air of one who confers a favour; now he felt that he was flung, in -Tony’s brain, into the same basket with the old fisherman, the landlord -of the “Red Guard,” and the other jovial fellows in the room. They were -all “delightful,” “charming,” “the best company”; there was, he felt -resentfully, no discrimination. The whole evening had been, perhaps, a -mistake, and for the future he would be more careful. - -And then suddenly he noticed that some one was sitting at their little -table. It was strange that he had not seen him before, for the table was -small and they were near the door. But he had been absorbed in his -thoughts and his eyes had been turned away. A little man in brown sat at -his side, quite silently, his eyes fixed on the window; he did not seem -to have noticed their presence. His age might have been anything between -forty and fifty, but he had a prosperous air as of one who had found -life a pleasant affair and anything but a problem; a gentleman, Maradick -concluded. - -And then he suddenly looked up and caught Maradick’s gaze. He smiled. It -was the most charming smile that Maradick had ever seen, something that -lightened not only the face but the whole room, and something incredibly -young and engaging. Tony caught the infection of it and smiled too. -Maradick had no idea at the time that this meeting was, in any way, to -be of importance to him; but he remembered afterwards every detail of -it, and especially that beautiful sudden smile, the youth and frankness -in it. In other days, when the moment had assumed an almost tragic -importance in the light of after events, the picture was, perhaps, the -most prominent background that he possessed; the misted, entangled light -struck the little dark black table, the sanded floor, the highraftered -ceiling: then there were the dark spaces beyond peopled with mysterious -shapes and tumultuous with a hundred voices. And finally the quiet -little man in brown. - -“You have been watching the festival?” he said. There was something a -little foreign in the poise and balance of the sentence; the English -pronunciation was perfect? but the words were a little too distinct. - -Maradick looked at him again. There _was_, perhaps, something foreign -about his face—rather sallow, and his hair was of a raven blackness. - -“Yes,” said Maradick. “It was most interesting. I have never seen -anything quite like it before.” - -“You followed it?” he asked. - -“Yes.” Maradick hesitated a little. - -“Rather!” Tony broke in; “we danced as well. I never had such fun. We’re -up at the hotel there; we saw the lights and were tempted to come down, -but we never expected anything like that. I wish there was another night -of it.” - -He was leaning back in his chair, his greatcoat flung open and his cap -tilted at the back of his head. The stranger looked at him with -appreciation. - -“I’m glad you liked it. It’s _the_ night for our little town, but it’s -been kept more or less to ourselves. People don’t know about it, which -is a good thing. You needn’t tell them or it will be ruined.” - -“Our town.” Then the man belonged to the place. And yet he was surely -not indigenous. - -“It’s not new to you?” said Maradick tentatively. - -“New! Oh! dear me, no!” the man laughed. “I belong here and have for -many years past. At least it has been my background, as it were. You -would be surprised at the amount that the place contains.” - -“Oh, one can see that,” said Tony. “It has atmosphere more than any -place I ever knew—medieval, and not ashamed of it, which is unusual for -England.” - -“We have been almost untouched,” said the other, “by all this -modernising that is ruining England. We are exactly as we were five -hundred years ago, in spite of the hotel. For the rest, Cornwall is -being ruined. Look at Pendragon, Conister, and hundreds of places. But -here we have our fair and our dance and our crooked houses, and are not -ashamed.” - -But Maradick had no desire to continue the conversation. He suddenly -realised that he was very tired, sleepy—bed was the place, and this -place with its chorus of sailors and smoke. . . . He finished his beer -and rose. - -“I’m afraid that we must be getting back,” he said. “It’s very late. I -had no intention really of remaining as late.” He suddenly felt foolish, -as though the other two were laughing at him. He felt strangely -irritated. - -“Of course,” he said to Tony, “it’s only myself. Don’t you hurry; but -old bones, you know——” He tried to carry it off with a laugh. - -“Oh! I’m coming,” said Tony. “We said we’d be back by twelve, and we’ve -got five minutes. So we’ll say good night, sir.” - -He held out his hand to the man in brown. The stranger took out a -card-case and handed his card. - -“In case you would care to see round the place—there’s a good deal that -I could show you. I should be very pleased at any time if you are making -a lengthy stay; I shall be here for some months now, and am entirely at -your service.” - -He looked at Maradick as he spoke and smiled, but it was obviously Tony -for whom the invitation was meant. Maradick felt absurdly out of it. - -“Oh, thank you,” said Tony, “I should be awfully glad. I think that we -shall be here some time; I will certainly come if I may.” - -They smiled at each other, the stranger bowed, and they were once more -in the cooler air. - -Under the light of the lamp Tony read the card:— - - “Mr. Andreas Morelli, - _19 Trevenna Street, Treliss_.” - -“Ah! a foreigner, as I thought,” said Tony. “What an awfully nice man. -Did you ever see such a smile?” - -“Rather a short acquaintance!” said Maradick. “We only spoke to him for -a minute, and then he offered his card. One has to be a little careful.” - -“Oh! you could tell he was all right,” said Tony; “look at his eyes. But -what fun it’s all been. Aren’t you glad you came down?” - -Maradick couldn’t honestly say that he was, but he answered in the -affirmative. “Only, you know,” he said, laughing, “it’s an unusual -evening for a man like myself. We run along on wheels and prefer -sticking to the rails.” - -They were climbing the hill. “Why, this is Trevenna Street!” cried Tony, -catching sight of the name on one of the houses. “The man lives here.” - -The street was quaint and picturesque, and on some of the walls there -was ancient carving; heads leered at them from over the doors and -window-ledges. Then it struck twelve from somewhere in the town, and -immediately all the lights went out; the street was in darkness, for, at -the moment, the clouds were over the moon. - -“We’re in the provinces,” said Tony, laughing. “We ought to have -link-boys.” - -Suddenly above their heads there was a light. A window was flung up and -some one was standing there with a candle. It was a girl; in the -candle-light she stood out brilliantly against the black background. She -leaned out of the window. - -“Is that you, father?” she called. - -Then some one spoke from inside the room. There was a petulant “Oh -bother! Miss Minns!” and then the window closed. - -Maradick had scarcely noticed the affair. He was hurrying up the hill, -eager to reach the hotel. - -But Tony stood where he was. “By Jove!” he cried. “Did you see her eyes? -Wonderful! Why, you never in all your life——!” - -“Candle-light is deceptive,” said Maradick. - -“She was wonderful! Glorious! Just for a moment like that out of the -darkness! But this is indeed a city of miracles!” He looked back; the -house was in absolute darkness. - -“She doesn’t like Miss Minns,” he added, “I expect Miss Minns is a -beast; I, too, hate Miss Minns.” - -At last, in the dark, mysterious hall they parted. “Oh! for bed!” said -Maradick. - -“But what a night!” cried Tony. “By heaven! what a night!” - -And the Admonitus Locorum smiled, very knowingly, from the head of the -stairs. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - - MARADICK MAKES A PROMISE AND MEETS AN - ITINERANT OPTIMIST - -The house was the cleverest in the world. There was nothing in Europe of -its kind, and that was because its cleverness lay in the fact that you -never thought it clever at all. It could, most amazingly, disappear so -utterly and entirely that you never had any thoughts about it at all, -and merely accepted it without discussion as a perfect background. And -then, suddenly, on a morning or an evening, it would leap out at you and -catch you by the throat; and the traveller wondered and was aghast at -its most splendid adaptability. - -It was, indeed, all things to all men; but it nevertheless managed to -bring out the best parts of them. All those strange people that it had -seen—painters and musicians, the aristocracy and old maids, -millionaires and the tumbled wastrels cast out from a thousand -cities—it gathered them all, and they left it, even though they had -passed but a night in its company, altered a little. And it achieved -this by its adaptability. In its rooms and passages, its gardens and -sudden corners, its grey lights and green lawns, there was that same -secret waiting for an immediate revelation. Some thought the house a -tyranny, and others called it a surprise, and a few felt that it was an -impossibility, but no one disregarded it. - -For Maradick, in these strange new days into which he was entering, its -charm lay in its age. That first view with the dark, widening staircase -that passed into hidden lights and mysteries overhead and turned so -nobly towards you the rich gleam of its dark brown oak, the hall with -its wide fireplace and passages that shone, as all true passages should, -like little cups of light and shadow, grey and blue and gold, before -vanishing into darkness—this first glimpse had delighted him; it was a -hall that was a perfect test of the arriving visitor, and Maradick had -felt that he himself had been scarcely quite the right thing. It was -almost as though he ought to have apologised for the colourless -money-making existence that had hitherto been his; he had felt this -vaguely and had been a little uncomfortable. But there were things -higher up that were better still. There were rooms that had, most -wisely, been untouched, and their dark, mysterious panelling, the -wistful scent of dried flowers and the wax of dying candles; the -suggestion—so that he held his breath sometimes to listen whether it -were really so—of rustling brocades and the tiny click of shining heels -on the polished floor, was of a quite unequalled magic for him. Of -course there was imagination in it, and in the last few days these -things had grown and extended their influence over him, but there must -have been something there before, he argued, to impress so -matter-of-fact and solid a gentleman. - -There was one room that drew him with especial force, so that sometimes, -before going to bed, he would enter with his candle raised high above -his head, and watch the shadow on the floor and the high gloom of the -carved ceiling. It contained a little minstrels gallery supported on -massive pillars of gleaming oak, and round the bottom of the platform -were carved the heads of grinning lions, reminding one of that famous -Cremona violin of Herr Prespil’s. In the centre of the room was an old -table with a green baize cloth, and against the wall, stiffly ranged and -dusty from disuse, high-backed quaintly carved chairs, but for the rest -no carpet and no pictures on the dark, thick walls. - -It was sometimes used for dancing, and at times for a meeting or a sale -of work; or perchance, if there were gentlemen musically inclined, for -chamber music. But it was empty during half the year, and no one -disturbed its dust; it reminded Maradick of that tower in the -market-place. They were, both of them, melancholy survivals, but he -applauded their bravery in surviving at all, and he had almost a -personal feeling for them in that he would have liked them to know that -there was, at least, one onlooker who appreciated their being there. - -There were rooms and passages in the upper part of the house that were -equally delightful and equally solitary. He himself had in his former -year at Treliss thought them melancholy and dusty; there had been no -charm. But now the room of the minstrels had drawn him frequently to its -doors, partly by reason of its power of suggestion—the valuation, for -him, of light and sound and colour, in their true and most permanent -qualities—partly by the amazing view that its deep-set windows -provided. It hung forward, as it were, over the hill, so that the -intervening space of garden and tower and wood was lost and there was -only the sea. It seemed to creep to the very foot of the walls, and the -horizon of it was so distant that it swept into infinite space, meeting -the sky without break or any division. The height of the room gave the -view colour, so that there were deeper blues and greens in the sea, and -in the sky the greys and whites were shot with other colours that the -mists of the intervening air had given them. - -In these last few days Maradick had watched the view with -ever-increasing wonder. The sea had been to him before something that -existed for the convenience of human beings—a means of transit, a -pleasant place to bathe, sands for the children, and the pier for an -amusing walk. Now he felt that these things were an impertinence. It -seemed to him that the sea permitted them against its will, and would, -one day, burst its restraint and pour in overwhelming fury on to that -crowd of nurses and nigger-minstrels and parasols; he almost hoped that -it would. - -Loneliness was, however, largely responsible for this change of view. -There had been no one this time at the hotel to whom he had exactly -taken. There had been men last year whom he had liked, excellent -fellows. They had come there for the golf and he had seen a good deal of -them. There might be some of the same kind now, but for some reason, -unanalysed and very mistily grasped, he did not feel drawn towards them. - -The Saturday of the end of that week was a terribly hot day, and after -lunch he had gone to his room, pulled down his blinds, and slumbered -over a novel. The novel was by a man called Lester; he had made his name -several years before with “The Seven Travellers,” a work that had -succeeded in pleasing both critics and public. It was now in its tenth -edition. Maradick had been bored by “The Seven Travellers”; it had -seemed effete and indefinite. They were, he had thought, always -travelling and never getting there, and he had put it down unfinished. -The man knew nothing of life at first hand, and the characters were too -obviously concerned in their own emotions to arouse any very acute ones -in the reader. But this one, “To Paradise,” was better. If the afternoon -had not been so very hot it might even have kept him awake. The -characters were still effete and indefinite, motives were still crudely -handled and things were vague and obscure, but there was something in -its very formlessness that was singularly pleasing. And it was -beautiful, there was no doubt about that; little descriptions of places -and people that were charming not only for themselves but also for the -suggestions that they raised. - -When he woke it was nearly four o’clock. He remembered that he had -promised his wife to come down to tea. She had met the Gales the day -before and they were coming to tea, and he had to be useful. There were -a good many little drawing-rooms in the hotel, so that you could ask -more people to tea than your own room would conveniently hold, and -nevertheless be, to all intents and purposes, private. - -He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and left his room. Then he -remembered that he had left a book in the room with the minstrels -gallery that morning. He went upstairs to fetch it. The room itself lay -in shadow, but outside, beyond the uncurtained windows, the light was so -fierce that it hurt his eyes. - -He had never seen anything to approach the colour. Sea and sky were a -burning blue, and they were seen through a golden mist that seemed to -move like some fluttering, mysterious curtain between earth and heaven. -There was perfect stillness. Three little fishing-boats with brown -sails, through which the sun glowed with the red light of a ruby, stood -out against the staring, dazzling white of the distant cliffs. - -He found his book, and stood there for a moment wondering why he liked -the place so much. He had never been a man of any imagination, but now, -vaguely, he filled the space around him with figures. He could not -analyse his thoughts at all, but he knew that it all meant something to -him now, something that had not been there a week ago. - -He went down to tea. - -The drawing-room was lying in shadow; the light and heat were shut out -by heavy curtains. His wife was making tea, and as he came in at the -door he realised her daintiness and charm very vividly. The shining -silver and delicate china suited her, and there were little touches of -very light blue about her white dress that were vague enough to seem -accidental; you wondered why they had happened to be so exactly in -precisely the right places. There were also there Lady and Sir Richard -Gale, Alice Du Cane, Mrs. Lawrence, and in the background with a -diminutive kitten, Tony. - -“Something to eat, Miss Du Cane? What, nothing, really?” He sat down -beside her and Tony. She interested him, partly because she was so -beautiful and partly because she was perhaps going to marry Tony. She -looked very cool now; a little too cool, he thought. - -“Well? Do you like this place?” he said. - -“I? Oh yes! It’s lovely, of course. But I think it would be better if -one had a cottage here, quite quietly. Of course the hotel’s beautiful -and most awfully comfortable, but it’s the kind of place where one -oughtn’t to have to think of more than the place; it’s worth it. All the -other things—dressing and thinking what you look like, and _table -d’hôte_—they all come in between somehow like a wall. One doesn’t want -anything but the place.” - -_That_, he suddenly discovered, was why he liked the little room -upstairs, because it was, so simply and clearly, the place. He looked at -her gratefully. - -“Yes,” he said, “that’s just what I’ve been feeling. I missed it last -year somehow. It didn’t seem fine in quite the same way.” - -But he saw that she was not really interested. She thought of him, of -course, as a kind of middle-aged banker. He expected that she would soon -try to talk to him about self and the _table d’hôte_ and bridge. He was -seriously anxious to show her that there were other things that he cared -for. - -“You’ve changed a lot since the other day, Alice,” said Tony suddenly. -“You told me you didn’t like Treliss a bit, and now you think it’s -lovely.” - -“I do really,” said Alice, laughing. “That was only a mood. How could -one help caring? All the same you know I don’t think it’s altogether -good for one, it’s too complete a holiday.” - -“That’s very strenuous, Miss Du Cane,” said Maradick. “Why shouldn’t we -have holidays? It helps.” - -“Ah, yes,” said Alice. “But then you work. Here am I doing nothing all -the year round but enjoy myself; frankly, I’m getting tired of it. I -shall buy a typewriter or something. Oh! if I were only a man!” - -She looked at Tony. He laughed. - -“She’s always doing that, Maradick—pitching into me because I don’t do -anything; but that’s only because she doesn’t know in the least what I’m -really doing. She doesn’t know——” - -“Please, Mr. Maradick,” she said, turning round to him, “make him start -something seriously. Take him into your office. He can add, I expect, or -be useful in some way. He’s getting as old as Methuselah, and he’s never -done a day’s work in his life.” - -Although she spoke lightly, he could see that she meant it very -seriously. He wondered what it was that she wanted him to do, and also -why people seemed to take it for granted that he had influence over -Tony; it was as if Fate were driving him into a responsibility that he -would much rather avoid. But the difficulty of it all was that he was so -much in the dark. These people had not let him into things, and yet they -all of them demanded that he should do something. He would have liked to -have asked her to tell him frankly what it was that she wanted him to -do, and, indeed, why she had appealed to him at all; but there was no -opportunity then. At any rate he felt that some of her indifference was -gone; she had let him see that there were difficulties somewhere, and -that at least was partial confidence. - -Mrs. Maradick interrupted: “Miss Du Cane, I wonder if you would come and -make a four at bridge. It’s too hot to go out, and Sir Richard would -like a game. It would be most awfully good of you.” - -Alice moved over to the card-table. Sir Richard played continually but -never improved. He sat down now with the air of one who condescended; he -covered his mistakes with the assurance that it was his partner who was -playing abominably, and he explained carefully and politely at the end -of the game the things that she ought to have done. Mrs. Maradick and -Mrs. Lawrence played with a seriousness and compressed irritation that -was worthy of a greater cause. - -Tony had slipped out of the room, and Lady Gale crossed over to Maradick -by the window. - -“How quickly,” she said, “we get to know each other in a place like -this. We have only been here a week and I am going to be quite -confidential already.” - -“Confidential?” said Maradick. - -“Yes, and I hope you won’t mind. You mustn’t mind, because it’s my way. -It always has been. If one is going to know people properly then I -resent all the wasted time that comes first. Besides, preliminaries -aren’t necessary with people as old as you and I. We ought to understand -by this time. Then we really can’t wait.” - -He looked into her face, and knew that here at least there would be -absolute honesty and an explanation of some kind. - -“Forgive me, Lady Gale,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand. -I’ve been in the dark and perhaps you’ll explain. Before I came down -here I’d been living to myself almost entirely—a man of my age and -occupations generally does—and now suddenly I’m caught into other -people’s affairs, and it’s bewildering.” - -“Well, it’s all very simple,” she answered. “Of course it’s about Tony. -Everyone’s interested in Tony. He’s just at the interesting age, and -he’s quite exciting enough to make his people wonder what he’ll turn -into. It’s the chrysalis into the—well, that just depends. And then, of -course, I care a great deal more than the rest. Tony has been different -to me from the rest. I suppose every mother’s like that, but I don’t -think most of them have been such chums with their sons as I’ve been -with Tony. We were alone in the country together for a long time and -there was nobody else. And then the time came that I had prepared for -and knew that I must face, the time when he had things that he didn’t -tell me. Every boy’s like that, but I trusted him enough not to want to -know, and he often told me just because I didn’t ask. Then he cared for -all the right things and always ran straight; he never bent his brain to -proving that black’s white and indeed rather whiter than most whites -are, as so many people do. But just lately I’ve been a little -anxious—we have all been—all of us who’re watching him. He ought to -have settled down to something or some one by this time and one doesn’t -quite know why he hasn’t; and he hasn’t been himself for the last six -months. Things ought to have come to a head here. I don’t know what he’s -been up to this week, but none of us have seen anything of him, and I -can see that his thoughts are elsewhere all the time. It isn’t in the -least that I doubt him or am unhappy, it is only that I would like some -one to be there to give him a hand if he wants one. A woman wouldn’t do; -it must be a man, and——” - -“You think I’m the person,” said Maradick. - -“Well, he likes you. He’s taken to you enormously. That’s always been a -difficulty, because he takes to people so quickly and doesn’t seem to -mind very much whom it is; but you are exactly the right man, the man I -have wanted him to care for. You would help him, you could help him, and -I think you will.” - -Maradick was silent. - -“You mustn’t, please, think that I mean you to spy in any way,” she -continued. “I don’t want you to tell me anything. I shall never ask you, -and you need never say anything to me about it. It is only that I shall -know that there is some one there if he gets into a mess and I shall -know that he’s all right.” She paused again, and then went on gently— - -“You mustn’t think it funny of me to speak to you like this when I know -you so slightly. At my age one judges people quickly, and I don’t want -to waste time. I’m asking a good deal of you, perhaps; I don’t know, but -I think it would have happened in any case whether I had spoken or no. -And then you will gain something, you know. No one can be with Tony—get -to know him and be a friend of his—without gaining. He’s a very magical -person.” - -Maradick looked down on the ground. He knew quite well that he would -have done whatever Lady Gale had asked him to do. She had seemed to him -since he had first seen her something very beautiful and even wonderful, -and he felt proud and grateful that she had trusted him like that. - -“It’s very good of you, Lady Gale,” he said; “I will certainly be a -friend of Tony’s, if that is what you want me to do. He is a delightful -fellow, much too delightful, I am afraid, to have anything much to do -with a dull, middle-aged duffer like myself. I must wake up and shake -some of the dust off.” - -She smiled. “Thank you; you don’t know how grateful I am to you for -taking an interest in him. I shall feel ever so much safer.” - -And then the door opened and Tony came in. He crossed over to her and -said eagerly, “Mother, the Lesters are here. Came this afternoon. -They’re coming up in a minute; isn’t it splendid!” - -“Oh, I am glad—not too loud, Tony, you’ll disturb the bridge. How -splendid they’re coming; Mildred said something in town about possibly -coming down in the car.” - -“He’s the author-fellow, you know,” said Tony, turning round to -Maradick. “You were reading ‘To Paradise’ yesterday; I saw you with it. -His books are better than himself. But she’s simply ripping; the best -fun you ever saw in your life.” - -That Maradick should feel any interest in meeting a novelist was a new -experience. He had formerly considered them, as a class, untidy both in -morals and dress, and had decidedly preferred City men. But he liked the -book. - -“Yes. I was reading ‘To Paradise this afternoon,’ he said. “It’s very -good. I don’t read novels much, and it’s very seldom that I read a new -one, but there was something unusual——” - -Then the door opened and the Lesters came in. She was not pretty -exactly, but striking—even, perhaps, he thought afterwards, exciting. -He often tried on later days to call back the first impression that he -had had of her, but he knew that it had not been indifference. In the -shaded half-lights of the room, the grey blue shadows that the curtains -flung on to the dark green carpet made her dress of light yellow stand -out vividly; it had the color of primroses against the soft, uncertain -outlines of the walls and hidden corners. There was a large black hat -that hid her face and forehead, but beneath it there shone and sparkled -two dark eyes that flung the heightened colour of her cheeks into -relief. But the impression that he had was something most brilliantly -alive; not alive in quite Tony’s way—that was a vitality as natural as -the force of streams and torrents and infinite seas; this had something -of opposition in it, as though some battle had created it. Her husband, -a dark, plain man, a little tired and perhaps a little indifferent, was -in the background. He did not seem to count at the moment. - -“Oh, Mildred, how delightful!” Lady Gale went forward to her. “Tony’s -just told me. I had really no idea that you were coming; of course with -a car one can do anything and get anywhere, but I thought it would have -been abroad!” - -“So it ought to have been,” said Mrs. Lester. “Fred couldn’t get on with -the new book, and suddenly at breakfast, in the way he does, you know, -said that we must be in Timbuctoo that evening. So we packed. Then we -wondered who it was that we wanted to see, and of course it was you; and -then we wondered where we wanted to go, and of course it was Treliss, -and then when we found that you and Treliss were together of course the -thing was done. So here we are, and it’s horribly hot. I only looked in -to see you for a second because I’m going to have a bath immediately and -change my things.” - -She crossed for a moment to the card-table and spoke to Sir Richard. -“No, don’t get up, Sir Richard, I wouldn’t stop the bridge for the -world. Just a shake of the fingers and I’m off. How are you? Fit? I’m as -right as a trivet, thanks. Hullo, Alice! I heard you were here! -Splendid! I’ll be down later.” - -Her husband had shaken hands with Lady Gale and talked to her for a -moment, then they were gone. - -“That’s just like Mildred,” said Lady Gale, laughing. “In for a moment -and out again, never still. When she and Tony are together things move, -I can tell you. Well, I must go up to my room, any amount of letters to -write before dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Maradick, for the moment. Thank you -for the chat.” - -When they were left alone Tony said, “Come out. It’s much cooler now. It -will be ripping by the sea. You’ve been in all the afternoon.” - -“Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ll come.” - -He realised, as he left the room, that he and his wife had scarcely met -since that first evening. There had always been other people, at meals, -outside, after dinner; he knew that he had not been thinking of her very -much, but he suddenly wondered whether she had not been a little lonely. -These people had not accepted her in quite the same way that they had -accepted him, and that was rather surprising, because at Epsom and in -town it had always been the other way about. He had been the one whom -people had thought a bore; everyone knew that she was delightful. Of -course the explanation was that Tony had, as it were, taken him up. All -these people were interested in Tony, and had, therefore, included -Maradick. He could help a little in the interpretation or rather the -development of Tony, and therefore he was of some importance. For a -moment there was a feeling of irritation at the position, and then he -remembered that it was scarcely likely that anyone was going to be -interested in him for himself, and the next best thing was to be liked -because of Tony. But it must, of course, be a puzzle to his wife. He had -caught, once or twice, a look, something that showed that she was -wondering, and that, too, was new; until now she had never thought about -him at all. - -Tony chattered all the way down to the hall. - -“The Lesters are ripping. We’ve known Milly Lester ever since the -beginning of time. She’s not much older than me, you know, and we lived -next door to each other in Carrington Gardens. Our prams always went out -and round the Square together, and we used to say goo-goo to each other. -Then later on I used to make up stories for her. She was always awfully -keen on stories and I was rather a nailer at them; then we used to -fight, and I slapped her face and she pinched me. Then we went to the -panto together, and used to dance with each other at Christmas parties. -I was never in love with her, you know: she was just a jolly good sort -whom I liked to be with. She’s always up to a rag; _he_ thinks it’s a -little too often. He’s a solemn sort of beggar and jolly serious, lives -more in his books than out of them, which doesn’t make for sociability. -Rather hard luck on her.” - -“What was his attraction for her?” asked Maradick. - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tony; “she admired his books awfully and made -the mistake of thinking that the man was like them. So he is, in a way; -it’s as if you’d married the books, you know, and there wasn’t anything -else there except the leather.” - -They were silent for a little time, and then Tony said, “On a day like -this one’s afraid—‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ you know—it’s all -_too_ beautiful and wonderful and makes such a splendid background for -the adventure that we’re on the edge of.” - -“Adventure?” said Maradick. - -“Yes; you haven’t forgotten the other night, have you? I’ve been waiting -for you to speak to me about it. And then this afternoon I saw it was -all right. My asking you to come out was a kind of test, only I knew -you’d say yes. I knew that mother had been talking to you about it. -About me and whether you’d help me? Wasn’t it?” - -“That’s between your mother and myself,” said Maradick. - -“Well, it was, all the same. And you said yes. And it’s ripping, it’s -just what I so especially wanted. They’ve all been wondering what I’m up -to. Of course they could see that something was up; and they’re simply -longing to know all about it, the others out of curiosity and mother -because she cares. It isn’t a bit curiosity with her, you know, it’s -only that she wants to know that I’m safe, and now that she’s stuck you, -whom she so obviously trusts, as a kind of bodyguard over me she’ll be -comfortable and won’t worry any more. It’s simply splendid—that she -won’t worry and that you said yes.” - -He paused and stood in the path, looking at Maradick. - -“Because, you know,” he went on, with that charming, rather crooked -little smile that he had, “I do most awfully want you for a friend quite -apart from its making mother comfortable. You’re just the chap to carry -it through; I’m right about it’s being settled, aren’t I?” - -Maradick held out his hand. - -“I expect I’m a fool,” he said, “at my age to meddle in things that -don’t concern me, but anyhow, there’s my hand on it. I like you. I want -waking up a bit and turning round, and you’ll do it. So it’s a bargain.” - -They shook hands very solemnly and walked on silently down the path. -They struck off to the right instead of turning to the left through the -town. They crossed a stile, and were soon threading a narrow, tumbling -little path between two walls of waving corn. In between the stems -poppies were hiding and overhead a lark was singing. For a moment he -came down towards them and his song filled their ears, then he circled -up and far above their heads until he hung, a tiny speck, against a sky -of marble blue. - -“You might tell me.” said Maradick, “what the adventure really is. I -myself, you know, have quite the vaguest idea, and as I’m so immediately -concerned I think I ought to know something about it.” - -“Why? I told you the other night,” said Tony; “and things really haven’t -gone very much further. I haven’t seen her again, nor has Punch, and he -has been about the beach such a lot that he’d have been sure to if she’d -been down there. But the next step has to be taken with you.” - -“What is it?” said Maradick a little apprehensively. - -“To call on that man who gave us his card the other night. He’s got a -lot to do with her, I know, and it’s the very best of luck that we -should have met him as we did.” - -“I must say I didn’t like him for some quite unexplained reason. But why -not go and call without me? He doesn’t want to see me; it was you he -gave the card to.” - -“No, you must come. I should be afraid to go alone. Besides, he might -show you things in Treliss that you’d like to see, although I suppose -you’ve explored it pretty well for yourself by this time. But, by the -way, wherever have you been this week? I’ve never seen you about the -place or with people.” - -“No,” said Maradick. “I discovered rather a jolly room up in the top of -the house somewhere, a little, old, deserted place with an old-fashioned -gallery and a gorgeous view. I grew rather fond of the place and have -been there a good deal.” - -“You must show it me. We ought to have struck the place by now. Oh, -there it is, to the right.” - -They had arrived at the edge of the cliff, and were looking for a path -that would take them down to the beach. Below them was a little beach -shut in on three sides by cliff. Its sand was very smooth and very -golden, and the sea came with the very tiniest ripple to the edge of it -and passed away again with a little sigh. Everything was perfectly -still. Then suddenly there was a bark of a dog and a man appeared on the -lower rocks, sharply outlined against the sky. - -“What luck!” cried Tony. “It’s Punch. I wanted you to meet him, and he -may have a message for me.” - -The man saw them and stepped down from the rocks on to the beach and -came towards them, the dog after him. A little crooked path brought them -to him, and Maradick was introduced. It was hard not to smile. The man -was small and square; his legs were very short, but his chest was -enormous, and his arms and shoulders looked as though they ought to have -belonged to a much bigger man. His mouth and ears were very large, his -nose and eyes small; he was wearing a peaked velvet cap, a velveteen -jacket and velveteen knickerbockers. Maradick, thinking of him -afterwards, said of him that he “twinkled;” that was the first -impression of him. His legs, his eyes, his nose, his mouth stretched in -an enormous smile, had that “dancing” effect; they said, “We are here -now and we are jolly pleased to see you, but oh! my word! we may be off -at any minute, you know!” - -The dog, a white-haired mongrel, somewhat of the pug order, was a little -like its master; its face was curiously similar, with a little nose and -tiny eyes and an enormous mouth. - -“Let me introduce you,” said Tony. “Punch, this is a friend of mine, Mr. -Maradick. Maradick, this is my friend and counsellor, Punch; and, oh, -yes, there’s Toby. Let me introduce you, Toby. Mr. Maradick—Toby. -Toby—Mr. Maradick!” - -The little man held out an enormous hand, the dog gravely extended a -paw. Maradick shook both. - -“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “Tony has told me about you.” - -“Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” the man answered; “I’m very pleased to meet -_you_, sir.” - -There was a pause, and they sat down on the sand with their backs -against the rocks. - -“Well, Punch,” said Tony, “how’s the show? I haven’t seen you since -Thursday.” - -“Oh, the _show’s_ all right,” he answered. “There’s never no fear about -that. My public’s safe enough as long as there’s children and babies, -which, nature being what it is, there’ll always be. It’s a mighty -pleasant thing having a public that’s always going on, and it ain’t as -if there was any chance of their tastes changing either. Puppies and -babies and kittens like the same things year in and year out, bless -their little hearts.” - -“You have a Punch and Judy show, haven’t you?” said Maradick a little -stiffly. He was disgusted at his stiffness, but he felt awkward and shy. -This wasn’t the kind of fellow that he’d ever had anything to do with -before; he could have put his hand into his pocket and given him a -shilling and been pleasant enough about it, but this equality was -embarrassing. Tony obviously didn’t feel it like that, but then Tony was -young. - -“Yes, sir; Punch and Judy shows are getting scarce, what with yer -cinematographs and pierrots and things. But there’s always customers for -’em and always will be. And it’s more than babies like ’em really. -Many’s the time I’ve seen old gentlemen and fine ladies stop and watch -when they think no one’s lookin’ at ’em, and the light comes into their -eyes and the colour into their cheeks, and then they think that some one -sees ’em and they creep away. It’s natural to like Punch; it’s the -banging, knock-me-down kind of humour that’s the only genuine sort. And -then the moral’s tip-top. He’s always up again, Punch is, never knows -when he’s beat, and always smiling.” - -“Yes,” said Maradick, but he knew that he would have been one of those -people who would have crept away. - -“And there’s another thing,” said the man; “the babies know right away -that it’s the thing they want. It’s my belief that they’re told before -they come here that there’s Punch waiting for them, otherwise they’d -never come at all. If you gave ’em Punch right away there wouldn’t be -any howling at all; a Punch in every nursery, I say. You’d be surprised, -sir, to see the knowin’ looks the first time they see Punch, you’d think -they’d seen it all their lives. There’s nothing new about it; some -babies are quite _blasé_ over it.” - -“And then there are the nursemaids,” said Tony. - -“Yes,” said Punch, “they’re an easy-goin’ class, nursemaids. Give them a -Punch and Judy or the military and there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for -you. I’ve a pretty complete knowledge of nursemaids.” - -“I suppose you travel about?” said Maradick; “or do you stay more or -less in one part of the country?” - -“Stay! Lord bless you, sir! I never stay anywhere; I’m up and down all -the time. It’s easy enough to travel. The show packs up small, and then -there’s just me and Toby. Winter time I’m in London a good bit. -Christmas and a bit after. London loves Punch and always will. You’d -think that these music-halls and pantomimes would knock it out, but not -a bit of it. They’ve a real warm feeling for it in London. And they -aren’t the sort of crowd who stand and watch it and laugh and smack -their thighs, and then when the cap comes round start slipping off and -pretendin’ they’ve business to get to, not a bit of it. They’d be -ashamed not to pay their little bit.” - -“And then in the summer?” said Maradick. - -“Oh! Cumberland for a bit and then Yorkshire, and then down here in -Cornwall. All round, you know. There are babies everywhere, and some are -better than others. Now the Cumberland babies beat all the rest. Give me -a Cumberland baby for a real laugh. They’re right enough down here, but -they’re a bit on their dignity and afraid of doing the wrong thing. But -I’ve got good and bad babies all over the place. I reckon I know more -about babies than anyone in the land. And you see I always see them at -their best—smiling and crowing—which is good for a man’s ’ealth.” - -The sun was sinking towards the sea, and there was perfect silence save -for the very gentle ripple of the waves. It was so still that a small -and slightly ruffled sparrow hopped down to the edge of the water and -looked about it. Toby saw him, but only lazily flapped an ear. The -sparrow watched the dog for a moment apprehensively, then decided that -there was no possible danger and resumed its contemplation of the sea. - -The waves were so lazy that they could barely drag their way up the -sand. They clung to the tiny yellow grains as though they would like to -stay and never go back again; then they fell back reluctantly with a -little song about their sorrow at having to go. - -A great peace was in Maradick’s heart. This was the world at its most -absolute best. When things were like this there were no problems nor -questions at all; Epsom was an impossible myth and money-making game for -fools. - -Tony broke the silence: - -“I say, Punch, have you any message for me?” - -“Well, sir, not exactly a message, but I’ve found out something. Not -from the young lady herself, you understand. She hasn’t been down -again—not when I’ve been there. But I’ve found out about her father.” - -“Her father?” said Tony excitedly; and Toby also sat up at attention as -though he were interested. - -“Yes; he’s the little man in brown you spoke of. Well known about here, -it seems. They say he’s been here as long as anyone can remember, and -always the same. No one knows him—keeps ’imself to ’imself; a bit -lonely for the girl.” - -“That man!” cried Tony. “And he’s asked me to call! Why, it’s fate!” - -He grasped Maradick’s arm excitedly. - -“He’s her father! her father!” he cried. “And he’s asked us to call! -_Her_ father, and we’re to call!” - -“You’re to call!” corrected Maradick. “He never said anything about me; -he doesn’t want me.” - -“Oh, of course you’re to come. ’Pon my word, Punch, you’re a brick. Is -there anything else?” - -“Well, yes,” said Punch slowly. “He came and spoke to me yesterday after -the show. Said he liked it and was very pleasant. But I don’t like ’im -all the same. I agree with that gentleman; there’s something queer -there, and everyone says so.” - -“Oh, that’s all right,” said Tony. “Never mind about the man. He’s her -father, that’s the point. My word, what luck!” - -But Punch shook his head dubiously. - -“What do they say against him, then?” said Tony. “What reasons have -they?” - -“Ah! that’s just it,” said Punch; “they haven’t got no reasons. The man -’asn’t a ’istory at all, which is always an un’ealthy sign. Nobody knows -where ’e comes from nor what ’e’s doing ’ere. ’E isn’t Cornish, _that’s_ -certain. ’E’s got sharp lips and pointed ears. I don’t like ’im and Toby -doesn’t either, and ’e’s a knowing dog if ever there was one.” - -“Well, I’m not to be daunted,” said Tony; “the thing’s plainly arranged -by Providence.” - -But Maradick, looking at Punch, thought that he knew more than he -confessed to. There was silence again, and they watched a gossamer mist, -pearl-grey with the blue of the sea and sky shining through, come -stealing towards them. The sky-line was red with the light of the -sinking sun, and a very faint rose colour touched with gold skimmed the -crests of tiny waves that a little breeze had wakened. - -The ripples that ran up the beach broke into white foam as they rose. - -“Well, I must be getting on, Mr. Tony,” said Punch, rising. “I am at -Mother Shipton’s to-night. Good-bye, sir,” he shook hands with Maradick, -“I am pleased to ’ave met you.” - -Tony walked a little way down the beach with him, arm in arm. They -stopped, and Punch put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said something -that Maradick did not catch; but he was speaking very seriously. Then, -with the dog at his heels, he disappeared over the bend of the rocks. - -“We’d better be getting along too,” said Tony. “Let’s go back to the -beach. There’ll be a glorious view!” - -“He seems a nice fellow,” said Maradick. - -“Oh, Punch! He’s simply ripping! He’s one of the people whose simplicity -seems so easy until you try it, and then it’s the hardest thing in the -world. I met him in town last winter giving a show somewhere round -Leicester Square way, and he was pretty upset because Toby the dog was -ill. I don’t know what he’d do if that dog were to die. He hasn’t got -anyone else properly attached to him. Of course, there are lots of -people all over the country who are very fond of him, and babies, simply -any amount, and children and dogs—anything young—but they don’t really -belong to him.” - -But Maradick felt that, honestly, he wasn’t very attracted. The man was -a vagabond, after all, and would be much better earning his living at -some decent trade; a strong, healthy man like that ought to be keeping a -wife and family and doing his country some service instead of wandering -about the land with a dog; it was picturesque, but improper. But he -didn’t say anything to Tony about his opinions—also he knew that the -man didn’t annoy him as he would have done a week ago. - -As they turned the bend of the cliffs the tower suddenly rose in front -of them like a dark cloud. It stood out sharply, rising to a peak biting -into the pale blue sky, and vaguely hinting at buildings and gabled -roofs; before it the sand stretched, pale gold. - -Tony put his arm through Maradick’s. - -At first they were not sure; it might be imagination. In the misty and -uncertain light figures seemed to rise out of the pale yellow sands and -to vanish into the dusky blue of the sea. But at the same moment they -realised that there was some one there and that he was waiting for them; -they recognised the brown jacket, the cloth cap, the square, prosperous -figure. The really curious thing was that Maradick had had his eyes -fixed on the sand in front of him, but he had seen no one coming. The -figure had suddenly materialised, as it were, out of the yellow evening -dusk. It was beyond doubt Mr. Andreas Morelli. - -He was the same as he had been a week ago. There was no reason why he -should have changed, but Maradick felt as though he had been always, -from the beginning, the same. It was not strange that he had not changed -since last week, but it was strange that he had not changed, as Maradick -felt to be the case, since the very beginning of time; he had always -been like that. - -He greeted Tony now with that beautiful smile that Maradick had noticed -before; it had in it something curiously intimate, as though he were -referring to things that they both had known and perhaps done. Tony’s -greeting was eager and, as usual with him, enthusiastic. - -Morelli turned to Maradick and gravely shook hands. “I am very pleased -to see you again, sir,” he said. “It is a most wonderful evening to be -taking a stroll. It has been a wonderful day.” - -“It has been too good to be true,” said Tony; “I don’t think one ought -ever to go indoors when the weather is like this. Are you coming back to -the town, Mr. Morelli, or were you going farther along the beach?” - -“I should be very glad to turn back with you, if I may,” he said. “I -promised to be back by half-past seven and it is nearly that now. You -have never fulfilled your promise of coming to see me,” he said -reproachfully. - -“Well,” said Tony, “to tell you the truth I was a little shy; so many -people are so kind and invite one to come, but it is rather another -thing, taking them at their word and invading their houses, you know.” - -“I can assure you I meant it,” said Morelli gravely. “There are various -things that would interest you. I have quite a good collection of old -armour and a good many odds and ends picked up at different times.” Then -he added, “There’s no time like the present; why not come back and have -supper with us now? That is if you don’t mind taking pot-luck.” - -Tony flushed with pleasure. “I think we should be delighted, shouldn’t -we, Maradick? They’re quite used to our not coming back at the hotel.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Maradick. “It’s certainly good of you.” - -He noticed that what Punch had said was true; the ears were pointed and -the lips sharp and thin. - -The dusk had swept down on them. The lights of the town rose in -glittering lines one above the other in front of them; it was early dusk -for an August evening, but the dark came quickly at Treliss. - -The sea was a trembling shadow lit now and again with the white gleam of -a crested wave. On the horizon there still lingered the last pale rose -of the setting sun and across the sky trembling bars of faint gold were -swiftly vanishing before the oncoming stars. - -Morelli talked delightfully. He had been everywhere, it appeared, and -spoke intimately of little obscure places in Germany and Italy that Tony -had discovered in earlier years. Maradick was silent; they seemed to -have forgotten him. - -They entered the town and passed through the market-place. Maradick -looked for a moment at the old tower, standing out black and desolate -and very lonely. - -In the hotel the dusk would be creeping into the little room of the -minstrels. There would be no lights there, only the dust and the old -chairs and the green table; from the open window you would see the last -light of the setting sun, and there would be a scent of flowers, roses -and pinks, from the garden below. - -They had stopped outside the old dark house with the curious carving. -Morelli felt for the key. - -“I don’t know what my daughter will have prepared,” he said -apologetically, “I gave her no warning.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - - SUPPER WITH JANET MORELLI - -The little hall was lit by a single lamp that glimmered redly in the -background. Small though the hall was, its darkness gave it space and -depth. It appeared to be hung with many strange and curious -objects—weapons of various kinds, stuffed heads of wild animals, -coloured silks and cloths of foreign countries and peoples. The walls -themselves were of oak, and from this dark background these things -gleamed and shone and twisted under the red light of the lamp in an -alarming manner. An old grandfather clock tick-tocked solemnly in the -darkness. - -Morelli led them up the stairs, with a pause every now and again to -point out things of interest. - -“The house is, you know,” he said almost apologetically, “something of a -museum. I have collected a good deal one way and another. Everything has -its story.” - -Maradick thought, as his host said this, that he must know a great many -stories, some of them perhaps scarcely creditable ones. The things that -he saw had in his eyes a sinister effect. There could be nothing very -pleasant about those leering animals and rustling, whispering skins; it -gave the house, too, a stuffy, choked-up air, something a little too -full, and full, too, of not quite the pleasantest things. - -The staircase was charming. A broad window with diamond-shaped panes -faced them as they turned the stair and gave a pleasant, cheerful light -to the walls and roof. A silver crescent moon with glittering stars -attending it shone at the window against an evening sky of the faintest -blue; a glow that belonged to the vanished sun, and was so intangible -that it had no definite form of colour, hung in the air and passed -through the window down the stairs into the dark recesses of the hall. -The walls were painted a dark red that had something very cheerful and -homely about it. - -Suddenly from the landing above them came voices. - -“No, Miss Minns, I’m going to wait. I don’t care; father said he’d be -back. Oh! I hear him.” - -A figure came to the head of the stairs. - -“Father, do hurry up; Miss Minns is so impatient at having to wait, and -I said I wouldn’t begin till you came, and the potatoes are black, -black, black.” - -Maradick looked up and saw a girl standing at the head of the stairs. In -her hand she held a small silver lamp that flung a pale circle of yellow -behind and around her; she held it a little above her head in order that -she might see who it was that mounted the stairs. - -He thought she was the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen; her -face was that of a child, and there was still in it a faint look of -wonderment and surprise, as though she had very recently broken from -some other golden dream and discovered, with a cry, the world. - -Her mouth was small, and curved delicately like the petals of a very -young rose that turn and open at the first touch of the sun’s glow. Her -eyes were so blue that there seemed no end at all to the depth, and one -gazed into them as into a well on a night of stars; there were signs and -visions in them of so many things that a man might gaze for a year of -days and still find secrets hidden there. Her hair was dark gold and was -piled high in a great crown, and not so tightly that a few curls did not -escape and toss about her ears and over her eyes. She wore a gown of -very pale blue that fell in a single piece from her shoulders to her -feet; her arms to the elbow and her neck were bare, and her dress was -bound at the waist by a broad piece of old gold embroidered cloth. - -Her colouring was so perfect that it might have seemed insipid were it -not for the character in her mouth and eyes and brow. She was smiling -now, but in a moment her face could change, the mouth would grow stiff, -her eyes would flash; there was character in every part of her. - -She was tall and very straight, and her head was poised perfectly. There -was dignity and pride there, but humour and tenderness in the eyes and -mouth; above all, she was very, very young. That look of surprise, and a -little perhaps of one on her guard against a world that she did not -quite understand, showed that. There was no fear there, but something a -little wild and undisciplined, as though she would fight to the very -last for her perfect, unfettered liberty: this was Janet Morelli. - -She had thought that her father was alone, but now she realised that -some one was with him. - -She stepped back and blushed. - -“I beg your pardon. I didn’t know——” - -“Let me introduce you,” said Morelli. “Janet, this is Mr. Maradick and -this Mr. Gale. They have come to have supper with us.” - -She put the lamp down on the little round table behind her and shook -hands with them. “How do you do?” she said. “I hope you’re not in the -least bit hungry, because there’s nothing whatever to eat except black -potatoes, and they’re not nice at all.” - -She was quite without embarrassment and smiled at Maradick. She put her -arm on her father’s shoulder for a moment by way of greeting, and then -they walked into the room opposite the staircase. This was in strong -contrast to the hall, being wide and spacious, with but little -furniture. At one end was a bow-window with old-fashioned lozenge-shaped -panes; in this a table laid for three had been placed. The walls were -painted a very pale blue, and half-way up, all the way round, ran a -narrow oaken shelf on which were ranged large blue and white plates of -old china, whereon there ran riot a fantastic multitude of mandarins, -curiously twisted castles, and trembling bridges spanning furious -torrents. There were no pictures, but an open blue-tiled fireplace, the -mantelpiece of which was of dark oak most curiously carved. There were -some chairs, two little round tables, and a sofa piled high with blue -cushions. There were lamps on the tables, but they were dim and the -curtains were not drawn, so that through the misty panes the lights of -the town were twinkling in furious rivalry with the lights of the -dancing stars. - -By the table was waiting a little woman in a stiff black dress. There -was nothing whatever remarkable about her. There was a little -pretentiousness, a little pathos, a little beauty even; it was the -figure of some one who had been left a very long time ago, and was at -last growing accustomed to the truth of it—there was no longer very -much hope or expectation of anything, but simply a kind of fairy-tale -wonder as to the possibility of the pumpkin’s being after all a golden -coach and the rats some most elegant coachmen. - -“Miss Minns,” said Morelli, “let me introduce you. These are two -gentlemen who will have supper with us. Mr. Maradick and Mr. Gale.” - -“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Miss Minns a little gloomily. - -There was a servant of the name of Lucy, who laid two more places -clumsily and with some noise. Janet had disappeared into the kitchen and -Morelli maintained the conversation. - -There was, however, a feeling of constraint. Maradick had never known -Tony so silent. He stood by the fireplace, awkwardly shifting from one -leg to the other, and looking continually at the door. He was evidently -in a state of the greatest excitement, and he seemed to pay no attention -to anyone in the room. Miss Minns was perfectly silent, and stood there -gravely waiting. Morelli talked courteously and intelligently, but -Maradick felt that he himself was being used merely as a background to -the rest of the play. His first feeling on seeing Janet had been that -Tony was indeed justified in all his enthusiasm; his second, that he -himself was in for rather a terrible time. - -He had not in the least expected her to be so amazingly young. He had, -quite without reason or justification, expected her to be older, a great -deal older, than Tony, and that chiefly, perhaps, because he couldn’t, -by any stretch of imagination, believe her to be younger. Tony was so -young in every way—in his credibility, his enthusiasm, his impatience, -his quite startling simplicity. With this in front of him, Maradick had -looked to the lady as an accomplice; she would help, he had thought, to -teach Tony discretion. - -And now, with that vision of her on the stairs, he saw that she was, so -to speak, “younger than ever,” as young as anyone possibly could be. -That seemed to give the whole business a new turn altogether; it -suddenly placed him, James Maradick, a person of unimaginative and sober -middle age, in a romantic and difficult position of guardian to a couple -of babies, and, moreover, babies charged to the full with excitement and -love of hurried adventure. Why, he thought desperately, as he listened -politely to Morelli’s conversation, had he been made the centre of all -this business? What did he or could he know of young people and their -love affairs? - -“I am afraid,” he said politely, “I know nothing whatever about swords.” - -“Ah,” said Morelli heartily, “I must show you some after supper.” - -Janet entered with chops and potatoes, followed by Lucy with the coffee. -Tony went forward to help her. “No, thank you,” she said, laughing. “You -shan’t carry the potatoes because then you’ll see how black they are. I -hope you don’t mind coffee at the beginning like this; and there’s only -brown bread.” She placed the things on the table and helped the chops. -Tony looked at his plate and was silent. - -It was, at first, a difficult meal, and everyone was very subdued; then -suddenly the ice was broken. Maradick had said that he lived in London. -Miss Minns sat up a little straighter in her chair, smoothed her cuffs -nervously, and said with a good deal of excitement— - -“I lived a year in London with my brother Charles. We lived in Little -Worsted Street, No. 95, near the Aquarium: a little house with green -blinds; perhaps, sir, you know it. I believe it is still standing; I -loved London. Charles was a curate at St. Michael’s, the grey church at -the corner of Merritt Street; Mr. Roper was rector at the time. I -remember seeing our late beloved Queen pass in her carriage. I have a -distinct recollection of her black bonnet and gracious bow. I was very -much moved.” - -Maradick had, very fortunately, touched on the only topic that could -possibly be said to make Miss Minns loquacious. Everyone became -interested and animated. - -“Oh! I should so love London!” Janet said, looking through the window at -the stars outside. “People! Processions! Omnibuses! Father has told me -about it sometimes—Dick Whittington, you know, and the cat. I suppose -you’re not called Dick?” she said, looking anxiously at Tony. - -“No,” said Tony, “I’m afraid I’m not. But I will be if you like.” - -“It is scarcely polite, Janet,” said Morelli, “to ask a gentleman his -name when you’ve only known him five minutes.” - -“I wasn’t,” she answered. “Only I do want to know a Dick so very badly, -and there aren’t any down here; but I expect London’s full of them.” - -“It’s full of everything,” said Tony, “and that’s why I like this place -so awfully. London chokes you, there’s such a lot going on; you have to -stop, you know. Here you can go full tilt. May I have another chop, -please? They’re most awfully good.” - -Tony was rapidly becoming his usual self. He was still a little nervous, -but he was talking nonsense as fluently as ever. - -“You really must come up to London though, Miss Morelli. There are -pantomimes and circuses and policemen and lots of funny things. And you -can do just what you like because there’s no one to see.” - -“Oh! theatres!” She clapped her hands. “I should simply love a theatre. -Father took me once here; it was called ‘The Murdered Heir,’ and it was -most frightfully exciting; but that’s the only one I’ve ever seen, and I -don’t suppose there’ll be another here for ages. They have them in -Truro, but I’ve never been to Truro. I’m glad you like the chops, I was -afraid they were rather dry.” - -“They are,” said Morelli. “It’s only Mr. Gale’s politeness that makes -him say they’re all right. They’re dreadfully dry.” - -“Well, you were late,” she answered; “it was your fault.” - -She was excited. Her eyes were shining, her hands trembled a little, and -her cheeks were flushed. Maradick fancied that there was surprise in her -glance at her father. Miss Minns also was a little astonished at -something. It was possibly unusual for Morelli to invite anyone into the -house, and they were wondering why he had done it. - -Morelli was a great puzzle. He seemed changed since they had sat down at -the table. He seemed, for one thing, considerably younger. Outside the -house he had been middle-aged; now the lines in his forehead seemed to -disappear, the wrinkles under his eyes were no longer there. He laughed -continually. - -It was, in fact, becoming very rapidly a merry meal. The chops had -vanished and there was cheese and fruit. They were all rather excited, -and a wave of what Maradick was inclined to call “spirited childishness” -swept over the party. He himself and Miss Minns were most decidedly out -of it. - -It was significant of the change that Morelli now paid much more -attention to Tony. The three of them burst into roars of laughter about -nothing; Tony imitated various animals, the drawing of a cork, and a -motor-omnibus running into a policeman, with enormous success. Miss -Minns made no attempt to join in the merriment; but sat in the shadow -gravely silent. Maradick tried and was for a time a miserable failure, -but afterwards he too was influenced. Morelli told a story that seemed -to him extraordinarily funny. It was about an old bachelor who always -lived alone, and some one climbed up a chimney and stuck there. He could -not afterwards remember the point of the story, but he knew that it -seemed delightfully amusing to him at the time. He began to laugh and -then lost all control of himself; he laughed and laughed till the tears -ran down his cheeks. He stopped for a moment and then started again; he -grew red in the face and purple—he took out his handkerchief and wiped -his eyes. “Oh, dear!” he said, gasping, “that’s a funny story. I don’t -know when I’ve laughed like that before. It’s awfully funny.” He still -shook at the thought of it. It was a very gay meal indeed. - -“You have been at the University, I suppose, Mr. Gale?” said Morelli. - -“Yes, Oxford,” said Tony. “But please don’t call me Mr.; nobody calls me -Mr., you know. You have to have a house, a wife and a profession if -you’re Mr. anybody, and I haven’t got anything—nothing whatever.” - -“Oh, I wonder,” said Janet, “if you’d mind opening the door for me. -We’ll clear the table and get it out of the way. Saturday is Lucy’s -night out, so I’m going to do it.” - -“Oh, let me help,” said Tony, jumping up and nearly knocking the table -over in his eagerness. “I’m awfully good at washing things up.” - -“You won’t have to wash anything up,” she answered. “We’ll leave that -for Lucy when she comes back; but if you wouldn’t mind helping me to -carry the plates and things into the other room I’d be very grateful.” - -She looked very charming, Maradick thought, as she stood piling the -plates on top of one another with most anxious care lest they should -break. Several curls had escaped and were falling over her eyes and she -raised her hand to push them back; the plates nearly slipped. Maradick, -watching her, caught suddenly something that seemed very like terror in -her eyes; she was looking across the table at her father. He followed -her glance, but Morelli did not seem to have noticed anything. Maradick -forgot the incident at the time, but afterwards he wondered whether it -had been imagination. - -“Do be careful and not drop things,” she said, laughing gaily, to Tony. -“You seem to have got a great many there; there’s plenty of time, you -know.” - -She was delightful to watch, she was so entirely unconscious of any pose -or affectation. She passed into the kitchen singing and Tony followed -her laden with plates. - -“Do you smoke, Mr. Maradick?” said Morelli. “Cigar? Cigarette? -Pipe?—Pipe! Good! much the best thing. Come and sit over here.” - -They drew up their chairs by the window and watched the stars; Miss -Minns sat under the lamp sewing. - -Maradick was a little ashamed of his merriment at dinner; he really -didn’t know the man well enough, and a little of his first impression of -cautious dislike returned. But Morelli was very entertaining and an -excellent talker, and Maradick reproached himself for being -unnecessarily suspicious. - -“You know,” said Morelli, “it’s a great thing to have a home like this. -I’ve been a wanderer all my days—been everywhere, you might say—but -now I’ve always got this to come back to, and it’s a great thing to feel -that it’s there. I’m Italian, you know, on my father’s side, and hence -my name; and so it seems a bit funny, perhaps, settling down here. But -one country’s the same to me as another, and my wife was English.” - -He paused for a moment and looked out of the window; then he went on— - -“We don’t see many people here; when you’ve got a girl to bring up -you’ve got to be careful, and they don’t like me here, that’s the -truth.” - -He paused again, as though he expected Maradick to deny it. He had -spoken it almost as an interrogation, as though he wanted to know -whether Maradick had heard anything, but Maradick was silent. He felt -strongly again, as he had felt at the time of their first meeting, that -they were hostile to one another. Polite though Morelli was, Maradick -knew that it was because of Tony, and not in the least because of -himself. Morelli probably felt that he was an unnecessary bore, and -resented his being there. It was Tony that he cared about. - -“That is a very delightful boy,” Morelli said, nodding in the direction -of the kitchen. “Have you known him a long while? Quite one of the most -delightful people——” - -“Oh, no,” said Maradick a little stiffly. “We are quite new -acquaintances. We have only known each other about a week. Yes, he is an -enormously popular person. Everyone seems to like him wherever he goes. -He wakes people up.” - -Morelli laughed. - -“Yes, there’s wonderful vitality there. I hope he’ll keep it. I hope -that I shall see something of him while he is here. There isn’t much -that we can offer you, but you will be doing both my daughter and myself -a very real kindness if you will come and see us sometimes.” - -“Thank you,” said Maradick. - -“Oh! I promised to show you those swords of mine. Come and see them now. -I think there are really some that may interest you.” - -They got up and left the room. In a moment the door was opened again and -Janet and Tony returned. - -“Let’s sit in front of the window,” Janet said, “and talk. Father’s -showing your friend his swords and things, I expect, and he always takes -an enormous time over that, and I want to talk most frightfully.” - -She sat forward with her hands round her knees and her eyes gazing out -of the window at the stars. Tony will always remember her like that; and -as he sat and watched her he had to grip the side of his chair to -prevent his leaning forward and touching her dress. - -“I want to talk too,” he answered; “it’s an ‘experience’ evening, you -know, one of those times when you suddenly want to exchange confidences -with some one, find out what they’ve been doing and thinking all the -time.” - -“Oh! I know that feeling,” she answered eagerly, “but I’ve never had -anyone to exchange them with. Sometimes I’ve felt it so that I haven’t -known what to do; but it’s been no good, there’s been nobody except -father and Miss Minns. It’s very funny, isn’t it? but you’re the first -person of my own age I’ve ever met. Of course you’re older really, but -you’re near enough, and I expect we think some of the same things; and -oh! it’s so exciting!” - -She said “person” like a creature of fifty, and he smiled, but then her -“exciting” brought his heart to his mouth. She was obviously so -delighted to have him, she accepted him so readily without any -restrictions at all, and it was wonderful to him. Every girl that he had -ever met had played a game either of defence or provocation, but there -was perfect simplicity here. - -“Let’s begin,” he said, “and find out whether we’ve had the same things. -But first I must tell you something. This isn’t the only time that I’ve -seen you.” - -“It’s not!” she cried. - -“No; there was the other day on the beach; you were with your father. I -looked at you from behind a rock and then ran away. And the other time -was one night about a week ago, quite late, and you leaned out of a -window and said something to Miss Minns. There was a lamp, and I saw -your face.” - -“Oh! which night?” she said quite eagerly. - -“Well, let me see, I think it was a Thursday night—no, I can’t -remember—but there was a fair in the town; they danced round the -streets. We had been, Maradick and I, and were coming back.” - -“Oh! I remember perfectly,” she said, turning round and looking at him. -“But, do you know, that’s most curious! I was tremendously excited that -night, I don’t quite know why. There was no real reason. But I kept -saying to Miss Minns that I knew something would happen, and she laughed -at me and said, ‘What could?’ or something, and then I suddenly opened -the window and two people were coming up the street. It was quite dark. -There was only the lamp!” - -She spoke quite dramatically, as though it was something of great -importance. - -“And fancy, it was you!” she added. - -“But, please,” she said, “let’s begin confidences. They’ll be back, and -we’ll have to stop.” - -“Oh! mine are ordinary enough,” he said, “just like anybody else’s. I -was born in the country; one of those old rambling country houses with -dark passages and little stairs leading to nowhere, and thick walls with -a wonderful old garden. Such a garden, with terraces and enormous old -trees, and a fountain, and a sun-dial, and peacocks. But I was quite a -kid when we left that and came to town. It is funny, though, the early -years seem to remain with one after the other things have gone. It has -always been a background for me, that high old house with the cooing of -pigeons on a hot summer’s afternoon, and the cold running of some stream -at the bottom of the lawn!” - -“Oh! how beautiful,” she said. “I have never known anything like that. -Father has talked of Italy; a little town, Montiviero, where we once -lived, and an old grey tower, and a long, hard white road with trees -like pillars. I have often seen it in my dreams. But I myself have never -known anything but this. Father has stayed here, partly, I think, -because the old grey tower in the market-place here is like the tower at -Montiviero. But tell me about London,” she went on. “What is it like? -What people are there?” - -“London,” he said, “has grown for me as I have grown to know it. We have -always lived in the same house. I was six when I first went there, an -old dark place with large solemn rooms and high stone fireplaces. It was -in a square, and we used to be taken out on to the grass in the morning -to play with other children. London was at first only the square—the -dark rooms, my nurse, my father and mother, some other children, and the -grass that we played upon. Then suddenly one day the streets sprang upon -me—the shops, the carriages, some soldiers. Then it grew rapidly; there -were the parks, the lake, the Tower, and, most magical of all, the -river. When I was quite a small boy the river fascinated me, and I would -escape there when I could; and now, if I lived alone in London, I would -take some old dark rooms down in Chelsea and watch the river all day.” - -“Chelsea!” she said. “I like the sound of that. Is there a very -wonderful river, then, where London is?” - -“Yes,” he answered, “it is dirty and foggy, and the buildings along the -banks of it are sometimes old and in pieces. But everyone that has known -it will tell you the same. Then I went to a pantomime with my nurse.” - -“Oh! I know what a pantomime is,” she said. “Miss Minns once saw one, -but there was a man with a red nose and she didn’t like it. Only there -were fairies as well, and if I’d been there I should only have seen the -fairies.” - -“Well, this was ‘Dick Whittington.’ There was a glorious cat. I don’t -remember about the rest; but I went home in a golden dream and for the -next month I thought of nothing else. London became for me a dark place -with one glorious circle of light in the midst of it!” - -“Oh! It must have been beautiful!” she sighed. - -“Then,” he went on, “it spread from that, you know, to other things, and -I went to school. For a time everything was swallowed up in that, -beating other people, coming out top, and getting licked for slacking. -London was fun for the holidays, but it wasn’t a bit the important -thing. I was like that until I was seventeen.” - -“You were very lucky,” Janet said, “to go to school. I asked father -once, but he was very angry; and, you know, he is away for months and -months sometimes, and then it is most dreadfully lonely. I have never -had anyone at all to talk to until you came, and now they’ll take you -away in a moment, so do hurry up. There simply isn’t a minute!” - -Miss Minns was heard to say: - -“Aren’t you cold by the window, Janet? I think you’d better come nearer -the table.” - -“Oh! please don’t interrupt, Miss Minns!” She waved her hand. “It’s as -warm as toast, really. Now please go on, it’s a most terribly exciting -adventure.” - -“Well,” he said, sinking his voice and speaking in a dramatic whisper, -“the next part of the tremendous adventure was books and things. I -suddenly, you know, discovered what they were. I’d read things before, -of course, but it had always been to fill in time while I was waiting -for something else, and now I suddenly saw them differently, in rows and -rows and rows, each with a secret in it like a nut, and I cracked them -and ate them and had the greatest fun. Then I began to think that I was -awfully clever and that I would write great books myself, and I was very -solemn and serious. I expect I was simply hateful.” - -“And did you write anything?” she said in an awed voice. - -“Yes,” he answered solemnly, “a very long story with heaps of people and -lots of chapters. I have it at home. They liked it down in the kitchen, -but it never had an end.” - -“Why not?” Janet asked. - -“Because, like the Old Woman in the Shoe, I had so many children that I -didn’t know what to do. I had so many people that I simply didn’t know -what to do with them all. And then I grew out of that. I went to Oxford, -and then came the last part of the adventure.” - -“Where is Oxford?” she asked him. - -“Oh! It’s a university. Men go there after leaving school. It’s a place -where a man learns a good many useless habits and one or two beautiful -ones. Only the beautiful ones want looking for. The thing I found was -walking.” - -He looked at her and laughed for the very joy of being so near to her. -In the half light that the lamp flung upon them the gold of her hair was -caught and fell like a cloud about her face, the light blue of her dress -was the night sky, and her eyes were the stars. Oh! it was a fine -adventure, this love! There had been no key to the world before this -came, and now the casket was opened and stuffs of great price, jewels -and the gold-embroidered cloths of God’s workshop were spread before -him. And then a great awe fell upon him. She was so young and so pure -that he felt suddenly that all the coarse thoughts and deeds of the -world rose in a dark mist between them, and sent him, as the angel with -the flaming sword sent Adam, out of so white a country. - -But she suddenly leant over and touched his arm. “Oh! do look at Miss -Minns!” she said. Miss Minns was falling asleep and struggling valiantly -against the temptation. Her hands mechanically clicked the needles and -clutched the piece of cloth at which she was working, but her head -nodded violently at the table as though it was telling a story and -furiously emphasising facts. The shadow on the wall was gigantic, a huge -fantastic Miss Minns swinging from side to side on the ceiling and -swelling and subsiding like a curtain in the wind. The struggle lasted -for a very short time. Soon the clicking of the needles ceased, there -was a furious attempt to hold the cloth, and at last it fell with a soft -noise to the ground. Miss Minns, with her head on her breast, slept. - -“That’s better,” said Janet, settling herself back in her chair. “Now -about the walking!” - -“Ah! you’re fond of it too,” he said. “I can see that. And it’s the only -thing, you know. It’s the only thing that doesn’t change and grow -monotonous. You get close right down to earth. They talk about their -nature and culture and the rest, but they haven’t known what life is -until they’ve felt the back of a high brown hill and the breast of a -hard white road. That saved me! I was muddled before. I didn’t know what -things stood for, and I was unhappy. My own set weren’t any use at all, -they were aiming at nothing. Not that I felt superior, but it was simply -that that sort of thing wasn’t any good for me. You couldn’t see things -clearly for the dust that everybody made. So I left the dust and now I’m -here.” - -“And that’s all?” she said. - -“Absolutely all,” he answered. “I’m afraid it’s disappointing in -incident, but it is at any rate truthful.” - -“Oh, but it’s adventurous,” she said, “beside mine. There’s nothing for -me to tell at all. I’ve simply lived here with father always. There have -been no books, no children, nothing at all except father.” - -She paused then in rather a curious way. He looked up at her. - -“Well?” he said. - -“Oh! father’s so different—you never know. Sometimes he’s just as I am, -plays and sings and tells stories. And then, oh! he’s such fun. There -never was anybody like him. And sometimes he’s very quiet and won’t say -anything, and then he always goes away, perhaps it’s only a day or two, -and then it’s a week or a month even. And sometimes,” she paused again -for a moment, “he’s angry, terribly angry, so that I am awfully -frightened.” - -“What! with you?” Tony asked indignantly. - -“No; with no one exactly, but it’s dreadful. I go and hide.” And then -she burst out laughing. “Oh, and once he caught Miss Minns like that, -and he pulled her hair and it fell all over her shoulders. Oh! it was so -funny. And a lot of it came out altogether; it was false, you know. I -think that father is just like a child. He’s ever so much younger than I -am really. I’m getting dreadfully old, and he’s as young as can be. He -tells stories—beautiful stories! and then he’s cross and he sulks, and -sometimes he’s out of doors for days together, and all the animals -simply love him.” - -All these facts she brought out, as it were, in a bunch, without any -very evident connexion, but he felt that the cord that bound them was -there and that he could find it one day. But what surprised him most was -her curious aloofness from it all, as if he were a friend, perhaps a -chum, sometimes a bother and sometimes a danger, but never a father. - -“But tell me about yourself,” he said, “what you like and what you do.” - -“No, there’s really nothing. I’ve just lived here always, that’s all. -You’re the first man I’ve talked to, except father, and you’re fun. I -hope that we shall see you sometimes whilst you are staying here,” she -added, quite frankly. - -“Somebody told you to say that,” he said, laughing. - -“Yes, it’s Miss Minns. She teaches me sometimes about what you ought to -say, and I’m dreadfully stupid. There are so many of them. There’s ‘at a -wedding’ and ‘at a funeral’ and there’s ‘the dinner party,’ a nice one -and a dull one and a funny one, and there’s ‘at the theatre,’ and lots -more. Sometimes I remember, but I’ve never had anyone to practise them -on. You’re quite the first, so I think I ought to give you them all.” - -The door opened and Maradick and Morelli came in. The pair at the window -did not see them and the two men stood for a moment at the door. Morelli -smiled, and Maradick at once felt again that curious unfounded sensation -of distrust. The man amazed him. He had talked about his “things,” his -armour, some tapestry, some pictures, with a knowledge and enthusiasm -that made him fascinating. He seemed to have the widest possible grip on -every subject; there was nothing that he did not know. And there had -been, too, a lightness of touch, a humorous philosophy of men and things -for which he had been quite unprepared. - -And then again, there would be suddenly that strange distrust; a swift -glance from under his eyelids, a suspicious lifting of the voice, as -though he were on his guard against some expected discovery. And then, -most puzzling of all, there was suddenly a simplicity, a _naïveté_, that -belonged to childhood, some anger or pleasure that only a child could -feel. Oh! he was a puzzle. - -At the sight of those two in the window he felt suddenly a sharp, -poignant regret! What an old fool he was to meddle with something that -he had passed long, long before. You could not be adaptable at forty, -and he would only spoil their game. A death’s head at the feast indeed, -with his own happy home to think of, his own testimony to fling before -them. But the regret was there all the same; regret that he had not -known for ever so many years, and a feeling of loneliness that was -something altogether new. - -He knew now that, during these last few days, Tony had filled his -picture, some one that would take him out of himself and make him a -little less selfish and even, perhaps, a little younger; but now, what -did Tony—Tony in love, Tony with a new heaven and a new earth—want -with a stout cynic of forty! It would have been better, after all, if -they had never met. - -Suddenly Miss Minns awoke, and was extremely upset. Some half-remembered -story of gentlemen winning a pair of gloves under some such -circumstances flew to her mind; at any rate it was undignified with two -new persons in the room. - -“I really——” she said. “You were quite a long time. I have been -sewing.” - -At the sound of her voice Tony turned back from the window. He was so -happy that he would have clasped Miss Minns round the neck and kissed -her, if there had been any provocation. The lamp flung a half-circle of -light, leaving the corners in perfect darkness, so that the room was -curved like a shell; the shining tiles of the fireplace sparkled under -the leaping flame of the fire. - -“You have been a very long time,” said Janet. - -“That’s scarcely a compliment to Mr. Gale,” said Morelli. - -“Oh, but I haven’t found it so,” she answered quickly. “It has been -enormously interesting. We have been discovering things. And now, -father, play. Mr. Gale loves music, I know.” - -That Morelli played was a little surprising. There was no piano in the -room, and Maradick wondered what the instrument would be. They all sat -down in a circle round the fireplace, and behind them, in the dusk of -the room, Morelli produced a flute from his pocket. He had said nothing, -and they were all of them suddenly silent. - -The incident seemed to Maradick a key—a key to the house, to the man, -and, above all, to the situation. This was not a feeling that he could -in the least understand. It was only afterwards that he saw that his -instinct had been a right one. - -But the idea that he had of their all being children together—Tony, -Janet, Morelli—was exactly represented by the flute. There was -something absolutely irresponsible in the gay little tune piped -mysteriously in the darkness, a little tune that had nothing in it at -all except a pressing invitation to dance, and Maradick could see Tony’s -feet going on the floor. It would not be at all impossible, he felt, for -them suddenly to form a ring and dance riotously round the room; it was -in the air. - -He was a person of very slight imagination, but the tune gave him the -long hillside, the white sails of the flying clouds, the shrill whistle -of wind through a tossing forest of pines, white breakers against a -black cliff, anything open and unfettered; and again he came back to -that same word—irresponsible. The little tune was repeated again and -again, with other little tunes that crept shyly into it for a moment and -then out and away. The spell increased as the tune continued. - -For Tony it was magical beyond all words. Nothing could have put so -wonderful a seal on that wonderful evening as that music. His pulse was -beating furiously and his cheeks were burning; he wanted now to fling -himself on his knees, there on the floor, and say to her, “I love you! I -love you!” like any foolish hero in a play. He moved his chair ever so -slightly so that it should be nearer hers, and then suddenly, amazed at -his daring, his heart stopped beating; she must have noticed. But she -gazed in front of her, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes gravely -bent towards the floor. - -And this melancholy little tune, coming mysteriously from some unknown -distance, seemed to give him permission to do what he would. “Yes, -love,” it commanded. “Do what is natural. Come out on to the plain where -all freedom is and there are winds and the clear sky and everything that -is young and alive.” - -He could almost fancy that Morelli himself was giving him permission, -but at a thought so wild he pulled himself up. Of course Morelli didn’t -know; he was going too fast. - -Maradick began to be vaguely irritated and at last annoyed. There was -something unpleasant in that monotonous little tune coming out of the -darkness from nowhere at all; its note of freedom seemed to become -rapidly something lawless and undisciplined. Had he put it into -pictures, he would have said that the open plain that he had seen before -became suddenly darkened, and, through the gloom, strange animals passed -and wild, savage faces menaced him. Afterwards, in the full light of -day, such thoughts would seem folly, but now, in the darkened room, -anything was possible. He did not believe in apparitions—ghosts were -unknown in Epsom—but he was suddenly unpleasantly aware that he would -give anything to be able to fling a glance back over his shoulder. - -Then suddenly the spell was broken. The tune died away, revived for an -instant, and then came to an abrupt end. - -Morelli joined the circle. - -“Thank you so very much,” said Maradick. “That was delightful.” But he -was aware that, although the little tune had been played again and -again, it had already completely passed from his memory. He could not -recall it. - -“What was the name of it?” he asked. - -“It has no name,” Morelli answered, smiling. “It’s an old tune that has -been passed down from one to another. There is something rather quaint -in it, and it has many centuries behind it.” - -Then Tony got up, and to Maradick’s intense astonishment said: “I say, -Maradick, it’s time we were going, it’s getting awfully late.” - -He had been willing to give the boy as long a rope as he pleased, and -now—but then he understood. It was the perfect moment that must not be -spoiled by any extension. If they waited something might happen. He -understood the boy as far as that, at any rate. - -Morelli pressed them to stay, but Tony was firm. He went forward and -said good night to Miss Minns, then he turned to Janet. - -“Good night, Miss Morelli,” he said. - -“Good night,” she answered, smiling. “Please come again and tell me -more.” - -“I will,” he said. - -Morelli’s good-bye was very cordial. “Whenever you like,” he said, “drop -in at any time, we shall be delighted.” - -They walked back to the hotel in absolute silence. Tony’s eyes were -fixed on the hill in front of him. - -As they passed under the dark line of trees that led to the hotel he -gripped Maradick’s hand very hard. - -“I say,” he said, “help me!” - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - - MARADICK LEARNS THAT “GETTING A VIEW” MAY HAVE ITS - DANGERS AS WELL AS ITS REWARDS - -Two days after the arrival of the Lesters Lady Gale arranged a picnic; a -comprehensive, democratic picnic that was to include everybody. Her -motives may be put down, if you will, to sociability, even, and you -involve a larger horizon, to philanthropy. “Everybody,” of course, was -in reality only a few, but it included the Lesters, the Maradicks, and -Mrs. Lawrence. It was to be a delightful picnic; they were to drive to -the top of Pender Callon, where there was a wonderful view, then they -were to have tea, and then drive back in the moonlight. - - Dear Mrs. Maradick (the letter went)— - - It would give me such pleasure if you and your husband could - come with us for a little Picnic at Pender Callon to-morrow - afternoon, weather permitting, of course. The wagonette will - come round about two-thirty. - - I do hope you will be able to come. - - Yours sincerely, - Beatrice Gale. - -Mrs. Maradick considered it a little haughtily. She was sitting in the -garden. Suddenly, as she turned the invitation over in her mind, she saw -her husband coming towards her. - -“Oh!” she said, as he came up to her, “I wanted to talk to you.” - -He was looking as he always did—big, strong, red and brown. Oh! so -healthy and stupid! - -She did feel a new interest in him this morning, certainly. His avoiding -her so consistently during the week was unlike him, was unusually -strong. She even felt suddenly that she would like him to be rude and -violent to her again, as he had been that other evening. Great creature! -it was certainly his métier to be rude and violent. Perhaps he would be. - -She held Lady Gale’s invitation towards him. - -“A picnic.” she said coldly. “To-morrow; do you care to go?” - -“Are you going?” he said, looking at her. - -“I should think that scarcely matters,” she answered scornfully, -“judging by the amount of interest you’ve taken in me and my doings -during the last week.” - -“I know,” he said, and he looked down at the ground, “I have been a -brute, a cad, all these days, treating you like that. I have come to -apologise.” - -Oh! the fool! She could have struck him with her hand! It was to be the -same thing after all, then. The monotonous crawling back to her feet, -the old routine of love and submission, the momentary hope of strength -and contradiction strangled as soon as born. - -She laughed a little. “Oh, you needn’t apologise,” she said, “and, in -any case, it’s a little late, isn’t it? Not that you need mind about me. -I’ve had a very pleasant week, and so have the girls, even though their -father _hasn’t_ been near them.” - -But he broke in upon her rapidly. “Oh! I’m ashamed of myself,” he said, -“you don’t know how ashamed. I think the place had something to do with -it, and then one was tired and nervy a bit, I suppose; not,” he hastily -added, “that I want to make excuses, for there really aren’t any. I just -leave it with you. I was a beast. I promise never to break out again.” - -How could a man! she thought, looking at him, and then, how blind men -were. Why couldn’t they see that it wasn’t the sugar and honey that -women were continually wanting, or, at any rate, the right sort of -woman! - -She glanced at him angrily. “We’d better leave the thing there,” she -said. “For heaven’s sake spare us any more scenes. You were -rude—abominably—I’m glad you’ve had the grace at last to come and tell -me so.” - -She moved as though she would get up, but he put out his hand and -stopped her. - -“No, Emmy, please,” he said, “let’s talk for a moment. I’ve got things I -want to say.” He cleared his throat, and stared down the white shining -path. Mrs. Lawrence appeared coming towards them, then she saw them -together and turned hurriedly back. “I’ve been thinking, all these days, -about the muddle that we’ve made. My fault very largely, I know, but I -have so awfully wanted to put it right again. And I thought if we -talked——” - -“What’s the use of talking?” she broke in hastily; “there’s nothing to -say; it’s all as stale as anything could be. You’re so extraordinarily -dull when you’re in the ‘picking up the pieces’ mood; not content with -behaving like a second-rate bricklayer and then sulking for a week you -add to it by a long recital, ‘the virtues of an obedient wife’—a little -tiresome, don’t you think?” - -Her nerves were all to pieces, she really wasn’t well, and the heat was -terrible; the sight of him sitting there with that pathetic, ill-used -look on his face, drove her nearly to madness. To think that she was -tied for life to so feeble a creature. - -“No, please,” he said, “I know that I’m tiresome and stupid. But really -I’ve been seeing things differently these last few days. We might get -along better. I’ll try; I know it’s been largely my fault, not seeing -things and not trying——” - -“Oh!” she broke in furiously, “for God’s sake stop it. Isn’t it bad -enough and tiresome enough for me already without all this stuff! I’m -sick of it, sick of it, I tell you. Sick of the whole thing. You spoke -your mind the other night, I’ll speak mine now. You can take it or leave -it.” She rose from her chair and stood looking out to sea, her hands -clenched at her sides. “Oh! these years! these years! Always the same -thing. You’ve never stuck up to anything, never fought anything, and -it’s all been so tame. And now you want us to go over the same old -ground again, to patch it up and go on as if we hadn’t had twenty long -dreary years of it and would give a good deal not to have another.” She -stopped and looked at him, smiling curiously. “Oh! James! My poor dear, -you’re such a bore. Try not to be so painfully good; you might even be a -little amusing!” - -She walked slowly away towards the girls. She passed, with them, down -the path. - -He picked up the broken pieces of his thoughts and tried to put them -slowly together. His first thought of her and of the whole situation was -that it was hopeless, perfectly hopeless. He had fancied, stupidly, -blindly, that his having moved included her moving too, quite without -reason, as he now thoroughly saw. She was just where they had both been -a week ago, she was even, from his neglect of her during these last -days, a little farther back; it was harder than ever for her to see in -line. His discovery of this affected him very little. He was very -slightly wounded by the things that she had said to him, and her -rejection of his advances so finally and completely distressed him -scarcely at all. As he sat and watched the colours steal mistily across -the sea he knew that he was too happy at all the discoveries that he was -making to mind anything else. He was setting out on an adventure, and if -she would not come too it could simply not be helped; it did not in the -least alter the adventure’s excitement. - -It was even with a new sense of freedom that he went off, late that -afternoon, to the town; he was like a boy just out of school. He had no -very vivid intention of going anywhere; but lately the town had grown -before him so that he loved to stand and watch it, its life and -movement, its colour and romance. - -He loved, above all, the market-place with its cobbled stones over which -rattled innumerable little carts, its booths, its quaint and delightful -chatter, its old grey tower. It was one of the great features of his new -view that places mattered, that, indeed, they were symbols of a great -and visible importance; stocks and stones seemed to him now to be -possessed of such vitality that they almost frightened him, they knew so -much and had lived so long a time. - -The evening light was over the market-place; the sun, peering through a -pillar of cloudless blue, cut sharply between the straight walls of the -Town Hall and a neighbouring chimney, flung itself full upon the tower. - -It caught the stones and shot them with myriad lights; it played with -the fruit on the stall at the tower’s foot until the apples were red as -rubies and the oranges shone like gold. It bathed it, caressed it, -enfolded it, and showed the modern things on every side that old friends -were, after all, the best, and that fine feathers did not always make -the finest birds. - -The rest of the market-place was in shadow, purple in the corners and -crevices, the faintest blue in the higher air, a haze of golden-grey in -the central square. It was full of people standing, for the most part, -discussing the events of the day; in the corner by the tower there was a -Punch and Judy show, and Maradick could hear the shrill cries of Mr. -Punch rising above the general chatter. Over everything there was a -delicious scent of all the best things in the world—ripe orchards, -flowering lanes, and the sharp pungent breath of the sea; in the golden -haze of the evening everything seemed to be waiting, breathlessly, in -spite of the noise of voices, for some great moment. - -Maradick had never felt so perfectly in tune with the world. - -He passed across to the Punch and Judy show, and stood in a corner by -the fruit stall under the tower and watched Mr. Punch. That gentleman -was in a very bad temper to-night, and he banged with his stick at -everything that he could see; poor Judy was in for a bad time, and sank -repeatedly beneath the blows which should have slain an ox. Toby looked -on very indifferently until it was his turn, when he bit furiously at -Mr. Punch’s trousers and showed his teeth, and choked in his frill and -behaved like a most ferocious animal. Then there came the policeman, and -Mr. Punch was carried, swearing and cursing, off to prison, but in a -moment he was back again, as perky as before, and committing murders at -the rate of two a minute. - -There was a fat baby, held aloft in its mother’s arms, who watched the -proceedings with the closest attention; it was intensely serious, its -thumb in its mouth, its double chin wrinkling with excitement. Then a -smile crept out of its ears and across its cheeks; its mouth opened, and -suddenly there came a gurgle of laughter. It crowed with delight, its -head fell back on its nurse’s shoulder and its eyes closed with ecstasy; -then, with the coming of Jack Ketch and his horrible gallows, it was -solemn once more, and it watched the villain’s miserable end with stern -approval. There were other babies in the crowd, and bottles had to be -swiftly produced in order to stay the cries that came from so sudden an -ending. The dying sun danced on Punch’s execution; he dangled -frantically in mid-air, Toby barked furiously, and down came the -curtain. - -The old lady at the fruit stall had watched the performance with great -excitement. She was remarkable to look at, and had been in the same -place behind the same stall for so many years that people had grown to -take her as part of the tower. She wore a red peaked hat, a red skirt, a -man’s coat of black velvet, and black mittens; her enormous chin pointed -towards her nose, which was hooked like an eagle; nose and chin so -nearly met that it was a miracle how she ever opened her mouth at all. -She nodded at Maradick and smiled, whilst her hands clicked her needles -together, and a bit of grey stocking grew visibly before his eyes. - -“It’s a fine show,” she said, “a fine show, and very true to human -nature.” Then suddenly looking past him, she screamed in a voice like -the whistle of a train: “A-pples and O-ranges—fine ripe grapes!” - -Her voice was so close to his ear that it startled him, but he answered -her. - -“It is good for the children,” he said, shadowing his eyes with his -hand, for the sun was beating in his face. - -She leaned towards him and waved a skinny finger. “I ought to know,” she -said, “I’ve buried ten, but they always loved the Punch . . . and that’s -many a year back.” - -How old was she, he wondered? He seemed, in this town, to be continually -meeting people who had this quality of youth; Tony, Morelli, Punch, this -old woman, they gave one the impression that they would gaily go on for -ever. - -“People live to a good old age here,” he said. - -“Ah! it’s a wonderful town,” she said. “There’s nothing like it. . . . -Many’s the things I’ve seen, the tower and I.” - -“The tower!” said Maradick, looking up at its grey solemnity now -flushing with the red light of the sun. - -“I’ve been near it since I was a bit of a child,” she said, leaning -towards him so that her beak of a nose nearly touched his cheek and her -red hat towered over him. “We lived by it once, and then I moved under -it. We’ve been friends, good friends, but it wants some considering.” - -“What wants considering mother?” said a voice, and Maradick turned -round; Punch was at his elbow. His show was packed up and leant against -the wall; by his side was Toby, evidently pleased with the world in -general, for every part of his body was wagging. - -“Good evening, sir,” said Punch, smiling from ear to ear. “It’s a -beautiful evening—the sea’s like a pome—what wants considering mother? -and I think I’ll have an apple, if you don’t mind—one of your rosiest.” - -She chose for him an enormous red one, which with one squeeze of the -hand he broke into half. Toby cocked an ear and raised his eyes; he was -soon munching for his life. “What wants considering mother?” he said -again. - -“Many things,” she answered him shortly, “and it’ll be tuppence, -please.” Her voice rose into a shrill scream—“A-pples and O-ranges and -fine ripe grapes.” She sat back in her chair and bent over her knitting, -she had nothing more to say. - -“I’ve been watching your show,” Maradick said, “and enjoyed it more than -many a play I’ve seen in town.” - -“Yes, it went well to-night,” Punch said, “and there was a new baby. -It’s surprisin’ what difference a new baby makes, even Toby notices it.” - -“A new baby?” asked Maradick. - -“Yes. A baby, you know, that ’asn’t seen the show before, leastways in -this world. You can always tell by the way they take it.” Then he added -politely, “And I hope you like this town, sir.” - -“Enormously,” Maradick answered. “I think it has some quality, something -that makes it utterly different from anywhere else that I know. There is -a feeling——” - -He looked across the market-place, and, through the cleft between the -ebony black of the towering walls, there shone the bluest of evening -skies, and across the space floated a pink cushion of a cloud; towards -the bend of the green hill on the horizon the sky where the sun was -setting was a bed of primroses. “It is a wonderful place.” - -“Ah, I tell you sir,” said Punch, stroking one of Toby’s ears, “there’s -no place like it. . . . I’ve been in every town in this kingdom, and -some of them are good enough. But this!” - -He looked at Maradick a moment and then he said, “Forgive my mentioning -it, sir, but you’ve got the feeling of the place; you’ve caught the -spirit, as one might say. We watch, folks down here, you strangers up -there at the ‘Man at Arms.’ For the most part they miss it altogether. -They come for the summer with their boxes and their bags, they bathe in -the sea, they drive on the hill, and they’re gone. Lord love you, why -they might have been sleepin’.” He spat contemptuously. - -“But you think that I have it?” said Maradick. - -“You’ve got it right enough,” said Punch. “But then you’re a friend of -young Mr. Gale’s, and so you couldn’t help having it; ’e’s got it more -than anyone I ever knew.” - -“And what exactly is—It?” asked Maradick. - -“Well, sir,” said Punch, “it’s not exactly easy to put it into words, me -bein’ no scholar.” He looked at the old woman, but she was intent over -her knitting. The light of the sun had faded from the tower and left it -cold and grey against the primrose sky. “It’s a kind of Youth; seeing -things, you know, all freshly and with a new colour, always caring about -things as if you’d met ’em for the first time. It doesn’t come of the -asking, and there are places as well as people that ’ave got it. But -when a place or a person’s got it, it’s like a match that they go round -lighting other people’s candles with.” He waved his arm in a -comprehensive sweep. “It’s all here, you know, sir, and Mr. Gale’s got -it like that . . . ’e’s lit your candle, so to speak, sir, if it isn’t -familiar, and now you’ve got to take the consequences.” - -“The consequences?” said Maradick. - -“Oh, it’s got its dangers,” said Punch, “specially when you take it -suddenly; it’s like a fever, you know. And when it comes to a gentleman -of your age of life and settled habits, well, it needs watchin’. Oh, -there’s the bad and good of it.” - -Maradick stared in front of him. - -“Well, sir, I must be going,” said Punch. “Excuse me, but I always must -be talking. Good night, sir.” - -“Good night,” said Maradick. He watched the square, stumpy figure pass, -followed by the dog, across the misty twilight of the market-place. -Violet shadows lingered and swept like mysterious creeping figures over -the square. He said good night to the old woman and struck up the hill -to the hotel. - -“Consequence? Good and bad of it?” Anyhow, the man hadn’t expressed it -badly. That was his new view, that strange new lightness of vision as -though his pack had suddenly been rolled from off his back. He was -suddenly enjoying every minute of his life, his candle had been lighted. -For a moment there floated across his mind his talk with his wife that -afternoon. Well, it could not be helped. If she would not join him he -must have his fun alone. - -At the top of the hill he met Mrs. Lester. He had seen something of her -during the last two days and liked her. She was amusing and vivacious; -she had something of Tony’s quality. - -“Hullo, Mr. Maradick,” she cried, “hurrying back like me to dinner? -Isn’t it wicked the way that we leave the most beautiful anything for -our food?” - -“Well, I must confess,” he answered, laughing, “that I never thought of -dinner at all. I just turned back because things had, as it were, come -to an end. The sun set, you know.” - -“I heard it strike seven,” she answered him, “and I said Dinner. -Although I was down on the beach watching the most wonderful sea you -ever saw, nothing could stop me, and so back I came.” - -“Have you been down here before?” he asked her. “To stay, I mean.” - -“Oh yes. Fred likes it as well as anywhere else, and I like it a good -deal better than most. He doesn’t mind so very much, you know, where he -is. He’s always living in his books, and so real places don’t count.” -She gave a little sigh. “But they do count with me.” - -“I’m enjoying it enormously,” he said, “it’s flinging the years off from -me.” - -“Oh, I know,” she answered, “but I’m almost afraid of it for that very -reason. It’s so very—what shall I say—champagney, that one doesn’t -know what one will do next. Sometimes one’s spirits are so high that one -positively longs to be depressed. Why, you’d be amazed at some of the -things people, quite ordinary respectable people, do when they are down -here.” - -As they turned in at the gate she stopped and laughed. - -“Take care, Mr. Maradick,” she said, “I can see that you are caught in -the toils; it’s very dangerous for us, you know, at our time of life.” - -And she left him, laughing. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - - THEY ALL EAT CHICKEN IN THE GORSE AND - FLY BEFORE THE STORM - -“It’s the most ripping rag,” said Tony, as he watched people climb into -the wagonette. “Things,” he added, “will probably happen.” Lady Gale -herself, as she watched them arrange themselves, had her doubts; she -knew, as very few women in England knew, how to make things go, and no -situation had ever been too much for her, but the day was dreadfully hot -and there were, as she vaguely put it to herself, “things in the air.” -What these things were, she could not, as yet, decide; but she hoped -that the afternoon would reveal them to her, that it would, indeed, show -a good deal that this last week had caused her to wonder about. - -The chief reasons for alarm were the Maradicks and Mrs. Lawrence, -without them it would have been quite a family party; Alice, Rupert, -Tony, and herself. She wondered a little why she had asked the others. -She had wanted to invite Maradick, partly because she liked the man for -himself and partly for Tony’s sake; then, too, he held the key to Tony -now. He knew better than any of the others what the boy was doing; he -was standing guard. - -And so then, of course, she had to ask Mrs. Maradick. She didn’t like -the little woman, there was no question about that, but you couldn’t ask -one without the other. And then she had to give her some one with whom -to pair off, and so she had asked Mrs. Lawrence; and there you were. - -But it wasn’t only because of the Maradicks that the air was thundery; -the Lesters had quarrelled again. He sat in the wagonette with his lips -tightly closed and his eyes staring straight in front of him right -through Mrs. Maradick as though she were non-existent. And Mrs. Lester -was holding her head very high and her cheeks were flushed. Oh! they -would both be difficult. - -She relied, in the main, on Tony to pull things through. She had never -yet known a party hang fire when he was there; one simply couldn’t lose -one’s temper and sulk with Tony about the place, but then he too had -been different during this last week, and for the first time in his life -she was not sure of him. And then, again, there was Alice. That was -really worrying her very badly. She had come down with them quite -obviously to marry Tony; everyone had understood that, including Tony -himself. And yet ever since the first evening of arrival things had -changed, very subtly, almost imperceptibly, so that it had been very -difficult to realise that it was only by looking back that she could see -how great the difference had been. It was not only, she could see, that -he had altered in himself, but that he had altered also with regard to -Alice. He struck her as being even on his guard, as though he were -afraid, poor boy, that they would drive him into a position that he -could not honourably sustain. Of this she was quite sure, that whereas -on his coming down to Treliss he had fully intended to propose to Alice -within the fortnight, now, in less than a week after his arrival, he did -not intend to propose at all, was determined, indeed, to wriggle as -speedily as might be out of the whole situation. Now there could be only -one possible explanation of such a change: that he had, namely, found -some one else. Who was it? When was it? Maradick knew and she would -trust him. - -And what surprised her most in the whole affair was her feeling about it -all, that she rather liked it. That was most astonishing, because, of -course, Tony’s marriage with Alice was from every point of view a most -suitable and admirable business; it was the very thing. But she had -looked on it, in spite of herself, as a kind of chest into which Tony’s -youth and vitality were inevitably going; a splendid chest with -beautiful carving and studded with golden nails, but nevertheless a -chest. Alice was so perfectly right for anybody that she was perfectly -wrong for Tony; Lady Gale before the world must approve and even further -the affair, but Lady Gale the mother of Tony had had her doubts, and -perhaps this new something, whatever it might be, was romantic, -exciting, young and adventurous. Mr. Maradick knew. - -But it is Mrs. Maradick’s view of the drive that must be recorded, -because it was, in fact, round her that everything revolved. The reason -for her prominence was Rupert, and it was he who, quite unconsciously -and with no after knowledge of having done anything at all, saved the -afternoon. - -He was looking very cool and rather handsome; so was Mrs. Maradick. She -was indeed by far the coolest of them all in very pale mauve and a bunch -of carnations at her breast and a broad grey hat that shaded her eyes. -He had admired her from the first, and to-day everyone else seemed hot -and flustered in comparison. Neither Alice nor Mrs. Lester were at their -best, and Mrs. Lawrence was obviously ill at ease, but Mrs. Maradick -leaned back against the cushions and talked to him with the most -charming little smile and eyes of the deepest blue. He had expected to -find the afternoon boring in the extreme, but now it promised to be -amusing, very amusing. - -Mrs. Maradick had come out in the spirit of conquest. She would show -these people, all of them, what they had missed during these last two -weeks. They should compare her husband and herself, and she had no fear -of the result; this was her chance, and she meant to seize it. She never -looked at him, and they had not, as yet, spoken, but she was acutely -conscious of his presence. He was sitting in a grey flannel suit, rather -red and hot, next to Mrs. Lester. He would probably try and use the -afternoon as the means for another abject apology. - -She was irritated, nevertheless, with herself for thinking about him at -all; she had never considered him before. Why should she do so now? She -glanced quickly across for a moment at him. How she hated that Mrs. -Lester! There was a cat for you, if ever there was one! - -They had climbed the hill, and now a breeze danced about them; and there -were trees, tall and shining birch, above their heads. On their right -lay the sea, so intensely blue that it flung into the air a scent as of -a wilderness of blue flowers, a scent of all the blue things that the -world has ever known. No breeze ruffled it, no sails crossed its -surface; it was so motionless that one would have expected, had one -flung a pebble, to have seen it crack like ice. Behind them ran the -road, a white, twisting serpent, down to the town. - -The town itself shone like a jewel in a golden ring of corn; its towers -and walls gleamed and flashed and sparkled. The world lay breathless, -with the hard glazed appearance that it wears when the sun is very hot. -The colour was so intense that the eye rested with relief on a black -clump of firs clustered against the horizon. Nothing moved save the -carriage; the horses crawled over the brow of the hill. - -“Well, that’s awfully funny,” said Mrs. Maradick, leaning over and -smiling at Rupert. “Because I feel just as you do about it. We can’t -often come up, of course, and the last train to Epsom’s so dreadfully -late that unless it’s something _really_ good, you know——” - -“It’s dreadfully boring anyhow,” said Rupert, “turning out at night and -all that sort of rot, and generally the same old play, you know. . . . -Give me musical comedy—dancing and stuff.” - -“Oh! you young men!” said Mrs. Maradick, “we know you’re all the same. -And I must say I enjoyed _‘The Girl and the Cheese_’ the other day, -positively the only thing I’ve seen for ages.” - -From the other side Mrs. Lawrence could be heard making attack on Mr. -Lester. “It was really too awfully sweet of you to put it that way, Mr. -Lester. It was just what I’d been feeling, but couldn’t put into words; -and when I came across it in your book I said to myself, ‘There, that’s -just what I’ve been feeling all along.’ I simply love your book, Mr. -Lester. I feel as if it had been written specially for me, you know.” - -Mr. Lester flushed with annoyance. He hated, beyond everything, that -people should talk to him about his books, and now this silly woman! It -was such a hot day, and he had quarrelled with his wife. - -“But what I’ve really always so often wanted to ask you,” pursued Mrs. -Lawrence, “is whether you took Mrs. Abbey in ‘To Paradise’ from anyone? -I think you must have done; and I know some one so exactly like her that -I couldn’t help wondering—Mrs. Roland Temmett—she lives in Hankin -Street, No. 3 I think it is. Do you know her? If you don’t you must meet -her, because she’s the very image, exactly like. You know in that -chapter when she goes down to poor Mr. Elliot——” - -But this was too much for Mr. Lester. - -“I have never met her,” he said brusquely, and his lips closed as though -he never meant to open them again. Mrs. Lester watched them and was -amused. She knew how her husband hated it; she could even sympathise -with him, but it would punish him for having been so horrid to her. - -She herself was rapidly recovering her temper. It was such a lovely day -that it was impossible to be cross for long, and then her husband had -often been cross and disagreeable before, it wasn’t as though it were -anything new. What a dreadful woman that Mrs. Maradick was! Why had Lady -Gale invited her? Poor Mr. Maradick! She rather liked him, his size and -strength and stolidity, but how dreadful to be tied to such a woman for -life! Even worse, she reflected, than to be tied for life to a man such -as her own special treasure! Oh! our marriage system. - -She turned round to Maradick. - -“It’s better, thank you,” she said. - -“What is?” he asked her. - -“My temper,” she answered. “It was just the Devil when we started. I was -positively fuming. You must have noticed——” - -“You have been perfectly charming,” he said. - -“Well, it’s very nice of you to say so, but I assure you it was through -my clenched teeth. My hubby and I had a tiff before we started, and it -was hot, and my maid did everything wrong. Oh! little things! but all -enough to upset me. But it’s simply impossible to stay cross with a view -and a day like this. I don’t suppose you know,” she said, looking up at -him, “what it is to be bad-tempered.” - -“I?” He laughed. “Don’t I? I’m always in a bad temper all the year -round. One has to be in business, it impresses people; it’s the only -kind of authority that the office-boy understands.” - -“Don’t you get awfully tired of it all?” she asked him. “Blotting-paper, -I mean, and pens and sealing-wax?” - -“No. I never used to think about it. One lived by rule so. There were -regular hours at which one did things and always every day the same -regular things to do. But now, after this fortnight, it will, I think, -be hard. I shall remember things and places, and it will be difficult to -settle down.” - -She looked at him critically. “Yes, you’re not the sort of man to whom -business would be enough. Some men can go on and never want anything -else at all. I know plenty of men like that, but you’re not one of -them.” She paused for a moment and then said suddenly, “But oh, Mr. -Maradick, why did you come to Treliss?” - -“Why?” he said, vaguely echoing her. - -“Yes, of all places in the world. There never was a place more -unsettling; whatever you’ve been before Treliss will make you something -different now, and if anything’s ever going to happen to you it will -happen here. However, have your holiday, Mr. Maradick, have it to the -full. I’m going to have mine.” - -They had arrived. The wagonette had drawn up in front of a little -wayside inn, “The Hearty Cow,” having for its background a sweeping moor -of golden gorse; the little brown house stood like a humble penitent on -the outskirts of some royal crowd. - -Everyone got down and shovelled rugs and baskets and kettles; everyone -protested and laughed and ran back to see if there was anything left -behind, and ran on in front to look at the view. At the turn of the brow -of the hill Maradick drew a deep breath. He did not think he had ever -seen anything so lovely before. On both sides and behind him the gorse -flamed; in front of him was the sea stretching, a burning blue, for -miles; against the black cliffs in the distance it broke in little waves -of hard curling white. They had brought with them a tent that was now -spread over their heads to keep off the sun, they crowded round the -unpacking of the baskets. Conversation was general. - -“Oh, paté de foie gras, chicken, lobster salad, that’s right. No, Tony, -wait a moment. Don’t open them yet, they’re jam and things. Oh! there’s -the champagne. Please, Mr. Lester, would you mind?” - -“So I said to him that if he couldn’t behave at a dance he’d better not -come at all—yes, look at the view, isn’t it lovely?—better not come at -all; don’t you think I was perfectly right, Mr. Gale? Too atrocious, you -know, to speak——” - -“The bounder! Can’t stand fellows that are too familiar, Mrs. Maradick. -I knew a chap once——” - -“Oh Lord! Look out! It’s coming! My word, Lester, you nearly let us have -it. It’s all right, mother, the situation’s saved, but it was a touch -and go. I say, what stuff! Look out, Milly, you’ll stick your boot into -the pie. No, it’s all right. It was only my consideration for your -dress, Milly, not a bit for the pie; only don’t put your foot into it. -Hullo, Alice, old girl, where have you been all this time?” - -This last was Tony, his face red with his exertions, his collar off and -his shirt open at the neck. When he saw Alice, however, he stopped -unpacking the baskets and came over to her. “I say,” he said, bending -down to her, “come for a little stroll while they’re unpacking the -flesh-pots. There’s a view just round the corner that will fairly make -you open your eyes.” - -They went out together. He put his arm through hers. “What is the -matter, Miss Alice Du Cane?” he said. Then as she gave no answer, he -said, “What’s up, old girl?” - -“Oh! nothing’s up,” she said, looking down and digging her parasol into -the ground. “Only it’s hot and, well, I suppose I’m not quite the thing. -I don’t think Treliss suits me.” - -“Oh! I say, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’d noticed these last few days -that you were a bit off colour. I’d been wondering about it.” - -“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, driving her parasol into the path still -more furiously. “Only—I hate Treliss. I hate it. You’re all awfully -good to me, of course, but I think I’d better go.” - -“Go?” he said blankly. - -“Yes, up to Scotland or somewhere. I’m not fit company for anyone as I -am.” - -“Oh! I say, I’m sorry.” He looked at her in dismay. “You said something -before about it, but I thought it was only for the moment. I’ve been so -jolly myself that I’ve not thought about other people. But why don’t you -like the place?” - -“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell you. I know it’s awfully ungrateful of me -to complain when Lady Gale has given me such a good time. . . . I’ve no -explanation at all. . . . It's silly of me." - -She stared out to sea, and she knew quite well that the explanation was -of the simplest, she was in love with Tony. - -When it had come upon her she did not know. She had certainly not been -in love with him when she had first come down to Treliss. The idea of -marrying him had been entertained agreeably, and had seemed as pleasant -a way of settling as any other. One had to be fixed and placed some -time, and Tony was a very safe and honourable person to be placed with. -There were things that she would have altered, of course; his very -vitality led him into a kind of indiscriminate appreciation of men and -things that meant change and an inability to stick to things, but she -had faced the whole prospect quite readily and with a good deal of -tolerance. - -Then, within the week, everything had changed. She wondered, hating -herself for the thought, whether it had been because he had shown -himself less keen; he hadn’t sought her out in quite the way that he had -once done, he had left her alone for days together. But that could not -have been all; there was something else responsible. There was some -further change in him, something quite apart from his relation to her, -that she had been among the first to recognise. He had always had a -delightful youth and vitality that people had been charmed by, but now, -during the last week, there had been something more. It was as though he -had at last found the thing for which he had so long been looking. There -had been something or some one outside all of them, their set, that he -had been seeing and watching all the time; she had seen his eyes sparkle -and his mouth smile at some thought or vision that they most certainly -had not given him. And this new discovery gave him a strength that he -had lacked before; he seemed to have in her eyes a new grandeur, and -perhaps it was this that made her love him. But no, it was something -more, something that she could only very vaguely and mistily put down to -the place. It was in the air, and she felt that if she could only get -away from Treliss, with its sea and its view and its crooked town, she -would get straight again and be rid of all this contemptible emotion. - -She had always prided herself on her reserve, on the control of her -emotions, on her contempt for animal passion, and now she could have -flung her arms round Tony’s neck and kissed his eyes, his hair, his -mouth. She watched him, his round curly head, his brown neck, the swing -of his shoulders, his splendid stride. - -“Let’s sit down here,” he said; “they can’t see us now. I’m not going to -help ’em any more. They’ll call us when they’re ready.” - -She sat down on a rock and faced the sweep of the sea, curved like a -purple bow in the hands of some mighty archer. He flung himself down on -to his chest and looked up at her, his face propped on his hands. - -“I say, Alice, old girl,” he said, “this is the first decent talk we’ve -had for days. I suppose it’s been my fault. I’m awfully sorry, and I -really don’t know how the time’s gone; there’s been a lot to do, -somehow, and yet it’s hard to say exactly what one’s done.” - -“You’ve been with Mr. Maradick,” she said almost fiercely. - -He looked up at her, surprised at her tone. “Why, yes, I suppose I have. -He’s a good chap, Maradick. I have been about with him a good bit.” - -“I can’t quite see,” she said slowly, looking down at the ground, “what -the attraction is. He’s nice enough, of course; a nice old man, but -rather dull.” - -“Oh, I don’t know about old, Alice. He’s much younger than you’d think, -and he’s anything but dull. That’s only because you don’t know him. He -is quiet when other people are there; but he’s awfully true and -straight. And you know as one gets older, without being priggish about -it, one chooses one’s friends for that sort of thing, not for -superficial things a bit. I used to think it mattered whether they cared -about the same ideas and were—well, artistic, you know. But that’s all -rot; what really matters is whether they’ll stick to you and last.” - -“One thing I always said about you, Tony,” she answered, “is that you -don’t, as you say, stick. It’s better, you know, to be off with the old -friends before you are on with the new.” - -“Oh! I say!” He could scarcely speak for astonishment. “Alice! what’s -the matter? Why, you don’t think I’ve changed about you, do you? I -know—these past few days——” - -“Oh, please don’t apologise, Tony,” she said, speaking very quickly. -“I’m not making complaints. If you would rather be with Mr. Maradick, -do. Make what friends you like; only when one comes down to stay, one -expects to see something of you, just at meals, you know.” - -He had never seen her like this before. Alice, the most self-contained -of girls, reserving her emotions for large and abstract causes and -movements, and never for a moment revealing any hint of personal likes -or dislikes, never, so far as he had seen, showing any pleasure at his -presence or complaining of his absence; and now, this! - -“Oh! I say!” he cried again, “I’m most awfully sorry. It’s only been a -few days—I know it was jolly rude. But the place has been so ripping, -so beautiful, that I suppose I didn’t think about people much. I’ve been -awfully happy, and that makes one selfish, I suppose. But I say,” he put -a hand on her dress, “please don’t be angry with me, Alice, old girl. -We’ve been chums for ages now, and when one’s known some one a jolly -long time it isn’t kind of necessary to go on seeing them every day, one -goes on without that, takes it on trust, you know. I knew that you were -there and that I was there and that nothing makes any difference.” - -The touch of his hand made her cheeks flame. “I’m sorry,” she said, -almost in a whisper, “I don’t know why I spoke like that; of course -we’re chums, only I’ve been a bit lonely; rotten these last few days, -I’m sure I don’t know why.” She paused for a moment and then went on: -“What it really is, is having to change suddenly. Oh, Tony, I’m such a -rotter! You know how I talked about what I’d do if I were a man and the -way I could help and the way you ought to help, and all the rest of it; -well; that’s all gone suddenly—I don’t know why or when—and there’s -simply nothing else there. You won’t leave me quite alone the rest of -the time, Tony, please? It isn’t that I want you so awfully much, you -know, but there isn’t anyone else.” - -“Oh! we’ll have a splendid time,” he said. “You must get to know -Maradick, Alice. He’s splendid. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s so -awfully genuine.” - -She got up. “You don’t describe him very well, Tony; all the same, -genuine people are the most awful bores, you never know where you are. -Well, forgive my little bit of temper. We ought to get back. They’ll be -wondering where we are.” - -But as they strolled back she was very quiet. She had found out what she -wanted to know. There _was_ some one else. She had watched his face as -he looked at the sea; of course that accounted for the change. Who was -she? Some fisher-girl in the town, perhaps some girl at a shop. Well, -she would be no rival to anyone. She wouldn’t fight over Tony’s body; -she had her pride. It was going to be a hard time for her; it would be -better for her to go away, but that would be difficult. People would -talk; she had better see it out. - -“It’s simply too dreadfully hot in the sun,” Tony was conscious of Mrs. -Lawrence saying as he joined them. He took it as a metaphor that she was -sitting with her back to the sea and her eyes fixed upon the chicken. He -wanted to scream, “Look at the gorse, you fool!” but instead he took a -plate and flung himself down beside Mrs. Maradick. - -She nodded at him gaily. “You naughty boy! You left us to unpack; you -don’t deserve to have anything.” - -“Indeed, Mrs. Maradick, I stayed until I was in the way. Too many cooks, -you know.” - -He watched everyone, and detected an air of cheerfulness that had -certainly not been there before. Perhaps it was the lunch; at any rate -he was hungry. - -He talked, waving a piece of bread and butter. “You people don’t deserve -anything. You ought to go and see a view before eating; grace before -meat. Alice and I have done our duty and shall now proceed to enjoy our -food twice as much as the rest of you.” - -“Well, I think it’s too bad, that gorse,” said Mrs. Maradick, with a -little pout and a flash of the eye towards Rupert Gale. “It puts all -one’s colours out.” She gave her mauve a self-satisfied pat. - -“Oh! Emmy dear! You look perfectly sweet!” ecstatically from Mrs. -Lawrence. - -Suddenly Mr. Lester spoke, leaning forward and looking at Mrs. Maradick -very seriously. “Have you thought, Mrs. Maradick, whether perhaps you -don’t put the gorse out?” - -“Oh! Mr. Lester! How cruel! Poor little me! Now, Mr. Gale, do stand up -for me.” - -Rupert looked at the gorse with a languid air. “It simply don’t stand a -chance,” he said. - -“Talking about gorse,” began Mrs. Lawrence. She was always telling long -stories about whose success she was in great doubt. This doubt she -imparted to her audience, with the result that her stories always -failed. - -This one failed completely, but nobody seemed to mind. The highest -spirits prevailed, and everyone was on the best of terms with everyone -else. Lady Gale was delighted. She had thought that it would go off all -right, but not quite so well as this. - -Of course it was largely due to Tony. She watched him as he gathered -people in, made them laugh, and brought the best out of them. It was a -kind of “Open Sesame” that he whispered to everyone, a secret that he -shared with them. - -But what Lady Gale didn’t recognise was that it was all very much on the -surface; nobody really had changed at all. She might have discovered -that fact from her own experience had she thought about it. For -instance, she didn’t care for Mrs. Maradick any more than before; she -liked her, indeed, rather less, but she smiled and laughed and said -“_Dear_ Mrs. Maradick.” Everyone felt the same. They would have embraced -their dearest enemies; it was in the air. - -Mrs. Lester even addressed her husband— - -“No, Ted dear, no more meringues. You know it’s bad for you, and you’ll -be sorry to-night.” - -He looked at her rather gloomily, and then turned and watched the gorse. -Maradick suddenly leaned over and spoke to his wife. - -“Emmy dear, do you remember that day at Cragholt? It was just like -this.” - -“Of course I do,” she said, nodding gaily back at him. “There was that -funny Captain Bassett. . . . Such a nice man, dear Lady Gale. I wonder -if you know him. Captain Godfrey Bassett. . . . Such fun.” - -“I wonder,” said Lady Gale, “if that is one of the Bassetts of -Hindhurst. There was a Captain Bassett——” - -Maradick watched the golden curtain of gorse. The scent came to him; -bees hummed in the air. - -“Well, I like being by the sea, you know. But to be _on_ it; I’ve -crossed the Atlantic seven times and been ill every time. There is a -stuff called—Oh! I forget—Yansfs. Yes, you can’t pronounce -it—You-are-now-secure-from-sea-sickness—it wasn’t any good as far as I -was concerned, but then I think you ought to take it before——” - -_This_ was his wife. - -Mrs. Lester suddenly spoke to him. “You are very silent, Mr. Maradick. -Take me for a stroll some time, won’t you? No, not now. I’m lazy, but -later.” - -She turned away from him before he could reply, and leaned over to her -husband. Then he saw that Tony was at his elbow. - -“Come down and bathe,” the boy said, “now. No, it isn’t bad for you, -really. That’s all tommy-rot. Besides, we mayn’t be able to get away -later.” They left the tent together. - -“Is it champagne?” he asked. - -“What?” asked Tony. - -“All this amiability. I was as gruff as a—as my ordinary self—coming, -and then suddenly I could have played a penny whistle; why?” - -“Oh! I don’t know!” said Tony, flinging his arms about. “I’m much too -happy to care. Maradick, I’ve been seeing her, here in the -gorse—wonderful—divine. We will go back to-morrow; yes, we must. Of -course you’ve got to come. As to everybody’s good temper, that doesn’t -mean anything. The spirits of the place have their games, you know, and -there we are. Everybody will be awfully cross at tea. And you know it -_is_ cheek! For us all to go and plant our tent and eat our chicken in -the middle of a view like this. And they’ll leave paper bags about, and -they’ll pop ginger-beer. I don’t mind betting that the gods play some -games before they’ve done with us.” - -They climbed down the rocks to a little cove that lay nestling under the -brow of the hill. The sand was white, with little sparkles in it where -the sun caught the pebbles; everything was coloured with an intensity -that hurt the eye. The cove was hemmed in by brown rocks; a little bird -hopped along the sand, then rose with a little whirl of pleasure above -their heads and disappeared. - -They flung off their clothes with an entire disregard of possible -observers. A week ago Maradick would have died rather than do such a -thing; a bathing-machine and a complete bathing-suit had been absolute -essentials, now they really never entered his head. If he had thought of -it at all, they would have seemed to him distinctly indecent, a kind of -furtive winking of the eye, an eager disavowal of an immorality that was -never there at all. - -As Maradick felt the water about his body his years fell from him like -Pilgrim’s pack. He sank down, with his eyes for a moment on the burning -sky, and then gazing through depths of green water. As he cleaved it -with his arm it parted and curled round his body like an embrace; for a -moment he was going down and down and down, little diamond bubbles -flying above him, then he was up again, and, for an instant, the -dazzling white of the cove, the brown of the rocks, the blue of the sky, -encircled him. Then he lay on his back and floated. His body seemed to -leave him, and he was something utterly untrammelled and free; there -were no Laws, no Creeds, no Arguments, nothing but a wonderful peace and -contentment, an absolute union with something that he had been searching -for all his life and had never found until now. - -“Obey we Mother Earth . . . Mother Earth.” He lay, smiling, on her -breast. Little waves came and danced beneath him, touching his body with -a caress as they passed him; he rose and fell, a very gentle rocking, as -of some mother with her child. He could not think, he could remember -nothing; he only knew that he had solved a riddle. - -Then he struck out to sea. Before him it seemed to spread without end or -limit; it was veiled in its farthest distance by a thin purple haze, and -out of this curtain the blue white-capped waves danced in quick -succession towards him. He struck out and out, and as he felt his body -cut through the water a great exultation rose in him that he was still -so strong and vigorous. Every part of him, from the crown of his head to -the soles of his feet, seemed clean and sound and sane. Oh! Life! with -its worries and its dirty little secrets and its petty moralities! and -the miserable pessimistic sauntering in a melancholy twilight through -perpetual graveyards! Let them swim, let them swim! - -He shouted to Tony, “It’s great. One could go on for ever!” He dived for -a moment downward, and saw the great white curve of his body from his -foot to the hip, the hard smooth strength of the flesh. - -Then he turned slowly back. The white beach, the brown rocks, and the -blue sky held out hands to him. - -“All those people,” he shouted to Tony, “up there, eating, sleeping, -when they might be in this!” Mrs. Lester, he knew, would have liked it. -He thought for a moment of his wife, the dresses she would need and the -frills. He could see her stepping delicately from the bathing-machine; -her little scream as her feet touched the water, “Oh Jim! it’s cold!” He -laughed as he waded back on to the beach. The pebbles burnt hot under -his feet, and the sand clung to his toes; he dug his legs deep into it. -The sun curled about his body and wrapped him, as it were, in a robe of -its own glorious colour. He could feel it burning on his back. - -Tony joined him, panting. “Oh! my word! I’ve never had such a bathe, -never! I could have stayed in for ever! But they’d be coming to look for -us, and that wouldn’t do. I say, run round with me! I’ll beat you five -times round.” - -They raced round the beach. The sun, the wind, and the waves seemed to -go with them; the water fell from them as they ran, and at last they -flung themselves dry and breathless on to the hot sand. - -Whilst they dressed, Tony dealt with the situation more practically and -in detail. - -“There are going to be a lot of difficulties, I’m afraid,” he said, as -he stood with his shirt flapping about his legs, and his hands -struggling with his collar. “In the first place, there’s mother. As I -told you, she’s not got to know anything about it, because the minute -she hears anything officially, of course, she’ll have to step in and ask -about it, and then there’ll be no end of trouble with the governor and -everybody. It’s not that she disapproves really, you know—your being -there makes that all right; but she hasn’t got to realise it until it’s -done. She won’t ask anything about it, but of course she can’t help -wondering.” - -“Well, I hope it is all right,” said Maradick anxiously. “My being a -kind of moral danger-signal makes one nervous.” - -“Oh! she trusts you,” said Tony confidently. “That’s why it’s so -perfectly splendid your being there. And then,” went on Tony, “they are -all of them wondering what we are at. You see, Treliss has that effect -on people, or at any rate it’s having that kind of effect on us here and -now. Everybody is feeling uneasy about something, and they are most of -them putting it down to me. Things always do happen when you jumble a -lot of people together in a hotel, the gods can’t resist a game; and -when you complicate it by putting them in Treliss! My word!” - -“Well, what’s the immediate complication?” asked Maradick. The water had -made his hair curl all over his head, and his shirt was open at the neck -and his sleeves rolled up over his arms. - -“Well, the most immediate one,” said Tony slowly, “is Alice, Miss Du -Cane. She was talking to me before lunch. It’s rather caddish to say -anything about it, but I tell you everything, you know. Well, she seemed -to think I’d been neglecting her and was quite sick about it. She never -is sick about anything, because she’s much too solid, and so I don’t -know what’s set her off this time. She suspects a lot.” - -Maradick said nothing. - -“But the funny thing is that they should worry at all. Before, when I’ve -done anything they’ve always said, ‘Oh! Tony again!’ and left it at -that. Now, when I’ve done nothing, they all go sniffing round.” - -“Yes,” said Maradick, “that’s the really funny thing; that nothing has -been done for them to sniff at, yet. I suppose, as a matter of fact, -people have got so little to do in a hotel that they worry about nothing -just to fill up time.” - -He stretched his arms and yawned. - -“No,” said Tony, “it’s the place. Whom the gods wish to send mad they -first send to Treliss. It’s in the air. Ask that old fellow, Morelli.” - -“Why Morelli?” Maradick asked quickly. - -“Well, it’s absurd of me,” said Tony. “But I don’t mind betting that he -knows all about it. He’s uncanny; he knows all about everything. It’s -just as if he set us all dancing to his tune like the Pied Piper.” He -laughed. “Just think! all of us dancing; you and I, mother, father, -Alice, Rupert, the Lesters, Mrs. Maradick, Mrs. Lawrence—and Janet!” he -added suddenly. - -“Janet,” he said, catching Maradick’s arm and walking up the beach. -“Can’t you see her dancing? that hair and those eyes! Janet!” - -“I’m sleepy,” said Maradick unsympathetically. “I shall lie with my head -in the gorse and snore.” - -He was feeling absolutely right in every part of his body; his blood ran -in his veins like a flame. He hummed a little tune as he climbed the -path. - -“Why! that’s Morelli’s tune,” said Tony, “I’d been trying to remember -it; the tune he played that night,” and then suddenly they saw Mrs. -Lester. - -She sat on a rock that had been cut into a seat in the side of the hill. -She could not see the beach immediately below because the cliff -projected in a spreading cloud of gorse, but the sea lay for miles in -front of her, and the gold of the hill struck sharp against the blue. -She herself sat perched on the stone, the little wind blowing her hair -about her face. She was staring out to sea and did not see them until -they were right upon her. - -Tony shouted “Hullo, Milly,” and she turned. - -“We have been bathing,” he said. “It was the most stupendous bathe that -there has ever been.” Then he added, “Why are you alone?” - -“The rest went to see a church on a hill or something, but I didn’t want -anything except the view; but Lady Gale is still there, at the tent. She -told me to tell you if I saw you to come to her.” - -“Right you are.” He passed singing up the hill. Maradick stood in front -of her, his cap in his hand, then she made room for him on her seat and -he sat beside her. - -“A view like this,” she said, “makes one want very much to be good. I -don’t suppose that you ever want to be anything else.” - -“There’s some difference between wanting and being,” he answered -sententiously. “Besides, I don’t suppose I’m anything real, neither good -nor bad, just indifferent like three-fourths of the human race.” - -He spoke rather bitterly, and she looked at him. “I think you’re -anything but indifferent,” she said, nodding her head. “I think you’re -delightful. You’re just one of the big, strong, silent men of whom -novels are full; and I’ve never met one before. I expect you could pick -me up with one finger and hurl me into the sea. Women like that, you -know.” - -“You needn’t be afraid that I shall do it,” he said, laughing. “I have -been bathing and am as weak as a kitten; and that also accounts for my -untidiness,” he added. He had been carrying his coat over his shoulder, -and his shirt was open at the neck and his sleeves rolled up over his -arms. - -They did not speak again for several minutes. She was looking at the -view with wide-open, excited eyes. - -Then she turned round and laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh! I don’t -expect you’ve needed it as I have done,” she said, “all this colour; I’m -drinking it in and storing it so that I can fill all the drab days that -are coming with it. Drab, dull, stupid days; going about and seeing -people you don’t want to see, doing things you don’t want to do, saying -things you don’t want to say.” - -“Why do you?” he said. - -“Oh! one has to. One can’t expect to be at Treliss for ever. It’s really -bad for one to come here, because it always makes one discontented and -unsettles one. Last year,” she smiled at the recollection, “was most -unsettling.” - -“Well,” he answered, “I’ve got to go back to the office, you know. It -will do me good to have these days to remember.” - -She was silent again; then the grasp on his arm tightened and she said— - -“Oh! Mr. Maradick, I am so unhappy.” - -He moved a little away from her. Here were more confidences coming! Why -had all the world suddenly taken it into its incautious head to trust -him with its secrets? He! Maradick! whom no one had ever dreamt of -trusting with anything before? - -“No, I don’t want to bother you. It won’t bother you, will it? Only it -is such a rest and a comfort to be able to tell some one.” She spoke -with a little catch in her voice, but she was thinking of the year -before when she had trusted Captain Stanton, “dear old Reggie,” with -similar confidences; and there had been Freddie Stapylton before that. -Well, they had all been very nice about it, and she was sure that this -big man with the brown neck and the curly hair would be just as nice. - -“No, but you will be a friend of mine, won’t you?” she said. “A woman -wants a friend, a good, sensible, strong friend to whom she can tell -things, and I have nobody. It will be such a comfort if I can talk to -you sometimes.” - -“Please,” he said. - -Providence seemed to have designed him as a kind of general nursemaid to -a lot of irresponsible children. - -“Ah! that’s good of you.” She gave a little sigh and stared out to sea. -“Of course, I’m not complaining, other women have had far worse times, I -know that; but it is the loneliness that hurts so. If there is only one -person who understands it all it will make such a difference.” - -Mrs. Lester was not at all insincere. She liked Maradick very much, and -her having liked Captain Stanton and Mr. Stapylton before him made no -difference at all. Those others had been very innocent flirtations and -no harm whatever had come of them, and then Treliss was such an exciting -place that things always did happen. It must also be remembered that she -had that morning quarrelled with her husband. - -“You see,” she said, “I suppose I was always rather a romantic girl. I -loved colour and processions and flowers and the Roman Catholic Church. -I used to go into the Brompton Oratory and watch the misty candles and -listen to them singing from behind the altars and sniff the incense. And -then I read Gautier and Merimée and anything about Spain. And then I -went to Italy, and I thought I could never leave it with the dear -donkeys and Venice and carnivals, but we had to get back for Ascot. Oh! -I suppose it was all very silly and like lots of other girls, but it was -all very genuine, Mr. Maradick.” - -He nodded his head. - -“It’s so sweet of you to understand,” she said. “Well, like most girls, -I crowded all these dreams into marriage. That was going to do -everything for me. Oh! he was to be such a hero, and I was to be such a -wife to him. Dear me! How old it makes one feel when one thinks of those -girlish days!” - -But Maradick only thought that she looked very young indeed, Tony’s age. - -“Then I read some of Fred’s essays; Mr. Lester, you know. They used to -come out in the _Cornhill_, and I thought them simply wonderful. They -said all that I had been thinking, and they were full of that colour -that I loved so. The more I read them the more I felt that here was my -hero, the man whom I could worship all my days. Poor old Fred, fancy my -thinking that about him.” - -Maradick thought of Mr. Lester trailing with bent back and languid eye -over the gorse, and wondered too. - -“Well, then I met him at a party; one of those literary parties that I -used to go to. He was at his best that night and he talked wonderfully. -We were introduced, and—well, there it all was. It all happened in a -moment. I couldn’t in the least tell you how; but I woke one morning -and, like Mr. Somebody or other, a poet I think, found myself married.” - -Here there was a dramatic pause. Maradick didn’t know what to say. He -felt vaguely that sympathy was needed, but it was difficult to find the -right words. - -“That changed me,” Mrs. Lester went on in a low voice with a thrill in -it, “from an innocent warm-hearted girl into a woman—a suffering, -experienced woman. Oh! Mr. Maradick, you know what marriage is, the cage -that it can be; at least, if you haven’t experienced it, and I sincerely -hope you haven’t, you can imagine what it is. A year of it was enough to -show me how cruel life was.” - -Maradick felt a little uncomfortable. His acquaintance with Mrs. Lester -had been a short one, and in a little time he was going back to have tea -with Mr. Lester; he had seemed a harmless kind of man. - -“I am very sorry——” he began. - -“Oh, please,” she went on quickly, “don’t think that I’m unhappy. I -don’t curse fate or do anything silly like that. I suppose there are -very few persons who find marriage exactly what they expect it to be. I -don’t complain. But oh! Mr. Maradick, never marry an author. Of course -you can’t—how silly of me!—but I should like you to understand a -little what I have felt about it all.” - -He tried clumsily to find words. - -“All of us,” he said, “must discover as we get on that things aren’t -quite what we thought they would be. And of marriage especially. One’s -just got to make up one’s mind to it. And then I think there’s a lot to -be grateful for if there’s only one person, man or woman, to whom one -matters; who, well, sticks to one and——” - -“Oh! I know,” she sighed reminiscently. - -“What I mean is that it doesn’t so much matter what that person is, -stupid or ugly or anything, if they really care. There isn’t so much of -that steady affection going about in the world that we can afford to -disregard it when it comes. Dear me!” he added with a laugh, “how -sentimental I am!” - -“I know,” she said eagerly. “That’s just it; if Fred did care like that, -oh dear, how wonderful it would be! But he doesn’t. I don’t really exist -for him at all. He thinks so much about his books and the people in them -that real people aren’t there. At first I thought that I could help him -with his work, read to him and discuss it with him; and I know that -there were a lot of grammatical mistakes, but he wouldn’t let me do -anything. He shut me out. I was no use to him at all.” - -She clenched her hands and frowned. As a matter of fact she got on with -him very well, but they had quarrelled that morning, over nothing at -all, of course. And then it made things more exciting if you thought -that you hated your husband, and Mr. Maradick was a fine-looking man. - -And he thought how young she was and what a dreary stretch of years was -before her. He knew what his own married life had been: fifteen years of -disillusion and misunderstanding and sullen silence. - -“I am so sorry,” he said, and he looked at her very sympathetically. “I -can understand a little how hard it is. We don’t all of us make lucky -shots, but then we have just got to grin and bear it; cold sort of -comfort, I know, and if it really does comfort you to feel that you have -a friend you may count on me.” - -She liked his sympathy, the dear old strong thing! and at any rate she -would pull Fred pretty sharply out of his books for once. Captain -Stanton and Mr. Stapylton had had just that effect; she had never known -Fred so charming as he was after their final exit. - -He looked down at her with a fatherly smile. “We’ll be friends,” he -said. - -“It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, her voice trembling a little. -“I felt that you would understand. I cannot tell you how it has helped -me, this little talk of ours. Now I suppose we ought to be going back or -they’ll be wondering where we are.” - -And he stood thanking God for a wonderful world. At last there were -people who wanted him, Tony and Mrs. Lester; and at the same time he had -begun to see everything with new eyes. It was his view! They talked of -life being over at forty; why, it had never begun for him until now! - -They walked back to the tent, and he talked to her gravely about helping -others and the real meaning of life. “He can,” she thought, “be most -awfully dull, but he’s a dear old thing.” - -The expedition in search of a church had scarcely been a success, and -when one considers the members of it there is little room to wonder. -Tony had been right about the gods. They had seen fit to play their -games round the tent on the gorse, and the smiles with which they had -regarded the luncheon-party speedily changed to a malicious twinkle. -Everyone had been too pleasant to be true, and, after the meal was over, -the atmosphere became swiftly ominous. For one thing, Tony had departed -with Maradick for a bathe, and his absence was felt. Lady Gale had a -sudden longing for sleep, and her struggles against this entirely -precluded any attempt at keeping her guests pleasantly humoured. Mrs. -Maradick was never at her best after a meal, and now all her former -irritation returned with redoubled force. She had been far too pleasant -and affable to these people; she could not think what had induced her to -chatter and laugh like that at lunch, she must be on her dignity. Mr. -Lester’s remark about her clothes and the gorse also rankled. What -impertinence! but there, these writing people always did think that they -could say anything to anybody! Novelist, forsooth! everyone was a -novelist nowadays. Mrs. Lawrence didn’t make things any better by an -interminable telling of one of her inconclusive stories. Mrs. Maradick -bristled with irritation as she listened. “. . . So there poor Lady -Parminter was, you know—dreadfully stout, and could scarcely walk at -all—with her black poodle and her maid and no motor and raining cats -and dogs. It was somewhere near Sevenoaks, I think; or was it -Canterbury? I think perhaps it was Canterbury, because I know Mr. -Pomfret said something about a cathedral; although it might have been -Sevenoaks, because there was a number in it, and I remember saying at -the time . . .” - -Mrs. Maradick stiffened with annoyance. - -Mr. Lester gloomily faced the sea and Mrs. Lester chatted rather -hysterically to Lady Gale, who couldn’t hear what she said because she -was so sleepy. Mr. Lester hated quarrelling, because it disturbed his -work so; he knew that there would be a reconciliation later, but one -never knew how long it would be. - -It was eventually Rupert who proposed the church. He had found Mrs. -Maradick very amusing at lunch, and he thought a stroll with the little -woman wouldn’t be bad fun. So he interrupted Mrs. Lawrence’s story with -“I say, there’s a rotten old church somewhere kickin’ around. What d’you -say to runnin’ it to earth, what?” - -Everyone jumped up with alacrity. Mrs. Lester shook her head. “I shall -stay and keep guard over the tent,” she said. - -“No, Milly dear, you go,” said Lady Gale, “I’m much too sleepy to move.” - -“Well, then, I’ll stay to keep guard over you as well,” said Mrs. -Lester, laughing; “I’m lazy.” - -So Rupert, Alice Du Cane, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Maradick and Mrs. Lawrence -started off. The expedition was a failure. The church wasn’t found, and -in the search for it the tempers of all concerned were lost. It was -terribly hot, the sun beat down upon the gorse and there was very little -breeze. The gorse passed and they came to sand dunes, and into these -their feet sank heavily, their shoes were clogged with it. Nobody spoke -very much. It was too hot and everybody had their own thoughts; Mrs. -Lawrence attempted to continue her story, but received no encouragement. - -“I vote we give up the church,” said Rupert, and they all trudged -drearily back again. - -Mrs. Maradick was wondering why Mrs. Lester hadn’t come with them. It -didn’t make her wonder any the less when, on their arrival at the tent, -she saw Lady Gale and Tony in sole possession. Where was the woman? -Where was her husband? She decided that Rupert Gale was a nuisance. He -had nothing to say that had any sense in it, and as for Mr. Lester -. . .! - -Tea was therefore something of a spasmodic meal. Everybody rushed -furiously into conversation and then fled hurriedly out again; an air of -restraint and false geniality hung over the teacups. Even Tony was -quiet, and Lady Gale felt, for once, that the matter was beyond her; -everyone was cross. - -Then Mrs. Lester and Maradick appeared and there was a moment’s pause. -They looked very cheerful and contented, which made the rest of the -party only the more irritable and discontented. Why were they so happy? -What right had they to be so happy? They hadn’t got sand in their shoes -and a vague search after an impossible church under a blazing sun in -their tempers. - -Mrs. Lester was anything but embarrassed. - -“Oh! there you all are! How nice you all look, and I do hope you’ve left -something! No, don’t bother to move, Rupert. There’s plenty of room -here! Here you are, Mr. Maradick! Here’s a place; yes, we’ve had such a -nice stroll, Mr. Maradick and I. It was quite cool down by the beach. -. . . Thanks, dear, one lump and cream. Oh! don’t trouble, Tony, I can -reach it . . . yes, and did you see your church? Oh! what a pity, and -you had all that trouble for nothing. . . .” - -“There’s going to be a storm!” said Mr. Lester gloomily. - -A little wind was sighing, up and down, over the gorse. The sun shone as -brilliantly as ever, but on the horizon black, heavy clouds were -gathering. Then suddenly the little breeze fell and there was perfect -stillness. The air was heavy with the scent of the gorse. It was very -hot. Then, very faintly, the noise of thunder came across the sea. - -“The gods are angry,” said Tony. - -“Oh! my dear!” said Lady Gale. “And there isn’t a cover to the wagonette -thing! Whatever shall we do? We shall get soaked to the skin. I never -dreamt of its raining.” - -“Perhaps,” said Maradick, “if we started at once we might get in before -it broke.” - -The things were hurriedly packed and everyone hastened over the gorse. -They clambered into the wagonette. Across the sky great fleets of black -clouds were hurrying and the sound of the thunder was closer at hand. -Everything was still, with the immovability of something held by an -invisible hand, and the trees seemed to fling black pointing fingers to -the black gloomy sky. - -For a mile they raced the storm, and then it broke upon them. The -thunder crashed and the lightning flared across their path, and then the -rain came in sheeted floods. What fun for the gods! They cowered back in -their seats and not a word was spoken by anyone; the driver lashed his -horses along the shining road. - -Whilst they journeyed, each traveller was asking himself or herself a -question. These questions must be recorded, because they will all be -answered during the course of this history. - -Lady Gale’s question. Why did everything go wrong? - -Mrs. Maradick’s question. Why had a malevolent providence invented Mrs. -Lester, and, having invented her, what could James see in her? - -Mrs. Lester’s question. At what hour that evening should she have her -reconciliation scene with her husband and for how long could she manage -to spin it out? - -Alice Du Cane’s question. What was Tony keeping back? - -Tony’s question. Was Janet afraid of thunder? - -Maradick’s question. What did it all mean? - -Mr. Lester’s question. What was the use of being alive at all? - -Rupert’s question. Why take a new suit to a picnic when it always -rained? - -Mrs. Lawrence’s question. Would the horses run away? - -The only question that received an immediate answer was Mrs. Lawrence’s, -because they didn’t. - - * * * * * - -That evening, Maradick went for a moment to the room of the minstrels. -The storm was passing. On the horizon there stole a very faint band of -gold. Out of the black bank of cloud a star shone, and suddenly there -burst from the dark shadows of the fleeing storm a silver crescent moon. -The light of it fell on the boards of the floor and then touched faintly -the grinning face of the carved lion. - - THE PROLOGUE IS CONCLUDED - - - - - PART II - - PUNCH - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - - MORELLI BREAKS SOME CROCKERY AND PLAYS - A LITTLE MUSIC - -Punch was in bed asleep, with the bedclothes drawn up to his ears. It -had just struck six, and round the corner of the open window the sun -crept, flinging a path of light across the floor. Presently it would -reach the bed and strike Punch’s nose; Toby, awake and curled up on a -mat near the door, watched the light travel across the room and waited -for the inevitable moment. - -The room was of the simplest. Against the wall leant the Punch and Judy -show, on the mantelpiece was a jar that had once held plum jam and now -contained an enormous bundle of wild flowers. Two chairs, a bed, a chest -of drawers and a washstand completed the furniture. Against the wall was -pinned an enormous outline map of England. This Punch had filled in -himself, marking roads, inns, houses, even trees; here and there the -names of people were written in a tiny hand. This map was his complete -history during the last twenty years; nothing of any importance that had -happened to him remained unchronicled. Sometimes it would only be a -cross or a line, but he remembered what the sign stood for. - -The sun struck his nose and rested on his hair, and he awoke. He said -“Ugh” and “Ah” very loudly several times, rubbed his eyes with his -knuckles, raised his arms above his head and yawned, and then sat up. -His eyes rested for a moment lovingly on the map. Parts of it were -coloured in chalk, red and yellow and blue, for reasons best known to -himself. The sight of it opened unending horizons: sharp white roads -curving up through the green and brown into a blue misty distance, the -round heaving shoulder of some wind-swept down over which he had tramped -as the dusk was falling and the stars came slowly from their -hiding-places to watch him, the grey mists rising from some deep valley -as the sun rose red and angry—they stretched, those roads and hills and -valleys, beyond his room and the sea, for ever and ever. And there were -people too, in London, in country towns, in lonely farms and tiny -villages; the lines and crosses on the map brought to his mind a -thousand histories in which he had played his part. - -He looked at Toby. “A swim, old man,” he said; “time for a swim—out we -get!” Toby unrolled himself, rubbed his nose on his mat twice like an -Eastern Mahommedan paying his devotions, and strolled across to the bed. -His morning greeting to his master was always the same, he rolled his -eyes, licked his lips with satisfaction, and wagged an ear; then he -looked for a moment quite solemnly into his master’s face with a gaze of -the deepest devotion, then finally he leapt upon the bed and curled up -at his master’s side. - -Punch (whose real name, by the way, was David Garrick—I don’t know why -I didn’t say so before—he hadn’t the slightest connexion with the -actor, because his family didn’t go back beyond his grandfather) stroked -a paw and scratched his head. “It’s time we got up and went for a swim, -old man. The sun’s been saying so hours ago.” He flung on an overcoat -and went out. - -The cottage where he lived was almost on the beach. Above it the town -rose, a pile of red roofs and smoking chimneys, a misty cloud of pale -blue smoke twisted and turned in the air. The world was full of -delicious scents that the later day destroyed, and everything behaved as -though it were seeing life for the first time; the blue smoke had never -discovered the sky before, the waves had never discovered the sand -before, the breeze had never discovered the trees before. Very soon they -would lose that surprise and would find that they had done it all only -yesterday, but, at first, it was all quite new. - -Punch and Toby bathed; as they came out of the water they saw Morelli -sitting on a rock. Punch sat down on the sand quite unconcernedly and -watched the sea. He hadn’t a towel, and so the sun must do instead. -Toby, having barked once, sat down too. - -“Good morning, Mr. Garrick,” said Morelli. - -Punch looked up for a moment. “A fine day,” he said. - -Morelli came over to him. He was dressed in a suit of some green stuff, -so that against the background of green boughs that fringed the farther -side of the little cove he seemed to disappear altogether. - -“Good morning, Mr. Garrick,” he said again. “A splendid day for a bathe. -I’d have gone in myself only I know I should have repented it -afterwards.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Punch. “You can bathe ’ere all the year round. In point -of fact, it’s ’otter at Christmas than it is now. The sea takes a while -to get warm.” - -“This fine weather,” said Morelli, looking at the sea, “brings a lot of -people to the place.” - -“Yes,” said Punch, “the ‘Man at Arms’ is full and all the lodgings. It’s -a good season.” - -“I suppose it makes some difference to you, Mr. Garrick, whether there -are people or no?” - -“Oh yes,” said Punch, “if there’s no one ’ere I move. I’m staying this -time.” - -“Do you find that the place changes?” said Morelli. - -“No,” said Punch, “it don’t alter at all. Now there are places, -Pendragon for one, that you wouldn’t know for the difference. They’ve -pulled down the Cove and built flats, and there are niggers and what -not. It’s better for the trade, of course, but I don’t like the place.” - -“Oh yes, I remember Pendragon,” said Morelli. “There was a house there, -the Flutes—Trojan was the name of the people—a fine place.” - -“And ’e’s a nice man that’s there now,” said Punch, “Sir ’Enry; what I -call a man, but the place is rotten.” - -Toby looked in his master’s face and knew that he was ill at ease. He -knew his master so well that he recognised his sentiments about people -without looking at him twice. His own feelings about other dogs were -equally well defined; if he was suspicious of a dog he was on his guard, -very polite of course, but sniffing inwardly; his master did the same. - -“I can remember when there were only two or three houses in Pendragon,” -said Morelli; then suddenly, “You meet a great many people, Mr. Garrick. -Everyone here seems to know you. Do you happen to have met a young -fellow, Gale is his name? He is staying at the ‘Man at Arms.’” - -“Yes,” said Punch. “I know Mr. Gale.” Why did Morelli want to know? - -“A nice boy,” said Morelli. “I don’t often take to the people who come -here for the summer, they don’t interest me as a rule. But this boy——” - -He broke off and watched Toby. He began to whistle very softly, as -though to himself. The dog pricked up his ears, moved as though he would -go to him, and then looked up in his master’s face. - -“There’s another man,” continued Morelli, “that goes about with young -Gale. An older man, Maradick his name is, I think. No relation, it -seems, merely a friend.” - -Punch said nothing. It was no business of his. Morelli could find out -what he wanted for himself. He got up. “Well,” he said, wrapping his -greatcoat about him, “I must be going back.” - -Morelli came close to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Garrick,” he -said, “you dislike me. Why?” - -Punch turned round and faced him. “I do, sir,” he said, “that’s truth. I -was comin’ down the high road from Perrota one evenin’ whistling to -myself, the dog was at my heels. It was sunset and a broad red light -over the sea. I came upon you suddenly sitting by the road, but you -didn’t see me in the dust. You were laughing and in your hands was a -rabbit that you were strangling; it was dusk, but I ’eard the beast cry -and I ’eard you laugh. I saw your eyes.” - -Morelli smiled. “There are worse things than killing a rabbit, Mr. -Garrick,” he said. - -“It’s the way you kill that counts,” said Punch, and he went up the -beach. - - * * * * * - -Meanwhile there is Janet Morelli. - -Miss Minns was the very last person in the world fitted to give anyone a -settled education; in her early days she had given young ladies lessons -in French and music, but now the passing of years had reduced the one to -three or four conversational terms and the other to some elementary -tunes about which there was a mechanical precision that was anything but -musical. Her lessons in deportment had, at one time, been considered -quite the thing, but now they had grown a little out of date, and, like -her music, lost freshness through much repetition. - -Her ideas of life were confined to the three or four families with whom -she had passed her days, and Janet had never discovered anything of -interest in any of her predecessors; Alice Crate (her father was Canon -Crate of Winchester Cathedral), Mary Devonshire (her father was a -merchant in Liverpool), and Eleanor Simpson (her father was a -stockbroker and lived in London). Besides, all these things had happened -a long while ago; Miss Minns had been with Janet for the last twelve -years, and fact had become reminiscence and reminiscence tradition -within that time. Miss Minns of the moment with which we have to do was -not a very lively person for a very young creature to be attached to; -she was always on the quiver, from the peak of her little black bonnet -to the tip of her tiny black shoes. When she did talk, her conversation -suffered from much repetition and was thickly strewn with familiar -proverbs, such as “All’s well that ends well” and “Make hay while the -sun shines.” She served no purpose at all as far as Janet was concerned, -save as an occasional audience of a very negative kind. - -The only other person with whom Janet had been brought into contact, her -father, was far more perplexing. - -She had accepted him in her early years as somebody about whom there was -no question. When he was amusing and played with her there was no one in -the world so completely delightful. He had carried her sometimes into -the woods and they had spent the whole day there. She remembered when he -had whistled and sung and the animals had come creeping from all over -the wood. The birds had climbed on to his shoulders and hands, rabbits -and hares had let him take them in his hands and had shown no fear at -all. She remembered once that a snake had crawled about his arm. He had -played with her as though he had been a child like herself, and she had -done what she pleased with him and he had told her wonderful stories. -And then suddenly, for no reason that she could understand, that mood -had left him and he had been suddenly angry, terribly, furiously angry. -She had seen him once take a kitten that they had had in his hands and, -whilst it purred in his face, he had twisted its neck and killed it. -That had happened when she was very small, but she would never forget -it. Then she had grown gradually accustomed to this rage and had fled -away and hidden. But on two occasions he had beaten her, and then, -afterwards, in a moment it had passed, and he had cried and kissed her -and given her presents. - -She had known no other man, and so she could not tell that they were not -all like that. But, as the years had passed, she had begun to wonder. -She had asked Miss Minns whether everybody could make animals come when -they whistled, and Miss Minns had admitted that the gift was unusual, -that, in fact, she didn’t know anyone else who could do it. But Janet -was growing old enough now to realise that Miss Minns’ experience was -limited and that she did not know everything. She herself had tried to -attract the birds, but they had never come to her. - -Her father’s fury had seemed to her like the wind or rain; something -that came to him suddenly, blowing from no certain place, and something, -too, for which he was not responsible. She learnt to know that they only -lasted a short time, and she used to hide herself until they were over. - -With all this she did not love him. He gave her very little opportunity -of doing so. His affection was as strangely fierce as his temper and -frightened her almost as badly. She felt that that too was outside -himself, that he had no love for her personally, but felt as he did -about the animals, about anything young and wild. It was this last -characteristic that was strangest of all to her. It was very difficult -to put it into words, but she had seen that nothing made him so furious -as the conventional people of the town. She was too young to recognise -what it was about them that made him so angry, but she had seen him grow -pale with rage at some insignificant thing that some one had said or -done. On the other hand, he liked the wildest people of the place, the -fishermen and tramps that haunted the lower quarters of the town. All -this she grasped very vaguely, because she had no standard of -comparison; she knew no one else. But fear had made love impossible; she -was frightened when he was fond of her, she was frightened when he was -angry with her. Miss Minns, too, was a difficult person to bestow love -upon. She did not want it, and indeed resolutely flung it back with the -remark that emotion was bad for growing girls and interfered with their -education. When she lived at all she lived in the past, and Janet was -only a very dim shadowy reflexion of the Misses Crate, Devonshire, and -Simpson, who had glorified her earlier years. - -Janet, therefore, had spent a very lonely and isolated childhood, and, -as she had grown, the affection that was in her had grown too, and she -had had no one to whom she might give it. At first it had been dolls, -and ugly and misshapen though they were they had satisfied her. But the -time came when their silence and immobility maddened her, she wanted -something that would reply to her caresses and would share with her all -her thoughts and ideas. Then Miss Minns came, and Janet devoted herself -to her with an ardour that was quite new to the good lady; but Miss -Minns distrusted enthusiasm and had learnt, whilst educating Miss -Simpson, to repress all emotion, so she gave it all back to Janet again, -carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. When Janet found that Miss Minns -didn’t want her, and that she was only using her as a means of -livelihood, she devoted herself to animals, and in a puppy, a canary and -a black kitten she found what she wanted. But then came the terrible day -when her father killed the kitten, and she determined never to have -another pet of any kind. - -By this time she was about fifteen and she had read scarcely anything. -Her father never talked to her about books, and Miss Minns considered -most novels improper and confined herself to Mrs. Hemans and the -“Fairchild Family.” Janet’s ideas of the world were, at this time, -peculiar. Her father had talked to her sometimes strangely about places -that he had seen, but they had never attracted her: mountain heights, -vast unending seas, tangled forests, sun-scorched deserts; always things -without people, silent, cold, relentless. She had asked him about cities -and he had spoken sometimes about London, and this had thrilled her -through and through. What she longed for was people; people all round -her, friends who would love her, people whom she herself could help. And -then suddenly, on an old bookshelf that had remained untouched for many -years past, she had found “Kenilworth.” There was a picture that -attracted her and she had begun to read, and then a new world opened -before her. There were several on the shelf: Lytton’s “Rienzi” and “The -Last of the Barons,” George Eliot’s “Middlemarch,” Trollope’s -“Barchester Towers,” and Miss Braddon’s “Lady Audley’s Secret.” There -were some other things; somebody’s “History of England,” a Geography of -Europe, a torn volume of Shakespeare, and the “Pickwick Papers.” Living, -hitherto a drab and unsatisfactory affair, became a romantic thrilling -business in which anything might happen, a tremendous bran pie into -which one was continually plunging for plums. She had no doubt at all -that there would be adventures for her in the future. Everyone, even the -people in “Middlemarch,” had adventures, and it was absurd to suppose -that she wouldn’t have them as well. She noticed, too, that all the -adventures that these people had rose from the same source, namely love. -She did not realise very thoroughly what this love was, except that it -meant finding somebody for whom you cared more than anyone else in the -world and staying with them for the rest of your life, and perhaps -after. She did not admire all the people of whom the heroines were -enamoured, but she realised that everyone thought differently about such -things, and that there was apt to be trouble when two ladies cared for -the same gentleman or _vice versa_. - -Only you must, so to speak, have your chance, and that she seemed to be -missing. It was all very well to watch romance from your high window and -speculate on its possibilities as it passed down the street, but you -ought to be down in the midst of it if you were going to do anything. It -all seemed ridiculously simple and easy, and she waited for her knight -to come with a quiet and assured certainty. - -At first she had attacked Miss Minns on the question, but had got little -response. Miss Minns was of the opinion that knights were absurd, and -that it did not do to expect anything in this world, and that in any -case young girls oughtn’t to think about such things, and that it came -of reading romances and stuff, with a final concession that it was “Love -that made the world go round,” and that “It was better to have loved and -lost than never to have loved at all.” - -All this was to little purpose, but it was of trivial importance, -because Janet was quite settled in her mind about the whole affair. She -had no ideal knight; he was quite vague, hidden in a cloud of glory, and -she did not want to see his face; but that he would come she was sure. - -But, afterwards, she gave her knight kingdoms and palaces and a -beautiful life in which she had some vague share, as of a worshipper -before a misty shrine. And he, indeed, was long in coming. She met no -one from one year’s end to another, and wistful gazing from her window -was of no use at all. She wished that she had other girls for company. -She saw them pass, sometimes, through the town, arm in arm; -fisher-girls, perhaps, or even ladies from the hotel, and she longed, -with an aching longing, to join them and tell them all that she was -thinking. - -Her father never seemed to consider that she might be lonely. He never -thought very much about her at all, and he was not on sufficiently good -terms with the people of the place to ask them to his home; he would not -have known what to do with them if he had had them there, and would have -probably played practical jokes, to their extreme discomfiture. - -And then Tony came. She did not see him with any surprise. She had known -that it was only a matter of waiting, and she had no doubt at all that -he was the knight in question. Her ignorance of the world prevented her -from realising that there were a great many other young men dressed in -the same way and with the same charming manners. From the first moment -that she saw him she took it for granted that they would marry and would -go away to some beautiful country, where they would live in the sunshine -for ever. And with it all she was, in a way, practical. She knew that it -would have to be a secret, that Miss Minns and her father must know -nothing about it, and that there would have to be plots and, perhaps, an -escape. That was all part of the game, and if there were no difficulties -there would be no fun. She had no scruples about the morality of -escaping from Miss Minns and her father. They neither of them loved her, -or if they did, they had not succeeded in making her love them, and she -did not think they would miss her very much. - -She was also very thankful to Providence for having sent her so charming -a knight. She loved every bit of him, from the crown of his head to the -sole of his foot, his curly hair, his eyes, his smile, his mouth, his -hands. Oh! he would fit into her background very handsomely. And -charming though he was, it never entered her head for a moment that he -was not in love with her. Of course he was! She had seen it in his eyes -from the very first minute. - -And so all the scruples, the maidenly modesty and the bashful surprise -that surround the love affairs of most of her sex were entirely absent. -It seemed to her like the singing of a lark in the sky or the murmur of -waves across the sand; something inevitable and perfectly, easily -natural. There might be difficulties and troubles, because there were -people like Miss Minns in the world, but they would pass away in time, -and it would be as though they had never existed. - -The only thing that puzzled her a little was Maradick. She did not -understand what he was doing there. Was he always coming whenever Tony -came? He was old like her father, but she thought he looked pleasant. -Certainly not a person to be afraid of, and perhaps even some one to -whom one could tell things. She liked his size and his smile and his -quiet way of talking. But still it was a nuisance his being there at -all. There were quite enough complications already with Miss Minns and -father without another elderly person. And why was Tony with him at all? -He was an old man, one of those dull, elderly people who might be nice -and kind but couldn’t possibly be any use as a friend. She tried to get -Miss Minns to solve the problem, but that lady murmured something about -“Birds of a feather,” and that it was always proper to pay calls in -twos, which was no use at all. - -So Janet gave up Maradick for the present with a sigh and a shake of the -head. But she was most blissfully happy. That country that had remained -so long without an inhabiter was solitary no longer, her dreams and -pictures moved before her now with life and splendour. She went about -her day with a light in her eyes, humming a little song, tender and -sympathetic with Miss Minns because she, poor thing, could not know how -glorious a thing it was, this love! - -I do not know whether Miss Minns had her suspicions. She must have -noticed Janet’s pleasant temper and gaiety, but she said nothing. As to -Morelli, there was no telling what he noticed. - -He returned to the house after his conversation with Punch in no -pleasant humour. Janet had been up since a very early hour; she never -could sleep when the sun was bright, and she was very happy. She had a -suspicion that Tony would come to-day. It was based on nothing very -certain, but she had dreamt that he would; and it was the right kind of -day for him to come on, when the sun was so bright and a butterfly had -swept through the window like the petal of a white rose blown by the -wind. - -And so she met her father with a laugh when he came in and led the way -gaily to breakfast. But in a moment she saw that something was wrong, -and, at the thought that one of his rages was sweeping over him and that -she would not be able to escape, her face grew very white and her lips -began to tremble. - -She knew the symptoms of it. He sat very quietly with his hands -crumbling the bread at his side; he was frowning, but very slightly, and -he spoke pleasantly about ordinary things. As a rule when he was like -this she crept away up to her room and locked her door, but now there -seemed no chance of escape. - -But she talked gaily and laughed, although her heart was beating so -loudly that she thought that he would hear it. - -“Miss Minns and I are going to walk over to Tregotha Point this -afternoon, father,” she said; “there are flowers there and we shall take -books. Only I shall be back for tea, and so we shall start early.” - -He said nothing, but looked at the tablecloth. She looked round the room -as though for a means of escape. It was all so cheerful that it seemed -to mock her, the red-tiled fireplace, the golden globe of the lamp, the -shining strip of blue sky beyond the window. - -“Tea, father?” The teapot trembled a little in her hand. She could not -talk; when the storm was approaching some actual presence seemed to come -from the clouds and place an iron grip upon her. It had been some while -since the last time and she had begun to hope that it might not happen -again, and now——She was afraid to speak lest her voice should shake. -The smile on her lips froze. - -“Well,” he said, looking at her across the table, “talk to me.” The look -that she knew so well came into his face; there was a little smile at -the corners of his mouth and his eyes stared straight in front of him as -though he were looking past her into infinite distances. - -“Well,” he said again, “why don’t you talk?” - -“I—have nothing to say,” she stammered, “we haven’t done anything.” - -And then suddenly the storm broke. He gave a little scream like a wild -animal, and, with one push of the hand, the table went over, crashing to -the ground. The crockery lay in shattered pieces on the blue carpet. -Janet crouched back against the wall, but he came slowly round the table -towards her. His back was bent a little and his head stretched forward -like an animal about to spring. - -She was crying bitterly, with her hands pressed in front of her face. - -“Please, father,” she said, “I haven’t done anything—I didn’t know—I -haven’t done anything.” - -She said it again and again between her tears. Morelli came over to her. -“There was a man,” he said between his teeth, “a man whom I saw this -morning, and he said things. Oh! if I had him here!” He laughed. “I -would kill him, here, with my hands. But you see, you shall never speak -to him again, you don’t go near him.” He spoke with passion. - -She did not answer. He shook her shoulder. “Well, speak, can’t you?” He -took her arm and twisted it, and then, apparently maddened by her -immobility and her tears, he struck her with his hand across the face. - -He let her sink to the floor in a heap, then for a moment he looked down -on her. There was absolute silence in the room, a shaft of light fell -through the window, caught a gleaming broken saucer on the floor, -lighted the red tiles and sparkled against the farther wall. Janet was -sobbing very quietly, crouching on the floor with her head in her hands. -He looked at her for a moment and then crept silently from the room. - -The stillness and peace and the twittering of a bird at the window -brought her to her senses. It had happened so often before that it did -not take her long to recover. She got up from her knees and wiped her -eyes; she pushed back her hair and put the pins in carefully. Then she -felt her cheek where he had struck her. It always happened like that, -suddenly, for no reason at all. She knew that it was due to no bitter -feeling against herself. Anything that came in his way at the time would -suffer, as Miss Minns had learnt. Doubtless she was up in her room now -with her door locked. - -But this occasion was different from all the others. When it had -happened before, quite the worst part of it had been the loneliness. It -had seemed such a terribly desolate world, and she had seen infinite, -dreary years stretching before her in which she remained, defenceless -and without a friend, at the mercy of his temper. But now that her -knight had come she did not mind at all. It would not be long before she -escaped altogether, and, in any case, he was there to be sorry for her -and comfort her. She would, of course, tell him all about it, because -she would tell him everything. She felt no anger against her father. He -was like that; she knew what it felt like to be angry, she had screamed -and stamped and bit when she was a little girl in just that kind of way. -She was rather sorry for him, because she knew he was always sorry -afterwards. And then it was such a relief that it was over. The worst -part of it was that sickening terror at first, when she did not know -what he might do. - -She set up the table again, collected the pieces of crockery from the -floor and carried them into the kitchen. She then wiped up the pool of -tea that had dripped on to the carpet. After this she realised that she -was hungry, that she had had nothing at all, and she sat down and made a -picnicky meal. By the end of it she was humming to herself as though -nothing had occurred. - -Later, she took her work and sat in the window. Her thoughts, as indeed -was always the case now, were with Tony. She made up stories for him, -imagined what he was doing at the moment and what the people were like -to whom he was talking. She still felt sure that he would come and see -them that afternoon. Then the door opened, and she knew that her father -had returned. She did not turn round, but sat with her back to the door, -facing the window. She could see a corner of the street with its shining -cobbles, a dark clump of houses, a strip of the sky. The noise of the -market came distantly up to her, and some cart rattled round the corner -very, very faintly; the sound of the mining-stamp swung like a hammer -through the air. - -She heard him step across the room and stand waiting behind her. She was -not afraid of him now; she knew that he had come back to apologise. She -hated that as much as the rage, it seemed to hurt just as badly. She -bent her head a little lower over her work. - -“Janet,” he spoke imploringly behind her. - -“Father!” She turned and smiled up at him. - -He bent down and kissed her. “Janet! dear, I’m so sorry. I really can’t -think why I was angry. You know I do get impatient sometimes, and that -man had made me angry by the things he said.” - -He stood away from her with his head hanging like a child who was -waiting to be punished. - -“No, father, please don’t.” She stood up and looked at him. “You know it -is very naughty of you, and after you promised so faithfully last time -that you wouldn’t get angry like that again. It’s no use promising if -you never keep it, you know. And then think of all the china you’ve -broken.” - -“Yes, I know.” He shook his head dolefully. “I don’t know what it is, my -dear. I never seem to get any better. And I don’t mean anything, you -know. I really don’t mean anything.” - -But she doubted that a little as she looked at him. She knew that, -although his rage might pass, he did not forget. She had known him -cherish things in his head long after they had passed from the other -man’s memory, and she had seen him take his revenge. Who was this man -who had insulted him? A sudden fear seized her. Supposing . . . - -“Father,” she said, looking up at him, “who was it said things to you -this morning that made you angry?” - -“Ah, never mind that now, dear,” he said, his lip curling a little. “We -will forget. See, I am sorry; you have forgiven me?” He sat down and -drew her to him. “Look! I am just like a child. I am angry, and then -suddenly it all goes.” He stroked her hair with his hand, and bent and -kissed her neck. “Where was it that I hit her? Poor darling! There, on -the cheek? Poor little cheek! But look! Hit me now hard with your fist. -Here on the cheek. I am a brute, a beast.” - -“No, father,” she laughed and pulled herself away from him, “It is -nothing! I have forgotten it already. Only, dear me! all the broken -china! Such expense!” - -“Well, dear, never mind the expense. I have a plan, and we will have a -lovely day. We will go into the wood with our lunch and will watch the -sea, and I will tell you stories, and will play to you. What! now, won’t -that be good fun?” - -His little yellow face was wreathed in smiles; he hummed a little tune -and his feet danced on the floor. He passed his hand through his hair so -that it all stood on end. “We’ll have such a game,” he said. - -She smiled. “Yes, father dear, that will be lovely. Only, we will be -back this afternoon, because perhaps——” - -“Oh! I know!” He laughed at her. “Callers! Why, yes, of course. We shall -be here if they come.” He chuckled to himself. “I am afraid, my dear, -you have been lonely all these years. I ought to have thought of it, to -give you companions.” Then he added after a little pause, “But he is a -nice young fellow, Mr. Gale.” - -She gave a little sigh of relief; then it was not he who had quarrelled -with her father that morning. “That will be splendid. I’ll go and get -lunch at once.” She bent down and kissed him, and then went singing out -of the room. - -He could, when he liked, be perfectly delightful, and he was going to -like that afternoon, she knew. He was the best fun in the world. Poor -thing! He would be hungry! He had no breakfast. And he sat in front of -the window, smiling and humming a little tune to himself. The sun -wrapped his body round with its heat, all the live things in the world -were calling to him. He saw in front of him endless stretches of -country, alive, shining in the sun. He stared in front of him. - -It was market-day, and the market-place was crowded. Janet loved it, and -her cheeks were flushed as she passed through the line of booths. As -they crossed in front of the tower she saw that some one was leaning -over the stall talking to the old fruit woman. Her heart began to beat -furiously; he was wearing no cap, and she heard his laugh. - -He turned round suddenly as though he knew who it was. The light -suddenly flamed in his eyes, and he came forward: - -“Good morning, Mr. Morelli,” he said. - -In all the crowded market-place she was the only thing that he saw. She -was dressed in a white muslin with red roses on it, and over her arm was -slung the basket with the lunch; her hair escaped in little golden curls -from under her broad hat. - -But she found that she didn’t know what to say. This was a great -surprise to her, because when she had thought about him in her room, -alone, she had always had a great deal to say, and a great many -questions to ask. - -But now she stood in the sun and hung her head. Morelli watched them -both. - -Tony stammered. “Good-morning, Miss Morelli. I—I can’t take off my cap -because I haven’t got one. Isn’t it a ripping day?” He held out his hand -and she took it, and then they both laughed. The old woman behind them -in her red peaked hat screamed, “A-pples and O-ranges! Fine ripe -grapes!” - -“We’re going out for a picnic, father and I,” said Janet at last. “We’ve -got lunch in this basket. It’s a day that you can’t be in doors, -simply!” - -“Oh! I know,” he looked hungrily at the basket, as though he would have -loved to have proposed coming as well. “Yes, it’s a great day.” Then he -looked at her and started. She had been crying. She was smiling and -laughing, but he could see that she had been crying. The mere thought of -it made his blood boil; who had made her cry? He looked quickly at -Morelli; was it he? Perhaps it was Miss Minns? or perhaps she wasn’t -well, but he must know if she were unhappy; he would find out. - -“I was thinking of coming to call this afternoon, Mr. Morelli,” he said, -“Maradick and I . . . but if you are going to spend the day in the -woods, another day——” - -“Oh, no,” said Morelli, smiling, “we shall be back again by four. We are -only going to have lunch. We should be delighted to see you, and your -friend.” Then they said good-bye, and Tony watched them as they turned -out of the market-place. They didn’t talk very much as they passed -through the town, they had, each of them, their own thoughts. Janet was -very happy; he was coming to tea, and they would be able to talk. But -how silly she was, she could suddenly think of a hundred things that she -would like to have said to him. They turned off the hard white road that -ran above the sea and passed along a narrow lane. It was deeply rutted -with cart-tracks, and the trees hung so thickly over it that it was -quite dark. It wound up the sides of a green hill and then dived -suddenly into the heart of a wood. Here there were pine trees, and a -broad avenue over which they passed crushing the needles under their -feet. The trees met in a green tapestry of colours above their heads, -and through it the sun twinkled in golden stars and broad splashes of -light. The avenue dwindled into a narrow path, and then suddenly it -ended in a round green knoll humped like the back of a camel. The grass -was a soft velvety green, and the trees stood like sentinels on every -side, but in front they parted and there was a wonderful view. The knoll -was at the top of the hill, and you could see straight down, above and -beyond the trees of the wood, the sea. To the right there was another -clearing, and a little cove of white sand and brown rocks shone in the -sun. There was perfect stillness, save for a little breeze that rocked -the trees so that they stirred like the breathing of some sleeper. - -Janet and her father always came to this place. Afterwards she was to -see a great many cities and countries, but this green wood always -remained to her the most perfect thing in the world. It was so still -that you could, if you held your breath, hear the tiny whisper of the -waves across the shingle and the murmur of the mining stamp. It was a -wonderful place for whispers; the trees, the sea, the birds, even the -flowers seemed to tell secrets, and Janet used to fancy that if she lay -there, silently, long enough, she would, like the man in the fairy tale, -hear what they were saying. She noticed that she always seemed to hear -more when she was with her father. She had gone there sometimes with -Miss Minns, and had wondered how she could be so fanciful. Nothing had -whispered at all, and Miss Minns had had a headache. But to-day -everything seemed to have a new meaning; her meeting with Tony had lent -it a colour, an intensity that it had not had before. It was as though -they all—the sea, the sky, the trees, the animals—knew that she had -got a knight and would like to tell her how glad they were. - -Morelli sat perched on the highest peak of the knoll with his legs -crossed beneath him. He was at his very best; gay, laughing, throwing -the pine needles like a child into the air, singing a little song. - -“Come here, my dear, and talk to me.” He made way for her beside him. -“Everything is singing to-day. There is a bird in a tree above us who -has just told me how happy he is. I hope you are happy, my dear.” - -“Yes, father, very.” She gave a little sigh of satisfaction and lay back -on the grass at his side. - -“Well, don’t be ashamed of showing it. Have your feelings and show them. -Never mind what they are, but don’t cover them as though you were afraid -that they would catch cold. Don’t mind feeling intensely, hurting -intensely, loving intensely. It is a world of emotion, not of sham.” - -She never paid any very deep attention when he talked about rules of -life. Existence seemed to her, at present, such an easy affair that -rules weren’t necessary; people made such a bother. - -She lay back and stared straight into the heart of the sky. Two little -clouds, like pillows, bulged against the blue; the hard sharp line of -the pines cut into space, and they moved together slowly like the soft -opening and closing of a fan. - -“I knew a place once like this,” said Morelli. “It was in Greece. A -green hill overlooking the sea, and on it a white statue; they came to -worship their god there.” - -“What is this talk of God?” she asked him, resting on one elbow and -looking up at him. “You have never told me, father, but of course I have -read and have heard people talk. Who is God?” - -She asked it with only a very languid interest. She had never speculated -at all about the future. The world was so wonderful, and there were such -a number of things all around her to think about, that discussion about -something that would affect her at the end of her life, when all the -world was dark and she was old and helpless, seemed absurd. She would -want the end to come then, when she was deaf and blind and cold; she -would not spoil the young colour and intensity of her life by thinking -about it. But with the sudden entrance of Tony the question came forward -again. They would not live for ever; life seemed very long to her, but -the time must come when they would die. And then? Who was this God? -Would He see to it that she and Tony were together afterwards? If so, -she would worship Him; she would bring Him flowers, and light candles as -Miss Minns did. As she sat there and heard the woods and the sea she -thought that the answer must be somewhere in them. He must have made -this colour and sound, and, if that were so, He could not be unkind. She -watched the two clouds; they had swollen into the shape of bowls, their -colour was pale cream, and the sun struck their outer edges into a very -faint gold. - -“Who is God?” she said again. - -Morelli looked at her. “There were gods once,” he said. “People were -faithful in those days, and they saw clearly. Now the world is gloomy, -because of the sin that it thinks that it has committed, or because -pleasure has been acid to the taste. Then they came with their songs and -flowers to the hill, and, with the sky at their head and the sea at -their feet, they praised the God whom they knew. Now——” He stared -fiercely in front of him. “Oh! these people!” he said. - -She did not ask him any more. She could not understand what he had said, -and she was afraid lest her questions should bring his fury back again. -But the question was there; many new questions were there, and she was -to spend her life in answering them. - -So they had lunch whilst the two clouds divided into three and danced -with white trailing garments across the sun; then again they were swans, -and vanished with their necks proudly curved into space. - -“Father,” said Janet, with an abstracted air, as though she was thinking -of some one else, “Do you think Mr. Gale handsome?” - -“Yes, dear,” he answered. “He’s young, very young, and that is worth all -the looks in the world.” - -“I think he is very handsome,” she said, staring in front of him. - -“Yes, dear, I know you do.” - -“You like him, father?” - -“Of course.” Morelli smiled. “I like to see you together.” - -“And Mr. Maradick, father? What do you think of him?” - -“Poor Mr. Maradick!” Morelli laughed. “He is going to have a bad time; -life comes late to some people.” - -“Yes, I like him,” said Janet, thoughtfully, “I know he’s kind, but he’s -old; he’s older than you are, father.” - -“He’ll be younger before he’s left Treliss,” said Morelli. - -After lunch he took his flute from his pocket. - -She lay motionless, with her arms behind her head; she became part of -the landscape; her white dress lay about her like a cloud, her hair -spread like sunlight over the grass, and her eyes stared, shining, into -the sky. He sat, with his legs crossed under him, on the swelling grass, -and stared at the tops of the trees and the sweep of the sea. No part of -him moved except his fingers, which twinkled on the flute; the tune was -a little gay dance that sparkled in the air and seemed to set all the -trees in motion, even the three little clouds came back again and lay -like monstrous white birds against the sky. - -The two figures were absorbed into the surrounding country. His brown -face and sharp nose seemed to belong to the ground on which he sat; the -roses on her dress seemed to grow about her, and her hair lay around her -like daffodils and primroses. The gay tune danced along, and the sun -rose high above their heads; a mist rose from the sea like a veil and, -shot with colour, blue and green, enveloped the woods. - -Then there were stealthy movements about the two figures. Birds, -thrushes, chaffinches, sparrows, hopped across the grass. A pigeon cooed -softly above his head; two rabbits peeped out from the undergrowth. They -grew bolder, and a sparrow, its head on one side, hopped on to Janet’s -dress. - -More rabbits came, and the pigeon, with a soft whirr of its wings, swept -down to Morelli’s feet. The grass was soon dotted with birds, a squirrel -ran down a tree-trunk and stayed, with its tail in the air, to listen. -The birds grew bolder and hopped on to Morelli’s knee; a sparrow stood -for a moment on Morelli’s head and then flew away. - -Janet showed no astonishment at these things. She had often seen her -father play to the animals before, and they had come. Suddenly he piped -a shrill, discordant note, and with a whirr of their wings the birds had -vanished and the rabbits disappeared. - -He put his flute into his pocket. - -“It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said. - -“Father,” she said as they went down the hill, “can other people do -that? Make the birds and animals come?” - -“No,” he said. - -“Why not? What is it that you do?” - -“It’s nothing that I do,” he said. “It’s what I am. Don’t you worry your -head about that, my dear. Only don’t say that anything’s impossible. -‘There’s more in Heaven and earth than is dreamed of in the philosophy’ -of those folks who think that they know such a lot. Don’t ever -disbelieve anything, my dear. Everything’s true, and a great deal more -as well.” - -Meanwhile Tony dragged a reluctant Maradick to tea. “They don’t want -me,” he said, “you’ll be making me hideously unpopular, Tony, if you -keep dragging me there.” - -“I told them you were coming,” said Tony resolutely. “And of course you -are. There are simply heaps of reasons. The plot’s thickening like -anything, and it’s absurd of you to pretend that you are not in it, -because you are, right up to your neck. And now I’ll give you my -reasons. In the first place there’s mother. At the picnic yesterday -Alice spotted that there was some one else; of course she will speak to -mother, probably has spoken already. As I have told you already, she has -perfect confidence in you, and as long as you are there it’s perfectly -right, but if you leave me she’ll begin to worry her head off. Then -again, there’s Janet herself. I want her to get to know you and trust -you. She’ll want some one older just as much as I do, probably more, -because she’s a girl and a frightful kid. Oh! rot! I’m no use at -explaining, and the situation’s jolly difficult; only how can she -possibly trust you and the rest of it, if she never sees you? And last -of all, there’s me. I want you to see how the thing’s going so that we -can talk about it. There’s something ‘up,’ I know, I could see this -morning that she’d been crying. I believe Morelli’s beastly to her or -something. Anyhow, you’re bound and pledged and everything, and you’re a -ripping old brick to be so decent about it,” at the end of which Tony, -breathless with argument and excitement seized Maradick by the arm and -dragged him away. - -But Maradick had a great deal to think about, and it was as much for -this reason as for any real reluctance to visit the Morellis that he -hesitated. - -And the tea-party was a great success. Everyone was in the very best of -humours, and the restraint that had been there a little on the first -occasion had now quite passed away. The sun poured into the room, and -shone so that everything burnt with colour. Maradick felt again how -perfect a setting it made for the two who were its centre, the -blue-tiled fireplace, the fantastic blue and white china on the walls, -the deep blue of the carpet set the right note for a background. On the -table the tea-things, the old silver teapot and milk jug, old red and -white plates and an enormous bowl of flaming poppies, gave the colour. -Then against the blue sky and dark brown roofs beyond the window was -Janet, with her golden hair and the white dress with the pink roses. -Miss Minns was the only dark figure in the room and she scarcely seemed -to matter. The only words that she spoke were to Maradick, “In for a -penny in for a pound,” she suddenly flung at him à propos of some story -of Epsom expenses, and then felt apparently that she had said too much -and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. - -Morelli was at his pleasantest, and showed how agreeable a companion he -could be. Maradick still felt the same distrust of him, but he was -forced to confess that he had never before met anyone so entertaining. -His knowledge of other countries seemed inexhaustible; he had been -everywhere, and had a way of describing things and places that brought -them straight with him into the room, so vivid were they. - -His philosophy of life in general appeared, this afternoon pleasant and -genial. He spoke of men who had failed with commiseration and a very -wide charity; he seemed to extend his affection to everyone, and said -with a smile that “It was only a question of knowing people; they were -all good fellows at heart.” - -And yet, through it all, Maradick felt as though he were, in some -unexplained way, playing at a game. The man was rather like a child -playing at being grown-up and talking as he had heard his elders do. He -had an impulse to say, “Look here, Morelli, it’s boring you dreadfully -talking like this, you’re not a bit interested, really and truly, and -we’re only playing this game as a background for the other two.” - -And, in fact, that was what it all came to; that was Maradick’s -immediate problem that must be answered before any of the others. What -was Morelli’s idea about his daughter and Tony? Morelli knew, of course, -perfectly well what was going on. You could see it in their eyes. And, -apparently, as far as Maradick could see, he liked it and wanted it to -continue. Why? Did he want them to marry? No, Maradick didn’t think that -he did. He watched them with a curious smile; what was it that he -wanted? - -And they, meanwhile, the incredible pair with their incredible youth, -were silent. It was through no constraint, but rather, perhaps, because -of their overflowing happiness. Tony smiled broadly at the whole world, -and every now and again his eyes fastened on her face with a look of -assured possession, in the glance with which she had greeted him he had -seen all that he wanted to know. - -Then she turned round to him. “Oh, Mr. Gale, you haven’t seen the -garden, our garden. You really must. It’s small, but it’s sweet. You -will come, Mr. Maradick?” - -Her father looked up at her with a smile. “You take Mr. Gale, dear. -We’ll follow in a moment.” And so they went out together. He thought -that he had never seen so sweet a place. The high walls were old red -brick, the lawn stretched the whole length, and around it ran a brown -gravelled path. In one corner was an enormous mulberry leaning heavily -to one side, and supported by old wooden stakes and held together by -bands of metal. Immediately beneath the wall, and around the length of -the garden, was a flower bed filled with pansies and hollyhocks and -nasturtiums; it was a blaze of colour against the old red of the wall -and behind the green of the lawn. - -Underneath the mulberry tree was a seat, and they sat down close enough -to make Tony’s heart beat very hard indeed. - -“Oh, it’s perfect!” he said with a sigh. - -“Yes, it’s very lovely, isn’t it? I’ve never known any other garden, and -now you don’t know how nice it is to have some one to show it to. I’ve -never had anyone to show it to before.” - -The old house looked lovely from the garden. Its walls bulged towards -them in curious curves and angles, it seemed to hang over the lawn like -a protecting deity. The light of the sun caught its windows and they -flamed red and gold. - -“You like having me to show it to?” he said. - -“Of course,” she answered. - -They were both suddenly uncomfortable. Everything around and about them -seemed charged with intensest meaning. They began, each of them, to be -more uncertain about the other. Perhaps after all they had read the -signs wrongly. Janet suddenly reflected that she had known no other -young men, and, after all, they might all have that habit of smiling and -looking pleasant. It might be merely politeness, and probably meant -nothing at all. She had been much too hasty; she took a stolen glance at -him and fancied that he looked as though he were a little bored. - -“It’s much nicer,” she said a little coldly, “in the summer than the -winter.” - -He looked at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “I say,” he -said, “don’t let’s start being polite to each other, we’re friends. You -know we made a compact the other day. We’ve got such a lot to talk about -that we mustn’t waste time.” - -“Oh! I’m so glad,” she sighed with relief; “you see I know so few people -that I didn’t a bit know whether I was doing the right sort of thing. -You looked a very little bit as though you were bored.” - -“By Jove!” he said. “I should think not. Do you know, it’s the -rippingest thing in the world coming and talking to you, and I’d been -wondering ever since last time how soon it would be before I could come -and talk to you again. And now, if you like my coming, it’s simply -splendid.” - -“Well, please come often,” she said, smiling. “I haven’t got many -friends, and we seem to think the same about such lots of things.” - -“Well, I love this place and this garden and everything, and I expect -that I shall come often.” - -“Oh! I think you’re wonderful!” she said. - -“No, please don’t.” He bent towards her and touched her hand. “That’s -only because you haven’t seen other people much. I’m most awfully -ordinary, quite a commonplace sort of chap. I’d be awfully sick with -myself really if I had time to think about it, but there’s such a lot -going on that one simply can’t bother. But you’ll do me a lot of good if -you’ll let me come.” - -“_I!_” She opened her eyes wide. “How funny you are! I’m no use to -anybody.” - -“We’re both most fearfully modest,” he said, smiling, “and when people -say how rotten they are they generally mean just the opposite. But I -don’t, really. I mean it absolutely.” Then he lowered his voice. “We’re -friends, aren’t we?” - -“Yes,” she said, very softly. - -“Always?” - -“Yes, always.” - -His hand took hers very gently. At the touch of her fingers his heart -began suddenly to pound his breast so that he could not hear, a quiver -shook his body, he bent his head. - -“I’m an awfully poor sort of fellow,” he said in a whisper. - -The mulberry tree, the lawn, the shining windows, the flowers caught the -tone and for one moment fell like a burning cloud about the two, then -the light died away. - - * * * * * - -In the green wood, on the knoll, a little breeze played with the tops of -the trees; down, far below, the white beach shone in the sun and the -waves curled in dancing rows across the blue. - -Two rabbits fancied for a moment that they heard the tune that had -charmed them earlier in the day. They crept out to look, but there was -no one on the knoll. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - - IN WHICH EVERYONE FEELS THE AFTER EFFECT OF - THE PICNIC - -Meanwhile the picnic remained, for others besides Maradick, an -interpretation. Lady Gale sat on the evening of the following day -watching the sun sink behind the silver birch. She had dressed for -dinner earlier than usual, and now it was a quarter to eight and she was -still alone in the gradually darkening room. - -Mrs. Lester came in. She was dressed in pale blue, and she moved with -that sure confidence that a woman always has when she knows that she is -dressed with perfect correctness. - -“My dear,” she said, bending down and kissing Lady Gale, “I’m perfectly -lovely to-night, and it isn’t the least use telling me that it’s only -vanity, because I know perfectly well I’m the real right thing, as Henry -James would say if he saw me.” - -“I can’t see, dear,” said Lady Gale, “but from the glimpse I’ve got I -like the dress.” - -“Oh, it’s perfection! The only thing is that it seems such a waste down -here! There’s no one who cares in the least whether you’re a fright or -no.” - -“There’s at any rate, Fred,” said Lady Gale. - -“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Lester scornfully. “He would never see if you -stuck it right under his nose. He can dress his people in his novels, -but he never has the remotest notion what his wife’s got on.” - -“He knows more than you think,” said Lady Gale. - -“Oh, I know Fred pretty well; besides,” Mrs. Lester added, smiling a -little, “he doesn’t deserve to have anything done for him just now. He’s -been very cross and nasty these few days.” - -She was sitting on a stool at Lady Gale’s feet with her hands clasped -round her knees, her head was flung back and her eyes shining; she -looked rather like a cross, peevish child who had been refused something -that it wanted. - -Lady Gale sighed for a moment and looked out into the twilight; in the -dark blue of the sky two stars sparkled. “Take care of it, dear,” she -said. - -“Of what?” said Mrs. Lester, looking up. - -“Love, when you’ve got it.” Lady Gale put her hand out and touched Mrs. -Lester’s arm. “You know perfectly well that you’ve got Fred’s. Don’t -play with it.” - -“Fred cares about his books,” Mrs. Lester said slowly. “I don’t think -that he cares the very least about me.” - -“Oh, you know that’s untrue. You’re cross just now and so is he, and -both of you imagine things. But down in your hearts you are absolutely -sure of it.” - -Mrs. Lester shrugged her shoulders. - -“I’m afraid that I may be tiresome,” said Lady Gale gently, “but, my -dear, I’ve lived such a long time and I know that it’s sufficiently rare -to get the right man. You’ve got him, and you’re so certain that he’s -right that you think that you can play with it, and it’s dangerous.” - -“I’m not a bit certain,” said Mrs. Lester. - -“Oh, you are, of course you are. You know that Fred’s devoted to you and -you’re devoted to Fred. Only it’s rather dull that everything should go -along so soberly and steadily, and you think that you’ll have some fun -by quarrelling and worrying him. You’re piqued sometimes because you -don’t think that he pays you enough attention and you imagine that other -men will pay you more, and he is very patient.” - -“Oh, you don’t know how annoying he can be sometimes,” said Mrs. Lester, -shaking her head. “When he shuts himself up in his stupid books and -isn’t aware that I’m there at all.” - -“Of course I know,” said Lady Gale. “All men are annoying and so are all -women. Anyone that we’ve got to live with is bound to be; that’s the -whole point of rubbing along. Marriage seems stupid enough and dull -enough and annoying enough, but as a matter of fact it would be ever so -much worse if the man wasn’t there at all; yes, however wrong the man -may be. We’ve got to learn to stick it; whether the _it_ is a pimple on -one’s nose or a husband.” - -“Oh, it’s so easy to talk.” Mrs. Lester shook her shoulders impatiently. -“One has theories and it’s very nice to spread them out, but in practice -it’s quite different. Fred’s been perfectly beastly these last few -days.” - -“Well,” said Lady Gale, “don’t run a risk of losing him. I mean that -quite seriously. One thinks that one’s got a man so safely that one can -play any game one likes, and then suddenly the man’s gone; and then, my -dear, you’re sorry.” - -“You’re dreadfully serious to-night. I wanted to be amused, and instead -of that you speak as if I were on the verge of something dreadful. I’m -not a bit. It’s only Fred that’s cross.” - -“Of course I don’t think you’re on the verge of anything dreadful.” Lady -Gale bent down and kissed her. “It’s only that Treliss is a funny place. -It has its effect—well, it’s rather hard to say—but on our nerves, I -suppose. We are all of us excited and would do things, perhaps, here -that we shouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. Things look differently -here.” She paused a moment, then she added, “It’s all rather worrying.” - -“Dear, I’m a pig,” said Mrs. Lester, leaning over and kissing her. -“Don’t bother about me and my little things. But why are you worrying? -Is it Tony?” - -“Well, I suppose it is,” said Lady Gale slowly; “it’s quite silly of me, -but we’re all of us rather moving in the dark. Nobody knows what anyone -else is doing. And then there’s Alice.” - -“What exactly has she got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Lester. - -“My dear, she has everything.” Lady Gale sighed. You must have heard -when you were in town that she was, more or less, ‘allotted’ to Tony. Of -course it hadn’t actually come to any exact words, but it was very -generally understood. I myself hadn’t any doubt about the matter. They -were to come down here to fix it all up. As a matter of fact, coming -down here has undone the whole thing.” - -“Yes, of course I’d heard something,” said Mrs. Lester. “As a matter of -fact I had been wondering rather. Of course I could see that it wasn’t, -so to speak, coming off.” - -“No. Something’s happened to Tony since he came down, and to Alice too, -for that matter. But at first I didn’t worry; in fact, quite between -ourselves, I was rather glad. In town they were neither of them very -keen about it; it was considered a suitable thing and they were going to -fall in with it, and they were quite nice enough, both of them, to have -carried it on all right afterwards. But that wasn’t the kind of marriage -that I wanted for Tony. He’s too splendid a fellow to be lost and -submerged in that kind of thing; it’s too ordinary, too drab. And so, -when he came down here, I saw at once that something had happened, and I -was glad.” - -“I understand,” said Mrs. Lester, her eyes shining. - -“But I asked him nothing. That has always been our plan, that he shall -tell me if he wants to, but otherwise I leave it alone. And it has -worked splendidly. He has always told me. But this time it is rather -different. As soon as he told me anything I should have to act. If he -told me who the girl was I should have to see her, and then you see, I -must tell my husband. As soon as I know about it I become the family, -and I _hate_ the family.” - -Mrs. Lester could feel Lady Gale’s hand quiver on her arm. “Oh, my dear, -you don’t know what it has always been. Before Tony came life was a lie, -a lie from the very beginning. I was forced to eat, to sleep, to marry, -to bear children, as the family required. Everything was to be done with -one eye on the world and another on propriety. I was hot, impetuous in -those days, now I am getting old and calm enough, God knows; I have -learnt my lesson, but oh! it took some learning. Rupert was like the -rest; I soon saw that there was no outlet there. But then Tony came, and -there was something to live for. I swore that he should live his life as -he was meant to live it, no square pegs in round holes for him, and so I -have watched and waited and hoped. And now, at last, romance has come to -him. I don’t know who she is; but you’ve seen, we’ve all seen, the -change in him, and he shall seize it and hold it with both hands, only, -you see, I must not know. As soon as I know, the thing becomes official, -and then there’s trouble. Besides, I trust him. I know that he won’t do -anything rotten because he’s Tony. I was just a little bit afraid that -he might do something foolish, but I’ve put Mr. Maradick there as guard, -and the thing’s safe.” - -“Mr. Maradick?” asked Mrs. Lester. - -“Yes. Tony’s devoted to him, and he has just that stolid matter-of-fact -mind that will prevent the boy from doing anything foolish. Besides, I -like him. He’s not nearly so stupid as he seems.” - -“I don’t think he seems at all stupid,” said Mrs. Lester, “I think he’s -delightful. But tell me, if they were neither of them very keen and the -thing’s off, why are you worried? Surely it is the very best thing that -could possibly happen.” - -“Ah! that was before they came down.” Lady Gale shook her head. -“Something’s happened to Alice. Since she’s been down here she’s fallen -in love with Tony. Yes, wildly. I had been a little afraid of it last -week, and then last night she came to me and spoke incoherently about -going away and hating Treliss and all sorts of things jumbled up -together and then, of course, I saw at once. It is really very strange -in a girl like Alice. I used to think that I never knew anyone more -self-contained and sensible, but now I’m afraid that she’s in for a bad -time.” - -“If one only knew,” said Mrs. Lester, “what exactly it is that Tony _is_ -doing; we’re all in the dark. Of course, Mr. Maradick could tell us.” -She paused for a moment, and then she said suddenly: “Have you thought -at all of the effect it may be having on Mr. Maradick? All this -business.” - -“Being with Tony, you mean?” said Lady Gale. - -“Yes, the whole affair. He’s middle-aged and solid, of course, but he -seems to me to have—how can one put it?—well, considerable -inclinations to be young again. You know one can’t be with Tony without -being influenced, and he _is_ influenced, I think.” - -Lady Gale put her hand on the other’s sleeve. “Millie,” she said very -earnestly, “look here. Leave him alone. I mean that seriously, dear. -He’s not a man to be played with, and it isn’t really worth the candle. -You love Fred and Fred loves you; just stick to that and don’t worry -about anything else.” - -Mrs. Lester laughed. “How perfectly absurd! As if I cared for Mr. -Maradick in that kind of way! Why, I’ve only known him a few days, and, -anyway, it’s ridiculous!” - -“I don’t know,” said Lady Gale, “this place seems to have been playing -tricks with all of us. I’m almost afraid of it; I wish we were going -away.” - -They said no more then, but the conversation had given Lady Gale -something more to think about. - -Rupert, his father and Alice came in together. It was half-past eight -and quite time to go down. Sir Richard was, as usual, impatient of all -delay, and so they went down without waiting for Tony and Mr. Lester. -The room was not very full when they came in; most people had dined, but -the Maradicks were there at their usual table by the window. The two -little girls were sitting straight in their chairs with their eyes fixed -on their plates. - -Mrs. Lester thought that Alice Du Cane looked very calm and -self-possessed, and wondered whether Lady Gale hadn’t made a mistake. -However, Tony would come in soon and then she would see. - -“You can imagine what it’s like at home,” she said as she settled -herself in her chair and looked round the room. “Thick, please” (this to -the waiter). “Fred never knows when a meal ought to begin, never. He -must always finish a page or a sentence or something, and the rest of -the world goes hang. Alice, my dear” (she smiled at her across the -table), “never marry an author.” - -Her blue dress was quite as beautiful as she thought it was, and it -suited her extraordinarily well. Mrs. Lester’s dresses always seemed -perfectly natural and indeed inevitable, as though there could never, by -any possible chance, have been anything at that particular moment that -would have suited her better. She did not spend very much money on dress -and often made the same thing do for a great many different occasions, -but she was one of the best-dressed women in London. - -Little Mr. Bannister, the landlord, rolled round the room and spoke to -his guests. This was a function that he performed quite beautifully, -with an air and a grace that was masterly in its combination of landlord -and host. - -He flattered Sir Richard, listened to complaints, speculated about the -weather, and passed on. - -“Oh, dear! it’s so hot!” said Lady Gale, “let’s hurry through and get -outside. I shall stifle in here.” - -But Sir Richard was horrified at the idea of hurrying through. When your -meals are the principal events of the day you don’t intend to hurry -through them for anybody. - -Then Tony came in. He stopped for a moment at the Maradicks’ table and -said something to Maradick. As he came towards his people everyone -noticed his expression. He always looked as though he found life a good -thing, but to-night he seemed to be alive with happiness. They had seen -Tony pleased before, but never anything like this. - -“You look as if you’d found something,” said Rupert. - -“Sorry I’m late,” said Tony. “No soup, thanks, much too hot for soup. -What, father? Yes, I know, but I hurried like anything, only a stud -burst and then I couldn’t find a sock, and then—Oh! yes, by the way, -Fred says he’s awfully sorry, but he’ll be down in a minute. He never -noticed how late it was.” - -“He never does,” said Mrs. Lester, moving impatiently. - -“You can forgive a man anything if he writes ‘To Paradise,’” said Tony. -“Hullo, Alice, where on earth have you been all day? I looked for you -this morning and you simply weren’t to be found; skulking in your tent, -I suppose. But why women should always miss the best part of the day by -sticking in their rooms till lunch——” - -“I overslept,” she said, laughing. “It was after the picnic and the -thunder and everything.” She smiled across the table quite composedly at -him, and Mrs. Lester wondered at her self-possession. She had watched -her face when he came in, and she knew now beyond all possible doubt. - -“Poor thing,” she said to herself, “she is in for a bad time!” - -The Maradicks had left the room, the Gales were almost alone; the silver -moon played with the branches of the birch trees, the lights from the -room flung pools and rivers of gold across the paths, the flowers slept. -Sir Richard finished his “poire Melba” and grunted. - -“Let’s have our coffee outside,” said Lady Gale. Outside in the old spot -by the wall Tony found Maradick. - -“I say,” he whispered, “is it safe, do you suppose, to be so happy?” - -“Take it while you can,” said Maradick. “But it won’t be all plain -sailing, you mustn’t expect that. And look here, Tony, things are going -on very fast. I am in a way responsible. I want to know exactly what you -intend to do.” - -“To do?” said Tony. - -“Yes. I want it put down practically in so many words. I’m here to look -after you. Lady Gale trusts me and is watching me. I _must_ know!” - -“Why! I’m going to marry her of course. You dear old thing, what on -earth do you suppose? Of course I don’t exactly know that she cares—in -that sort of way, I mean. She didn’t say anything in the garden this -afternoon, in so many words. But I think that I understood, though of -course a fellow may be wrong; but anyhow, if she doesn’t care now she -will in a very little time. But I say, I haven’t told you the best of it -all. I believe old Morelli’s awfully keen about it. Anyhow, to-day when -we were talking to Miss Minns he spoke to me and said that he was -awfully glad that I came, that it was so good for Janet having a young -friend, and that he hoped that I would come and see her as often as I -could. And then he actually said that I might take her out one afternoon -for a row, that she would like it and it would be good for her.” - -“I don’t understand him,” said Maradick, shaking his head. “I don’t know -what he wants.” - -“Oh, it’s obvious enough,” said Tony, “he thinks that it will be a good -match. And I think he wants to get rid of her.” - -“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,” said Maradick; “I wish I -did. But to come back to the main question, what do you mean to do?” - -“Well,” said Tony, feeling in his pocket, “look here, I’ve written a -letter. I didn’t see why one should waste time. I’ll read it to you.” He -stepped out of the shadow into the light from one of the windows and -read it:— - - Dear Miss Morelli, - - Your father suggested this afternoon that you might come for a - row one day. There’s no time like the present, so could you - possibly come to-morrow afternoon (Thursday)? I should suggest - rather late, say four, because it’s so frightfully hot earlier. - I’ll bring tea. If Miss Minns and your father cared to come too - it would be awfully jolly. - - Yours sincerely - Anthony Gale. - - PS.—Will you be on the beach by Morna Pool about four? - -“There,” he said as he put it back, “I think that will do. Of course -they won’t come. It would be perfectly dreadful if they did. But they -won’t. I could see that in his face.” - -“Well, and then?” - -“Oh, then! Well, I suppose, one day or other, I shall ask her.” - -“And after that?” - -“Oh, then I shall ask Morelli.” - -“And if he says no.” - -“But he won’t.” - -“I don’t know. I should think it more than likely. You won’t be able to -say that your parents have consented.” - -“No. I shouldn’t think he’d mind about that.” - -“Well, it’s his only daughter.” Maradick laid his hand on Tony’s -shoulder. “Look here, Tony, we’ve got to go straight. Let’s look at the -thing fair and square. If your people and her people consented there’d -be no question about it. But they won’t. Your people never will and -Morelli’s not likely to. Then you must either give the whole thing up or -do it secretly. I say, give it up.” - -“Give it up?” said Tony. - -“Yes, there’ll be lots of trouble otherwise. Go away, leave for -somewhere or other to-morrow. You can think of plenty of explanations. I -believe it’s this place as much as anything else that’s responsible for -the whole business. Once you’re clear of this you’ll see the whole thing -quite plainly and thank God for your escape. But if, after knowing a -girl a week, you marry her in defiance of everyone wiser and better than -yourself, you’ll rue the day, and be tied to some one for life, some one -of whom you really know nothing.” - -“Poor old Maradick!” Tony laughed. “You’ve got to talk like that, I -know; it’s your duty so to do. But I never knew anyone say it so -reluctantly; you’re really as keen about it as I am, and you’d be most -frightfully sick if I went off to-morrow. Besides, it’s simply not to be -thought of. I’d much rather marry her and find it was a ghastly mistake -than go through life feeling that I’d missed something, missed the best -thing there was to have. It’s missing things, not doing them wrong, that -matters in life.” - -“Then you’ll go on anyhow?” said Maradick. - -“Anyhow,” said Tony, “I’m of age. I’ve got means of my own, and if she -loves me then nothing shall stop me. If necessary, we’ll elope.” - -“Dear me,” said Maradick, shaking his head, “I really oughtn’t to be in -it at all. I told you so from the beginning. But as you’ll go on whether -I’m there or no, I suppose I must stay.” - -The night had influenced Mrs. Lester. She sat under the birches in the -shadow with her blue dress like a cloud about her. She felt very -romantic. The light in Tony’s eyes at dinner had been very beautiful. -Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to get some of that romance back again! -During most of the year she was an exceedingly sane and level-headed -person. The Lesters were spoken of in London as an ideal couple, as fond -of each other as ever, but with none of that silly sentiment. And so for -the larger part of the year it was; and then there came suddenly a -moment when she hated the jog-trot monotony of it all, when she would -give anything to regain that fire, that excitement, that fine beating of -the heart. To do her justice, she didn’t in the least mind about the -man, indeed she would have greatly preferred that it should have been -her husband; she was much more in love with Romance, Sentiment, Passion, -fine abstract things with big capital letters, than any one person; -only, whilst the mood was upon her, she must discover somebody. It was -no use being romantic to the wind or the stars or the trees. - -It really amounted to playing a game, and if Fred would consent to play -it with her it would be the greatest fun; but then he wouldn’t. He had -the greatest horror of emotional scenes, and was always sternly -practical with advice about hot-water bottles and not sitting in a -draught. He did not, she told herself a hundred times a day, understand -her moods in the least. He had never let her help him the least little -bit in his work, he shut her out; she tossed her head at the stars, -gathered her blue dress about her, and went up to bed. - -The bedroom seemed enormous, and the shaded electric light left caverns -and spaces of darkness; the enormous bed in the middle of the room -seemed without end or boundary. She heard her husband in the -dressing-room, and she sat down in front of her glass with a sigh. - -“You can go, Ferris,” she said to her maid, “I’ll manage for myself -to-night.” - -She began to brush her hair; she was angry with the things in the room, -everything was so civilised and respectable. The silver on the -dressing-table, a blue pincushion, the looking-glass; the blue dress, -hanging over the back of a chair, seemed in its reflexion to trail -endlessly along the floor. She brushed her hair furiously; it was very -beautiful hair, and she wondered whether Fred had ever noticed how -beautiful it was. Oh, yes! he’d noticed it in the early days; she -remembered how he had stroked it and what nice things he had said. Ah! -those early days had been worth having! How exciting they had been! Her -heart beat now at the remembrance of them. - -She heard the door of the dressing-room close, and Fred came in. He -yawned; she glanced up. He was a little shrimp of a man certainly, but -he looked rather nice in his blue pyjamas. He was brown, and his grey -eyes were very attractive. Although she did not know it, she loved every -inch of him from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, but, just -now, she wanted something that he had decided, long ago, was bad for -her. He had made what he would have called a complete study of her -nervous system, treating her psychology as he would have treated the -heroine of one of his own novels. He was quite used to her fits of -sentiment and he knew that if he indulged her in the least the complaint -was aggravated and she was, at once, highly strung and aggressively -emotional. His own love for her was so profound and deep that this -“billing and cooing” seemed a very unimportant and trivial affair, and -he always put it down with a firm hand. They mustn’t be children any -longer; they’d got past that kind of thing. There were scenes, of -course, but it only lasted for a very short time, and then she was quite -all right again. He never imagined her flinging herself into anyone else -because he would not give her what she wanted. He was too sure of her -affection for him. - -He had noticed that these attacks of “nerves,” as he called them, were -apt to come at Treliss, and he had therefore rather avoided the place, -but he found that it did, in some curious way, affect him also, and -especially his work. The chapters that he wrote at Treliss had a rich, -decorated colour that he could not capture in any other part of the -world. Perhaps it was the medieval “feeling” of the place, the gold and -brown of the roofs and rocks, the purple and blue of the sea and sky; -but it went, as he knew, deeper than that. That spirit that influenced -and disturbed his wife influenced also his work. - -They had been quarrelling for two days, and he saw with relief her smile -as he came into the room. Their quarrels disturbed his work. - -“Come here, Fred. Don’t yawn; it’s rude. I’ve forgiven you, although you -have been perfectly hateful these last few days. I think it’s ripping of -me to have anything to do with you. But, as a matter of fact, you’re not -a bad old thing and you look rather sweet in blue pyjamas.” - -She laid her hand on his arm for a moment and then took his hand. He -looked at her rather apprehensively; it might mean simply that it was -the end of the quarrel, but it might mean that she had one of her moods -again. - -“I say, old girl,” he said, smiling down at her, “I’m most awfully -sleepy. I don’t know what there is about this place, but I simply can’t -keep awake. It’s partly the weather, I suppose. But anyhow, if you don’t -awfully mind I think I’ll go off to sleep. I’m jolly glad you aren’t -angry any more. I know I was rather silly, but the book’s a bit of a -bother just now. . . .” - -He yawned again. - -“No, you _shan’t_ go to bed just yet, you sleepy old thing. I really -don’t feel as though I’d seen anything of you at all this week. And I -want to hear all about everything, all about the book. You haven’t told -me a thing.” - -He moved his hand. “I say, my dear, you’ll be getting the most frightful -cold sitting in a draught like that. You’d much better come to bed and -we’ll talk to-morrow.” - -But she smiled at him. “No, Fred, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to -give you a sermon. You haven’t been a bit nice to me all this time here. -I know I’ve been horrid, but then that’s woman’s privilege; and you know -a woman’s only horrid because she wants a man to be nice, and I wanted -you to be nice. This summer weather and everything makes it seem like -those first days, the honeymoon at that sweet little place in -Switzerland, you remember. That night . . .” She sighed and pressed his -hand. - -He patted her hand. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Do you suppose I -shall ever forget it? We’ll go out to-morrow somewhere and have an -afternoon together alone. Without these people hanging round. I ought to -get the chapter finished to-morrow morning.” - -He moved back from the chair. - -“What chapter, dear?” She leaned back over the chair, looking up in his -face. “You know, I wish you’d let me share your work a little. I don’t -know how many years we haven’t been married now, and you’ve always kept -me outside it. A wife ought to know about it. Just at first you did tell -me things a little and I was so frightfully interested. And I’m sure I -could help you, dear. There are things a woman knows.” - -He smiled at the thought of the way that she would help him. He would -never be able to show her the necessity of doing it all alone, both for -him and for her. That part of his life he must keep to himself. He -remembered that he had thought before their marriage that she would be -able to help. She had seemed so ready to sympathise and understand. But -he had speedily discovered the hopelessness of it. Not only was she of -no assistance, but she even hindered him. - -She took the feeble, the bad parts of the book and praised; she handled -his beautiful delicacy, the so admirably balanced sentences, the little -perfect expressions that had flown to him from some rich Paradise where -they had waited during an eternity of years for some one to use -them—she had taken these rare treasures of his and trampled on them, -flung them to the winds, demanded their rejection. - -She had never for a moment seen his work at all; the things that she had -seen had not been there, the things that she had not seen were the only -jewels that he possessed. The discovery had not pained him; he had not -loved her for _that_, the grasping and sharing of his writing, but for -the other things that were there for him, just as charmingly as before. -But he could not bear to have his work touched by the fingers of those -who did not understand. When people came and asked him about it and -praised it just because it was the thing to do, he felt as though some -one had flung some curtain aside and exposed his body, naked, to a -grinning world. - -And it was this, in a lesser degree, that she did. She was only asking, -like the rest, because it was the thing to do, because she would be able -to say to the world that she helped him; she did not care for the thing, -its beauty and solemnity and grace, she did not even see that it _was_ -beautiful, solemn, or graceful. - -“Never mind my work, dear,” he said. “One wants to fling it off when -one’s out of it. You don’t want to know about the book. Why, I don’t -believe you’ve ever read ‘To Paradise’ right through; now, have you?” - -“Why, of course, I _loved_ it, although there _were_, as a matter of -fact, things that I could have told you about women. Your heroine, for -instance——” - -He interrupted hurriedly. “Well, dear, let’s go to bed now. We’ll talk -to-morrow about anything you like.” He moved across the room. - -She looked angrily into the glass. She could feel that little choke in -her throat and her eyes were burning. She tapped the table impatiently. - -“I think it’s a little hard,” she said, “that one’s husband should -behave as if one were a complete stranger, or, worse still, an ordinary -acquaintance. You might perhaps take more interest in a stranger. I -don’t think I want very much, a little sympathy and some sign of -affection.” - -He was sitting on the bed. “That’s all right, dear, only you must admit -that you’re a little hard to understand. Here during the last two days -you’ve been as cross as it’s possible for anyone to be about nothing at -all, and then suddenly you want one to slobber. You go up and down so -fast that it’s simply impossible for an ordinary mortal to follow you.” - -“Isn’t that charming?” she said, looking at the blue pincushion, “such a -delightful way to speak to one’s wife.” Then suddenly she crossed over -to him. “No, dear. I didn’t mean that really, it was silly of me. Only I -do need a little sympathy sometimes. Little things, you know, matter to -us women; we remember and notice.” - -“That’s all right.” He put his arm round her neck and kissed her, then -he jumped into bed. “We’ll talk to-morrow.” He nestled into the clothes -with a little sigh of satisfaction; in a moment he was snoring. - -She sat on the bed and stared in front of her. Her hair was down and she -looked very young. Most of the room was in shadow, but her -dressing-table glittered under the electric light; the silver things -sparkled like jewels, the gleam fell on the blue dress and travelled -past it to the wall. - -She swung her feet angrily. How dare he go to sleep all in a moment in -that ridiculous manner? His kiss had seemed a step towards sentiment, -and now, in a moment, he was snoring. Oh! that showed how much he cared! -Why had she ever married him? - -At the thought of the splendid times that she might have been having -with some one else, with some splendid strong man who could take her in -his arms until she could scarcely breathe, some one who would understand -her when she wanted to talk and not go fast off to sleep, some one, -well, like Mr. Maradick, for instance, her eyes glittered. - -She looked at the room, moved across the floor and switched off the -lights. She crept into bed, moving as far away from her husband as -possible. He didn’t care—nobody cared—she belonged to nobody in the -world. She began to sob, and then she thought, of the picnic; well, he -had cared and understood. He would not have gone to sleep . . . soon she -was dreaming. - -And the other person upon whom the weather had had some effect was Mrs. -Maradick. It could not be said that weather, as a rule, affected her at -all, and perhaps even now things might be put down to the picnic; but -the fact remains that for the first time in her selfish little life she -was unhappy. She had been wounded in her most sensitive spot, her -vanity. It did not need any very acute intelligence to see that she was -not popular with the people in the hotel. The picnic had shown it to her -quite conclusively, and she had returned in a furious passion. They had -been quite nice to her, of course, but it did not need a very subtle -woman to discover their real feelings. Fifteen years of Epsom’s -admiration had ill-prepared her for a harsh and unsympathetic world, and -she had never felt so lonely in her life before. She hated Lady Gale and -Mrs. Lester bitterly from the bottom of her heart, but she would have -given a very great deal, all her Epsom worshippers and more, for some -genuine advance on their part. - -She was waiting now in her room for her husband to come in. She was -sitting up in bed looking very diminutive indeed, with her little sharp -nose and her bright shining eyes piercing the shadows; she had turned -out the lights, except the one by the bed. She did not know in the least -what she was going to say to him, but she was angry and sore and lonely; -she was savage with the world in general and with James in particular. -She bit her lips and waited. He came in softly, as though he expected to -find her asleep, and then when he saw her light he started. His bed was -by the window and he moved towards it. Then he stopped and saw her -sitting up in bed. - -“Emmy! You still awake!” - -He looked enormous in his pyjamas; he could see his muscles move beneath -the jacket. - -“Yes,” she said, “I want to talk to you.” - -“Oh! must we? Now?” he said. “It seems very late.” - -“It’s the only opportunity that one gets nowadays,” she said, her eyes -flaring, “you are so much engaged.” It made her furious to see him -looking so clean and comfortably sleepy. - -“Engaged?” he said. - -“Oh! we needn’t go into that,” she answered. “One doesn’t really expect -to see anything of one’s husband in these modern times, it isn’t the -thing!” - -He didn’t remind her that during the last fifteen years she hadn’t cared -very much whether he were lonely or not. He looked at her gravely. - -“Don’t let’s start that all over again now,” he said. “I would have -spent the whole time with you if you hadn’t so obviously shown me that -you didn’t want me. You can hardly have forgotten already what you said -the other day.” - -“Do you think that’s quite true?” she said, looking up at him; she was -gripping the bedclothes in her hands. “Don’t you think that it’s a -little bit because there’s some one else who did, or rather _does_, want -you?” - -“What do you mean?” he said, coming towards her bed. She was suddenly -frightened. This was the man whom she had seen for the first time on -that first evening at dinner, some one she had never known before. - -“I mean what I say,” she answered. “How long do you suppose that I -intend to stand this sort of thing? You leave me deliberately alone; _I_ -don’t know what you do with your days, _or_ your evenings, neither does -anyone else. I’m not going to be made a laughing-stock of in the hotel; -all those beastly women . . .” She could scarcely speak for rage. - -“There is nothing to talk about,” he answered sternly. “It’s only your -own imagination. At any rate, we are not going to have a scene now, nor -ever again, as far as that goes. I’m sick of them.” - -“Well,” she answered furiously, “if you think I’m going to sit there and -let myself be made a fool of and say nothing you’re mightily mistaken; -I’ve had enough of it.” - -“And so have I,” he answered quietly. “If you’re tired of this place -we’ll go away somewhere else, wherever you please; perhaps it would be a -good thing. This place seems to have upset you altogether. Perhaps after -all it would be the best thing. It would cut all the knots and end all -these worries.” - -But she laughed scornfully. “Oh! no, thank you. I like the place well -enough. Only you must be a little more careful. And if you think——” - -But he cut her short. “I don’t think anything about it,” he said. “I’m -tired of talking. This place _has_ made a difference, it’s true. It’s -shown me some of the things that I’ve missed all these years; I’ve been -going along like a cow . . . and now for the future it’s going to be -different.” - -“Oh! it’s not only the place,” she sneered. “Mrs. Lester——” - -But at the word he suddenly bent down and held her by the shoulders. His -face was white; he was shaking with anger. He was so strong that she -felt as though he was going to crush her into nothing. - -“Look here,” he whispered, “leave that alone. I won’t have it, do you -hear? I won’t have it. You’ve been riding me too long, you and your -nasty dirty little thoughts; now I’m going to have my own way. You’ve -had yours long enough; leave me alone. Don’t drive me too far. . . .” - -He let her drop back on the pillows. She lay there without a word. He -stole across the room on his naked feet and switched out the lights. She -heard him climb into bed. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - - OF LOVE—AND THEREFORE TO BE SKIPPED BY ALL THOSE - WHO ARE TIRED OF THE SUBJECT - -Above the knoll the afternoon sun hung in a golden mist. The heat veiled -it, and the blue of the surrounding sky faded into golden shadows near -its circle and swept in a vast arc to limitless distance. The knoll, -humped like a camel’s back, stood out a vivid green against the darker -wall of trees behind it. Far below, the white sand of the cove caught -the sun and shone like a pearl, and beyond it was the blue carpet of the -sea. - -Morelli sat, cross-legged, on the knoll. In his hands was his flute, but -he was staring straight below him down on to the cove. He waited, the -air was heavy with heat; a crimson butterfly hovered for a moment in -front of him and then swept away, a golden bee buzzed about his head and -then lumbered into the air. There was silence; the trees stood rigid in -the heat. - -Suddenly Morelli moved. Two black specks appeared against the white -shadows of the beach; he began to play. - - * * * * * - -Punch was lying on the cliff asleep. To his right, curving towards the -white sand, was a sea-pool slanting with green sea-weed down into dark -purple depths. The sun beat upon the still surface of it and changed it -into burning gold. Below this the sea-weed flung green shadows across -the rock. It reflected through the gold the straight white lines of the -road above it, and the brown stem, sharp like a sword, of a slender -poplar. It seemed to pass through the depths of the pool into endless -distance. Besides the green of the sea-weed and the gold of the sun -there was the blue of the sky reflected, and all these lights and -colours mingled and passed and then mingled again as in the curving -circle of a pearl shell. Everything was metallic, with a hard outline -like steel, under the blazing sun. - -Tony turned the corner and came down the hill. He was in flannels and -carried in one hand a large tea-basket. His body, long and white, was -reflected in the green and blue of the pool. It spread in little ripples -driven by a tiny wind in white shadows to the bank. - -He was whistling, and then suddenly he saw Toby and Punch asleep in the -grass. He stopped for a moment in the road and looked at them. Then he -passed on. - -The white sand gleamed and sparkled in the sun; the little wind had -passed from the face of the pool, and there was no movement at all -except the very soft and gentle breaking of tiny waves on the sand’s -edge. A white bird hanging for the moment motionless in the air, a tiny -white cloud, the white edge of the breaking ripples, broke the blue. - -Tony sat down. From where he was sitting he could see the town rising -tier upon tier into a peak. It lay panting in the sun like a beast tired -out. - -The immediate problem was whether Morelli or Miss Minns would come. A -tiny note in a tiny envelope had arrived at the “Man at Arms” that -morning. It had said: - - Dear Mr. Gale, - - Thank you so very much. It is charming of you to ask us. We - shall be delighted to come. - - Yours sincerely - Janet Morelli. - -It wasn’t like her, and short though it was he felt sure that somebody -had watched her whilst she did it. And “we”? For whom did that stand? He -had felt so sure in his heart of hearts that no one except Janet would -come that he was, at first, bitterly disappointed. What a farce the -whole thing would be if anyone else were there! He laughed sarcastically -at the picture of Miss Minns perched horribly awry at the end of the -boat, forcing, by her mere presence, the conversation into a miserable -stern artificiality. And then suppose it were Morelli? But it wouldn’t -be, of that he was sure; Morelli had other things to do. - -He glanced for a moment up to the cliff where Punch was. He didn’t want -the whole town to know what he was about. Punch could keep a secret, of -course, he had kept a good many in his time, but it might slip out; not -that there was anything to be ashamed of. - -As a matter of fact, he had had some difficulty in getting away from the -hotel; they had been about him like bees, wanting him to do things. He -had noticed, too, that his mother was anxious. Since the day of the -picnic she had watched him, followed him with her eyes, had evidently -longed to ask him what he was going to do. That, he knew, was her code, -that she should ask him nothing and should wait; but he felt that she -was finding the waiting very difficult. He was quite sure in his own -mind that Alice had spoken to her, and, although he would give -everything in the world to be pleasant and easy, he found, in spite of -himself, that he was, when he talked to her, awkward and strained. There -was something new and strange in her attitude to him, so that the old -cameraderie was quite hopelessly gone, and the most ordinary -conventional remark about the weather became charged with intensest -meaning. This all contrived to make things at the hotel very awkward, -and everyone was in that state of tension which forced them to see -hidden mysteries in everything that happened or was said. The Lesters -had been barely on speaking terms at breakfast time and Maradick hadn’t -appeared at all. - -Then, when the afternoon had come, his mother had asked him to come out -with them. He had had to refuse, and had only been able to give the -vaguest of reasons. They knew that he was not going with Mr. Maradick, -because he had promised to walk with Mr. Lester. What was he going to -do? He spoke of friends in the town and going for a row. It had all been -very unpleasant. Life was, in fact, becoming immensely complicated, and -if Miss Minns were to appear he would have all this worry and trouble -for nothing. - -He gazed furiously at the hard white road. The pool shone like a mirror; -the road, the poplar, the sky were painted on its surface in hard vivid -outline. Suddenly a figure was reflected in it. Some one in a white -dress with a large white hat, her reflexion spread across the length of -the pool. The water caught a mass of golden hair and held it for a -moment, then it was gone. - -Tony’s eyes, straining towards the hill, suddenly saw her; she was -alone. When he saw her his heart began to beat so furiously that for a -moment he could not move. Then he sprang to his feet. He must not be too -sure. Perhaps Miss Minns was late. He watched her turn down the path and -come towards him. She was looking very cool and collected and smiling at -him as she crossed the sand. - -“Isn’t it a lovely day?” she said, shaking hands. “I’m not late, am I?” - -“No, I was rather early;” and then, suddenly, “Is Miss Minns coming?” - -“Oh, no,” Janet laughed, “it was far too hot. She is sleeping with all -the curtains drawn and the doors and windows shut. Only I’m not to be -late. Oh, dear! What fun! Where’s the boat?” - -The excitement of hearing that she really was alone was very nearly too -much for Tony. He wanted to shout. - -“Oh, I say, I’m so glad. No, I don’t mean to be rude really; I think -Miss Minns awfully decent, simply ripping” (this, I am afraid, due to -general pleasure rather than strict veracity), “but it would have put a -bit of a stopper on the talking, wouldn’t it? and you know there are -simply tons of things that I want to talk about. The boat’s round here, -round the corner over these rocks. I thought we’d row to Mullin’s Cave, -have tea, and come back.” - -They moved across the sand. - -Punch had woke at the sound of voices and now was staring in front of -him. He recognised both of them. “The couple of babies,” he said, and he -sighed. - -And at that precise moment some one else came down the path. It was -Alice du Cane. She carried a pink parasol. Her figure lay for a moment -on the surface of the pool. She was looking very pretty, but she was -very unhappy. They had asked her to go out with them, but she had -refused and had pleaded a headache. And then she had hated the gloom and -silence of her room. She knew what it was that she wanted, although she -refused to admit it to herself. She pretended that she wanted the sea, -the view, the air; and so she went out. She told herself a hundred times -a day that she must go away, must leave the place and start afresh -somewhere else. That was what she wanted; another place and she would -soon forget. And then there would come fierce self-reproach and -miserable contempt. She, Alice du Cane, who had prided herself on her -self-control? The kind of girl who could quote Henley with satisfaction, -“Captain of her soul?” At the turn of the road she saw Punch and Toby; -then across the white sand of the cove two figures. - -He said good-day, and she smiled at him. Then for a moment she stopped. -It was Tony, she could hear his laugh; he gave the girl his hand to -cross the rocks. - -“A beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said to Punch, and passed down the -road. - - * * * * * - -They found the boat round the corner of the rocks lying with its clean -white boards and blue paint. It lay with a self-conscious air on the -sand, as though it knew at what ceremony it was to attend. It gurgled -and chuckled with pleasure as it slipped into the water. Whilst he -busied himself with the oars she stood silently, her hands folded in -front of her, looking out to sea. “I’ve always wanted to know,” she -said, “what there is right out there on the other side. One used to -fancy a country, like any child, with mountains and lakes, black -sometimes and horrible when one was in a bad mood, and then, on other -days, beautiful and full of sun. . . .” - -They said very little as the boat moved out; the cove rapidly dwindled -into a shining circle of silver sand; the rocks behind it assumed -shapes, dragons and mandarins and laughing dogs, the town mounted like a -pyramid into the sky and some of it glittered in the light of the sun -like diamonds. - -Janet tried to realise her sensations. In the first place she had never -been out in a boat before; secondly, she had never been really alone -with Tony before; thirdly, she had had no idea that she would have felt -so silent as she did. There were hundreds of things that she wanted to -say, and yet she sat there tongue-tied. She was almost afraid of -breaking the silence, as though it were some precious vase and she was -tempted to fling a stone. - -Tony too felt as though he were in church. He rowed with his eyes fixed -on the shore, and Janet. Now that the great moment had actually arrived -he was frightened. Whatever happened, the afternoon would bring -tremendous consequences with it. If she laughed at him, or was amazed at -his loving her, then he felt that he could never face the long dreary -stretches of life in front of him; and if she loved him, well, a good -many things would have to happen. He realised, too, that a number of -people were bound up with this affair of his; his mother, Alice, the -Maradicks, even the Lesters. - -“They didn’t mind your coming alone?” he said at last. - -“Oh, no, why should they?” she said, laughing. “Besides, father approves -of you enormously, and I’m so glad! He’s never approved of anyone as a -companion before, and it makes such a difference.” - -“Is he kind to you?” - -“Father! Why, of course!” - -“Are you fond of him?” - -“Why do you want to know?” - -“I must know; I want to know all about it. We can’t be real friends -unless there’s complete confidence. That’s the best of being the ages we -are. As things are, we can’t have very much to hide, but later on people -get all sorts of things that they have done and said that they keep -locked up.” - -“No,” said Janet, smiling, “I haven’t got anything to hide. I’ll try and -tell you all you want to know. But it’s very difficult, about father.” - -“Why?” said Tony. - -“Well, you see, I haven’t known other people’s fathers at all, and up to -quite lately I didn’t think there was anything peculiar about mine, but -just lately I’ve been wondering. You see there’s never been any -particular affection, there hasn’t been any question of affection, and -that’s,” she stopped for a moment, “that’s what I’ve been wanting. I -used to make advances when I was quite tiny, climb on his knee, and -sometimes he would play, oh! beautifully! and then suddenly he would -stop and push me aside, or behave, perhaps, as though I were not there -at all.” - -“Brute!” said Tony between his teeth, driving the oar furiously through -the water. - -“And then I began to see gradually that he didn’t care at all. It was -easy enough even for a girl as young as I was to understand, and yet he -would sometimes be so affectionate.” She broke off. “I think,” she said, -looking steadily out to sea, “that he would have liked to have killed me -sometimes. He is so furious at times that he doesn’t in the least know -what he’s doing.” - -“What did you do when he was like that?” asked Tony in a very low voice. - -“Oh, one waits,” she said very quietly, “they don’t last long.” - -She spoke dispassionately, as though she were outside the case -altogether, but Tony felt that if he had Morelli there, in the boat with -him, he would know what to do and say. - -“You must get away,” he said. - -“There are other things about him,” she went on, “that I’ve noticed that -other people’s fathers don’t do. He’s wonderful with animals, and yet he -doesn’t seem really to care about them, or, at least, he only cares -whilst they are in certain moods. And although they come to him so -readily I often think that they are really afraid as I am.” - -She began to think as she sat there. She had never spoken about it all -to anyone before, and so it had never, as it were, materialised. She had -never realised until now how badly she had wanted to talk to some one -about it. - -“Oh, you have been so fortunate,” she said, a little wistfully, “to have -done so many things and seen so many people. Tell me about other girls, -are they all beautiful? Do they dress beautifully?” - -“No,” he said, looking at her. “They are very tiresome. I can’t be -serious with girls as a rule. That’s why I like to be with you. You -don’t mind a fellow being serious. Girls seem to think a man isn’t ever -meant to drop his grin, and it gets jolly tiresome. Because, you know, -life is awfully serious when you come to think about it. I’ve only -realised,” he hesitated a moment, “during this last fortnight how -wonderful it is. That’s, you know,” he went on hurriedly, “why I really -like to be with men better. Now a fellow like Maradick understands what -one’s feeling, he’s been through it, he’s older, and he knows. But then -you understand too; it’s jolly funny how well you understand a chap.” - -He dropped his oars for a moment and the boat drifted. They were -rounding the point, and the little sandy beach for which they were -making crept timidly into sight. There was perfect stillness; everything -was as though it were carved from stone, the trees on the distant hill, -the hanging curtain of sky, the blue mirror of the sea, the sharply -pointed town. A flock of white sheep, tiny like a drifting baby cloud, -passed for a moment against the horizon on the brow of the hill. There -was a very faint sound of bells. - -They were both very silent. The oars cut through the water, the boat -gave a little sigh as it pushed along, there was no other sound. - -They sat on the beach and made tea. Tony had thought of everything. -There was a spirit lamp, and the kettle bubbled and hissed and -spluttered. Tony busied himself about the tea because he didn’t dare to -speak. If he said the very simplest thing he knew that he would lose all -self-control. She was sitting against a rock with her dress spread -around her. - -She looked up at him with big, wide-open eyes. - -“Your name is Tony, isn’t it?” she said. - -“Yes,” he answered. - -“I suppose it is short for Anthony. I shall call you Tony. But see, -there is something that I want to say. You will never now, after we have -been such friends, let it go again, will you? Because it has been so -wonderful meeting you, and has made such a difference to me that I -couldn’t bear it. If you went away, and you had other friends -and—forgot.” - -“No, I won’t forget.” - -He dropped a plate on to the sand and came towards her. - -“Janet.” He dropped on to his knees beside her. “I must tell you. I love -you, I love you, Janet. I don’t care whether you are angry or not, and -if you don’t feel like that then I will be an awfully decent friend and -won’t bother you about love. I’ll never talk about it. And anyhow, I -ought, I suppose, to give you time; a little because you haven’t seen -other fellows, and it’s not quite fair.” - -He didn’t touch her, but knelt on the sand, looking up into her face. - -She looked down at him and laughed. “Why, how silly, Tony dear, I’ve -loved you from the first moment that I saw you; why, of course, you must -have known.” - -Their hands touched, and at that moment Tony realised the wonderful -silence and beauty of the world. The sea spread before them like a -carpet, but it was held with the rocks and sand and sky in breathless -tension by God for one immortal second. Nature waited for a moment to -hear the story that it had heard so often before, then when the divine -moment had passed the world went on its course once more. But in that -moment things had happened. A new star had been born in the sky, the -first evening star, and it sparkled and glittered above the town; in the -minstrels’ room at that moment the sun shone and danced on the faces of -the lions, beneath the tower the apple-woman paused in her knitting and -nodded her head solemnly at some secret pleasant thought, on the knoll -the birds clustered in chattering excitement, far on the horizon a ship -with gleaming sails rose against the sky. - -“Janet, darling.” He bent down and kissed her hand. Then he raised his -face, hers bent down to his—they kissed. - - * * * * * - -Half an hour later they were in the boat again; she sat on the floor -with her head against his knee. He rowed very slowly, which was natural, -because it was difficult to move the oars. - -The evening lights began to creep across the sky, and the sun sank -towards the horizon; other stars had stolen into the pale blue sky; near -the sea a pale orange glow, as of a distant fire, burned. The boat shone -like a curved and shining pearl. - -Tony had now a difficult business in front of him. The situation had to -be made clear to her that his people must not be told. He was quite -resolved within himself in what way he was going to carry the situation -through, but he could not at all see that she would consider the matter -in the same light. It would take time and considerable trouble to convey -to her a true picture of the complicated politics of the Gale family. - -“Janet, dear,” he said, “we have now to be sternly practical. There are -several things that have to be faced. In the first place, there is your -father.” - -“Yes,” she said, a little doubtfully. - -“Well, how will he take it?” - -“I don’t know.” She looked up at him and laid her hand very lightly upon -his knee. The yellow light had crept up from the horizon, and was -spreading in bands of colour over the sky; the sea caught the reflexion -very faintly, but the red glow had touched the dark band of country -behind them and the white road, the still black trees were beginning to -burn as though with fire. - -“Well,” said Tony, “of course I shall tell him at once. What will he -say?” - -“I don’t know. One never can tell with father. But, dear, must you? -Couldn’t we wait? It is not that I mind his knowing, but I am, in some -way, afraid.” - -“But he likes me,” said Tony; “you told me yourself.” - -“Yes, but his liking anybody never means very much. It’s hard to -explain; but it isn’t you that he likes so much as something that you’ve -got. It is always that with everybody. I’ve seen it heaps of times. He -goes about and picks people up, and if they haven’t got the thing he’s -looking for he drops them at once and forgets them as soon as he can. I -don’t know what it is that he looks for exactly, but, whatever it is, he -finds it in the animals, and in the place even; that’s why he lives at -Treliss.” - -Janet was very young about the world in general, but about anything that -she had herself immediately met she was wise beyond her years. - -She looked at him a moment, and then added: “But of course you must -speak to him; it is the only thing to do.” - -“And suppose,” said Tony, “that he refuses to give his consent?” - -“Oh, of course,” Janet answered quietly, “then we must go away. I belong -to you now. Father does not care for me in the least, and I don’t care -for anyone in the world except you.” - -Her calm acceptance of the idea that he himself had intended to submit -to her very tentatively indeed frightened him. His responsibility seemed -suddenly to increase ten-fold. Her suggesting an elopement so quietly, -and even asserting it decisively as though there were no other possible -alternative, showed that she didn’t in the least realise what it would -all mean. - -“And then, of course,” she went on quietly, “there are your people. What -will they say?” - -“That’s it, dear. That’s the dreadful difficulty. They mustn’t be told -at all. The only person in the family who really matters in the least is -my mother, and she matters everything. The governor and my brother care -for me only as the family, and they have to see that that isn’t -damaged.” - -“And they’d think that I’d damage it?” said Janet. - -“Yes,” said Tony, quietly, “they would. You see, dear, in our set in -town the two things that matter in marriage are family and money. You’ve -got to have either ancestors or coin. Your ancestors, I expect, are -simply ripping, but they’ve got to be in Debrett, so that everyone can -look them up when the engagement’s announced. It isn’t you they’d object -to, but the idea.” - -“I see; well?” - -“Well, if mother knew about it; if it was public she’d have to support -the family, of course. But really in her heart of hearts what she wants -is that I should be happy. She’d much rather have that than anything -else; so that if we are married and it’s too late for anyone to say -anything, and she sees that we are happy, then it will be all right, but -she mustn’t know until afterwards.” - -Tony stopped, but Janet said nothing. Then he went on: “You see there -was a sort of idea with people, before we came down here, that I should -get engaged to some one. It was more or less an understood thing.” - -“Was there, is there anyone especially?” asked Janet. - -“Yes; a Miss Du Cane. We’d been pals for a long time without thinking -about marriage at all; and then people began to say it was time for me -to settle down, and rot like that—and she seemed quite suitable, and so -she was asked down here.” - -“Did you care about her?” - -“Oh! like a friend, of course. She’s a jolly good sort, and used to be -lots of fun, but as soon as all this business came into it she altered -and it became different. And then I saw you, and there was never more -any question of anyone else in all the world.” - -Tony dropped the oars and let the boat drift. He caught her golden hair -in his hands and twined it about his arm. He bent down and touched her -lips. She leaned up towards him and they clung together. About them the -sea was a golden flame, the sky was a fiery red, the country behind them -was iron black. The boat danced like a petal out to sea. - -Then, with her arm about his neck, Janet spoke again. “Your father would -like you to marry this lady?” she asked. - -“Yes. He thinks that I am going to.” - -“Ah! now I understand it all. You cannot tell them, of course; I see -that. We must do it first and tell them afterwards. And father will -never consent. I am sure of it. Oh, dear! what fun! we must go away -secretly; it will be an elopement.” - -“What a ripping rag!” said Tony eagerly. “Oh! darling, I was so afraid -that you would mind all those things, and I didn’t want to tell you. But -now that you take it like that! And then, you see, that’s where Maradick -comes in.” - -“Mr. Maradick?” - -“Yes. He’s really the foundation-stone of the whole affair. It’s because -mother trusts him so absolutely completely that she’s feeling so safe. -He knows all about it, and has known all about it all the time. Mother -depends on him altogether; we all depend on him, and he’ll help us.” - -The sun lay, like a tired warrior, on the breast of the sea; the clouds, -pink and red and gold, gathered about him. The boat turned the creek and -stole softly into the white shelter of the cove. Above the heads of the -lovers the stars glittered, about them the land, purple and dark with -its shadows, crept in on every side. Some bell rang from the town, there -was the murmur of a train, the faint cry of some distant sheep. - -Their voices came softly in the dusk: - -“I love you.” - -“Janet!” - -“Tony!” - -The night fell. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - - OUR MIDDLE-AGED HERO IS BURDENED BY RESPONSIBILITY - BUT BOLDLY UNDERTAKES THE ADVENTURE - -That same afternoon Maradick finished “To Paradise.” He read it in the -room of the minstrels with the sun beating through the panes in pools of -gold on to the floor, the windows flung wide open, and a thousand scents -and sounds flooding the air. The book had chimed in curiously with the -things that were happening to him; perhaps at any other time, and -certainly a year ago, he would have flung the book aside with irritation -at its slow movement and attenuated action. Now it gave him the -precisely correct sensation; it was the atmosphere that he had most -effectually realised during these last weeks suddenly put for him -clearly on to paper. Towards the end of the book there was this passage: -“And indeed Nature sets her scene as carefully as any manager on our own -tiny stage; we complain discordantly of fate, and curse our ill-luck -when, in reality, it is because we have disregarded our setting that we -have suffered. Passing lights, whether of sailing ships or huddled -towns, murmuring streams heard through the dark but not seen, the -bleating of countless sheep upon a dusky hill, are all, with a thousand -other formless incoherent things, but sign-posts to show us our road. -And let us, with pressing fingers, wilfully close our ears and blind our -eyes, then must we suffer. Changes may come suddenly upon a man, and he -will wonder; but let him look around him and he will see that he is -subject to countless other laws and orders, and that he plays but a tiny -rôle in a vast and moving scene.” - -He rose and stretched his arms. He had not for twenty years felt the -blood race through his veins as it did to-day. Money? Office stools? -London? No; Romance, Adventure. He would have his time now that it had -come to him. He could not talk to his wife about it; she would not -understand; but Mrs. Lester—— - -The door opened suddenly. He turned round. No one had ever interrupted -him there before; he had not known that anyone else had discovered the -place, and then he saw that it was Lester himself. He came forward with -that curious look that he often had of seeing far beyond his immediate -surroundings. He stared now past the room into the blue and gold of the -Cornish dusk; the vague misty leaves of some tree hung, a green cloud, -against the sky, two tiny glittering stars shone in the sky above the -leaves, as though the branches had been playing with them and had tossed -them into the air. - -Then he saw Maradick. - -“Hullo! So you’ve discovered this place too?” He came towards him with -that charming, rather timid little smile that he had. “I found it quite -by chance yesterday, and have been absolutely in love with it——” - -“Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ve known it a long time. Curiously enough, we -were here last year and I never found it.” Then he added: “I’ve just -finished your book. May I tell you how very much I’ve enjoyed it? It’s -been quite a revelation to me; its beauty——” - -“Thank you,” said Lester, smiling, “it does one a lot of good when one -finds that some one has cared about one’s work. I think that I have a -special affection for this one, it had more of myself in it. But will -you forgive my saying it, I had scarcely expected you, Maradick, to care -about it.” - -“Why?” asked Maradick. Lester’s voice was beautifully soft and musical, -and it seemed to be in tune with the room, the scene, the hour. - -“Well, we are, you know, in a way at the opposite ends of the pole. You -are practical; a business man; it is your work, your place in life, to -be practical. I am a dreamer through and through. I would have been -practical if I could. I have made my ludicrous attempts, but I have long -ago given it up. I have been cast for another rôle. The visions, the -theories, the story of such a man as I am must seem stupidly, even -weakly vague and insufficient to such a man as you. I should not have -thought that ‘To Paradise’ could have seemed to you anything but a -moonstruck fantasy. Perhaps that is what it really is.” - -He spoke a little sadly, looking out at the sky. “I am afraid that is -what it is,” he said. - -“Is it not possible,” said Maradick slowly, “that a man should, at -different times in his life, have played both rôles? Can one not be -practical and yet have one’s dreams? Can one not have one’s dreams and -yet be practical?” - -As he spoke he looked at the man and tried to see him from Mrs. Lester’s -point of view. He was little and brown and nervous; his eyes were soft -and beautiful, but they were the eyes of a seer. - -Mr. Lester shook his head. “I think it is possible to be practical and -yet to have your dreams. I will not deny that you have yours; but the -other thing—no, I shall never see the world as it is. And yet, you -know,” he went on, smiling a little, “the world will never let me alone. -I think that at last I shall see that for which I have been searching, -that at last I shall hear that for which I have been listening so long; -and then suddenly the world breaks in upon it and shatters it, and it -vanishes away. One has one’s claims, one is not alone; but oh! if I had -only an hour when there might be no interruption. But I’m really -ashamed, Maradick; this must seem, to put it bluntly, so much rot to -you, and indeed to anyone except myself.” - -“No,” said Maradick. “I think I understand more than you would expect. A -month ago it might have been different, but now——” - -“Ah,” said Lester, laughing, “the place has caught you, as it does -everyone.” - -“No, not only the place,” said Maradick slowly, “there is something -else. I was here last year, but I did not feel, I did not see as I do -now.” - -“Yes, it’s Tony Gale as well.” - -“Tony?” - -“Yes. Believe me, there’s nothing that a boy like that cannot do with -his happiness and youth. It goes out from him and spreads like a magic -wand. If people only knew how much they owed to that kind of -influence——” - -“Well, perhaps it is Tony,” said Maradick, laughing. “I am fonder of him -than I can say; but, whatever the cause, the dreams are there.” - -Lester took out a book from under his arm. It was long and thin and -bound in grey parchment. - -“Here,” he said, “is a book that perhaps you know. It is one of the most -beautiful comedies in our language. This man was a dreamer too, and his -dreams are amongst the most precious things that we have. I may write to -the end of time, but I shall never reach that exquisite beauty.” - -Maradick took the book; it was Synge’s “Play-boy of the Western World.” -He had never heard of the man or of the play. He turned its pages -curiously. - -“I am afraid,” he said, “that I’ve never heard of it. It is Irish, I -see. I think I do remember vaguely when the Dublin players were in -London last year hearing something. The man has died, hasn’t he?” - -“Yes, and he didn’t leave very much behind him, but what there is is of -the purest gold. See, listen to this, one of the greatest love-scenes in -our language. It is a boy and a girl in a lonely inn on an Irish moor.” - - He read:— - - The Girl.—“What call have you to be that lonesome when there’s - poor girls walking Mayo in their thousands now?” - - The Boy.—“It’s well you know what call I have. It’s well you - know it’s a lonesome thing to be passing small towns with the - lights shining sideways when the night is down, or going in - strange places with a dog noising before you and a dog noising - behind, or drawn to the cities where you’d hear a voice kissing - and talking deep love in every shadow of the ditch, and you - passing on with an empty stomach failing from your heart.” - -Maradick listened to the beautiful words and his eyes glowed. The dusk -was falling in the room, and half-lights of gold and purple hovered over -the fireplace and the gallery. The leaves of the tree had changed from -green to dark grey, and, above them, where there had been two stars -there were now a million. - -“And again,” said Lester, “listen to this.” - - The Boy.—“When the airs is warming in four months or five, it’s - then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin in the dews of - night, the time sweet smells do be rising, and you’d see a - little shiny new moon, maybe, sinking on the hills.” - - The Girl. (playfully).—“And it’s that kind of a poacher’s love - you’d make, Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin, when the - night is down?” - - The Boy.—“It’s little you’ll think if my love’s a poacher’s or - an earl’s itself, when you’ll feel my two hands stretched around - you, and I squeezing kisses on your puckered lips, till I’d feel - a kind of pity for the Lord God in all ages sitting lonesome in - his golden chair.” - - The Girl.—“That’ll be right fun, Christy Mahon, and any girl - would walk her heart out before she’d meet a young man was your - like for eloquence or talk at all.” - - The Boy (encouraged).—“Let you wait, to hear me talking, till - we’re astray in Ennis, when Good Friday’s by, drinking a sup - from a well and making mighty kisses with our wetted mouths, or - gaming in a gap of sunshine, with yourself stretched back unto - your necklace, in the flowers of the earth.” - - The Girl (in a low voice moved by his tone).—“I’d be nice so, - is it?” - - The Boy (with rapture).—“If the mitred bishops seen you that - time, they’d be the like of the holy prophets, I’m thinking, do - be straining the bars of Paradise to lay eyes on the Lady Helen - of Troy, and she abroad, pacing back and forward, with a nosegay - in her golden shawl.” - -He stopped, and sat, silently, with the book in front of him. The -half-light in the room spread into a circle of pale rose-colour -immediately round the window; the night sky was of the deepest blue. - -To Maradick it was as though the place itself had spoken. The colour of -the day had taken voice and whispered to him. - -“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very beautiful. Would you lend it to me -some time?” - -“Delighted,” said Lester. “You can have it now if you like. Take it with -you. The whole play won’t keep you more than half an hour. I have his -other things, if you care to look at them.” - -Maradick went off to dress with the book under his arm. - -When he came down to the drawing-room he found Mrs. Lester there alone. -Only one lamp was lit and the curtains were not drawn, so that the dusky -sky glowed with all its colours, blue and gold and red, beyond the -windows. - -When he saw Mrs. Lester he stopped for a moment at the door. The -lamplight fell on one cheek and some dark bands of her hair, the rest of -her face was in shadow. She smiled when she saw him. - -“Ah! I’m so glad that you’ve come down before the rest. I’ve been -wanting to speak to you all day and there has been no opportunity.” - -“Your husband has been showing me a wonderful play by that Irishman, -Synge,” he said. “I hadn’t heard of him. I had no idea——” - -She laughed. “You’ve struck one of Fred’s pet hobbies,” she said; “start -him on Synge and he’ll never stop. It’s nice for a time—at first, you -know; but Synge for ever—well, it’s like living on wafers.” - -She sighed and leaned back in her chair. She spoke in a low voice, and -it gave a note of intimacy to their conversation. As she looked at him -she thought again what a fine man he was. Evening dress suited him, and -the way that he sat, leaning a little towards her with his head raised -and the lamplight falling on his chin and throat, gave her a little -thrill of pleasure. He was very big and strong, and she contrasted him -with her husband. Maradick would probably be a bore to live with, whilst -Fred, as a matter of fact, did very well. But for playing a game this -was the very man, if, indeed, he knew that it was only a game; it would -be a dreadful nuisance if he took it seriously. - -“How long are you staying here?” she said. “We shall stop for another -fortnight, I suppose, unless my husband suddenly takes it into his head -to run away. Even then I shall probably stay. I love the place; let me -see—to-day’s the fourteenth—yes, we shall probably be here until the -twenty-eighth.” - -“I must get back when the month is up,” said Maradick. - -“But I hate to think of going back. I’m enjoying every minute of it, but -I don’t think my wife will be sorry. The heat doesn’t suit her.” - -“I hope,” she bent forward a little and laid her hand on his chair, -“that you didn’t think it very impertinent of me to speak as I did at -the picnic the other day. I thought afterwards that I had, perhaps, said -too much. But then I felt that you were different from most men, that -you would understand. I trust too much, I think, to intuition.” - -“No, please don’t think that,” he said eagerly. “We have only got -another fortnight here. Why shouldn’t we be friends? I’m beginning to -think that I have wasted too much of my life by being afraid of going -too far, of saying the wrong thing. I have begun to understand life -differently since I have been here.” - -Whether he implied that it was since he had known her that he had begun -to understand, she did not know; at any rate she would take it for that. -“There are so many things that I could tell you,” she said. “I think you -are to be trusted. It is not often that a woman can feel that about -anyone.” - -“Thank you for saying that,” he said, looking her full in the face; “I -will try and deserve it.” - -She touched his hand with hers and felt a delicious little thrill, then -she heard steps and moved to the fireplace. - -Lady Gale and Alice Du Cane came into the room, and it was evident at -once that they were upset. Lady Gale talked to Maradick, but it was -obvious that her mind was elsewhere. - -“Has Tony been with you this afternoon?” she said. “Alice says she saw -him about four o’clock, but no one has seen him since. He hasn’t come -back, apparently.” - -“No,” Maradick said, “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.” - -She looked at him for a moment, and he felt that her look had something -of reproach in it. He suddenly was conscious that he was, in their eyes -at any rate, responsible for anything that Tony might do. He ought to -have stood guard. And, after all, where had the boy been? He should have -been back by now. - -“It is really too bad,” Lady Gale said. “He knows that his father -dislikes unpunctuality at meals above all things, and he has been late -again and again just lately. I must speak to him. He’s later than ever -to-night. Where did you see him, Alice?” - -“Down on the sand. But he didn’t see _me_.” She spoke uneasily, and -Maradick saw at once that she was keeping something back. - -“He’s been going about with a Punch and Judy man recently,” said Mrs. -Lester. “I have nothing to say against Punch and Judy men personally. I -always want to stop in the street and watch; but as a continual -companion——” - -“This particular one,” said Maradick, “is especially nice, an awfully -decent little fellow. I’ve talked to him several times. No, Lady Gale, -I’m afraid my wife isn’t well enough to come down to-night. She’s had a -bad headache all day. It’s this heat, I think.” He looked at her rather -as a guilty schoolboy watches his master. He reproached himself for -having left the boy alone during the whole day, and he began to be -anxious on his own account. The situation was getting too much for his -nerves. For the first time he considered Alice Du Cane. He had not -thought of her as being very actively concerned in the business, but -there was something in her face now that spoke of trouble. She was -standing by the lamp nervously fingering some books at her side. The -thought that she was in trouble touched him, and he began to feel the -burden of the situation still more heavily upon him. - -But he knew at once what it was that was troubling Lady Gale. It was Sir -Richard. He had seen enough of that Gentleman to know that so long as -superficial things were all right, so long as bells rang at the proper -moment and everyone immediately concerned with him were respectful and -decently dressed, he would ask no questions; but let him once begin to -have suspicions that something was lacking in respect to himself and the -family generally and nothing would hinder his irritable curiosity. He -had probably begun already to ask questions about Tony. Here was a new -element of danger. - -The door opened and everyone turned eagerly towards it; it was Sir -Richard and Rupert. - -Rupert didn’t appear to be more concerned than was usual with him, but -Sir Richard was evidently annoyed. He advanced into the room with his -customary before-dinner manner, that of one about to lead a cavalry -regiment to the charge. - -“It’s late,” he said; “late. Where’s Tony?” - -It was the question that everyone had been expecting, but no one -answered it for a moment. Then Lady Gale got up from her chair. - -“He’ll be in in a minute, I expect,” she said. “He’s been kept. But it’s -no use waiting for dinner. I suppose Fred will be late, Millie? Never -mind, we’ll go down. You’ll dine with us, Mr. Maradick, won’t you?” - -Sir Richard led the way with ominous silence. - -The room was quite full, and for a breathless, agitated moment it seemed -that their own table had been taken; but the alarm was false, and -everyone could breathe again. Lady Gale’s life was spent in the -endeavour to prevent her husband from discovering a grievance. Let it -once be discovered and a horrible time was before her, for Sir Richard -petted it and nursed it until it grew, with a rapidity that was outside -nature, into a horrible monster whose every movement caused the house to -tremble. - -She saw them, those grievances, come creeping round the corner and at -once her hand was out and she held them, strangled, in her grip, and the -danger was averted. Tony had often before been responsible for these -agitations, but she had always caught them in time; now, she realised it -as she crossed the dining-room, she was too late, and every moment of -Tony’s absence made matters worse. Sir Richard looked at the menu, and -then complained about it in monosyllables for several minutes. Maradick -watched the door with nervous eyes. This intrusion of Sir Richard into -the business complicated things horribly. Let him once suspect that Tony -was carrying on an affair with some girl in the town and the boy would -at once be sent away; that, of course, would mean the end of everything, -for him as well as for Tony. The Gales would go, the Lesters would -go—everyone, everything. Tony himself would not allow it to be left at -that, but, after all, what could he do? - -Alice Du Cane was talking excitedly about nothing in particular, Mrs. -Lester was very quiet, Rupert, as usual, was intent upon his food. Alice -chattered at Mrs. Lester, “Lucy Romanes was there; you know, that -ridiculous girl with the scraped back hair and the pink complexion. Oh! -too absurd for anything! You know Muriel Halliday said that she simply -spends her days in following Captain Fawcett round. He rather likes it -. . . the sort of man who would. I can’t stand the girl.” - -Mrs. Lester smiled across the table. “It’s old Mrs. Romanes’s fault. She -sends her round, she can’t get rid of any of her girls anywhere . . . -five of them, poor things; she’d sell any of them for twopence.” - -Sir Richard had finished his soup, and he leaned across the table -towards his wife. - -“What is the boy doing?” he said. - -“Really, Richard, I don’t know. He’s been out sailing, I expect, and the -wind or something has kept him.” - -“I won’t have it”; he glowered at everyone. “He knows when meals are, he -must be here. I must have obedience; and now I come to think of it”—he -paused and looked round the table—“it has happened often lately. It -hadn’t occurred to me before, but I remember now; -frequently—yes—late.” - -Then, after a pause during which no one said a word, “What has he been -doing?” - -This was so precisely the question that everyone else had been asking -carefully and surreptitiously during the last few days that everyone -looked guilty, as though they had been discovered in a crime. Then -everyone turned to Maradick. - -He smiled. “I’ve been about with him a good deal lately, Sir Richard. I -really don’t know what we’ve done very much beyond walking. But I think -he was going to sail this afternoon.” - -Lady Gale looked anxiously at the waiter. If the food were all right the -danger might be averted. But of course on this night of all nights -everything was wrong: the potatoes were hard, the peas harder, the meat -was overdone. Sir Richard glared at the waiter. - -“Ask Mr. Bannister if he would spare me a minute,” he said. Bannister -appeared as spherical and red-cheeked as ever. - -“Things are disgraceful to-night,” Sir Richard said. “I must beg you, -Mr. Bannister, to see to it.” - -Bannister was gently apologetic. The cook should be spoken to, it was -abominable; meanwhile was there anything that he could get for Sir -Richard? No? He was sorry. He bowed to the ladies and withdrew. - -“It’s abominable—this kind of thing. And Tony? Why, it’s quarter to -nine; what does he mean? It’s always happening. Are these people he -knows in the town?” - -He looked at his wife. - -“I really don’t know, dear. I expect that he’s met people down there; -it’s probable. But I shouldn’t worry, dear. I’ll speak to him.” She -looked across at Alice. “What were you saying about Mrs. Romanes, dear? -I used to know her a long while ago; I don’t suppose she would remember -me now.” - -Maradick had a miserable feeling that she blamed him for all this. If he -had only looked after Tony and stayed with him this would never have -happened. But he couldn’t be expected to stay with Tony always. After -all, the boy was old enough to look after himself; it was absurd. Only, -just now perhaps it would have been wiser. He saw that Mrs. Lester was -smiling. She was probably amused at the whole affair. - -Suddenly at the farther end of the room some one came in. It was Tony. -Maradick held his breath. - -He looked so perfectly charming as he stood there, recognising, with a -kind of sure confidence, the “touch” that was necessary to carry the -situation through. He could see, of course, that it _was_ a situation, -but whether he recognised the finer shades of everyone’s feeling about -it—the separate, individual way that they were all taking it, so that -Alice’s point of view and his mother’s point of view and Maradick’s -point of view were all, really, at the opposite ends of the pole as far -as seeing the thing went—that was really the important question. They -all were needing the most delicate handling, and, in fact, from this -moment onwards the “fat” was most hopelessly in the fire and the whole -business was rolling “tub-wise” down ever so many sharp and precipitous -hills. - -But he stood there, looking down at them, most radiantly happy. His hair -was still wet from his bath, and his tie was a little out of place -because he had dressed in a hurry, and he smiled at them all, taking -them, as it were, into his heart and scolding them for being so -foolishly inquisitive, and, after it all, letting them no further into -his confidence. - -He knew, of course, exactly how to treat his father; his mother was more -difficult, but he could leave her until afterwards. - -To Sir Richard’s indignant “Well?” he answered politely, but with a -smile and a certain hurried breathlessness to show that he had taken -trouble. - -“Really, I’m awfully sorry.” He sat down and turned, with a smile, to -the company. “I’m afraid I’m dreadfully late, but it was ever so much -later than I’d thought. I was most awfully surprised when I saw the -clock upstairs. I’ve smashed my own watch. You remember, mother, my -dropping it when we were down in the town. Tuesday, wasn’t it? Yes, I’ll -have soup, please. I say, I hope you people won’t mind; I suppose you’ve -about finished, but I’m going right through everything. I’m just as -hungry as I can jolly well be. No, no sherry, thanks.” - -But Sir Richard’s solemnity was imperturbable. “Where have you been?” he -said coldly. “You know how strongly I dislike unpunctuality at -meal-times, yes, unpunctuality. And this is not only unpunctuality, it -is positively missing it altogether; I demand an explanation.” - -This public scolding before all the assembled company seemed to Maradick -in very bad taste, and he shifted uneasily in his chair, but Tony did -not seem to mind. - -“I know,” he said, looking up from his soup and smiling at his father, -“I am most awfully careless. But it wasn’t all that, as a matter of -fact. I rowed round the Point to Boulter’s Cove, and the tides are most -awfully dicky and they played old Harry with us this evening, I simply -couldn’t get along at all. It was like rowing against a wall. I knew it -was most beastly late, but I couldn’t get any faster.” - -“Us?” said Sir Richard. “Who were your companions?” - -There was a slight movement round the table. - -“Oh,” said Tony easily, “there are all sorts of old sailor Johnnies down -there that one gets to know, and they’re awfully good sorts. There’s one -fellow about eight foot and broad in proportion; the girls are simply -mad about him, they——” - -But Lady Gale interrupted him. “You’d better be getting on with your -meal, dear. It’s late. I don’t think we need wait. Shall we have coffee -outside?” - -“No, don’t you people wait,” said Tony, “I’ll come along in a minute.” - -As Alice turned to go she stopped for a moment by his chair. “I saw you -this afternoon,” she said. - -“Oh! _did_ you?” he answered, looking up at her. For a moment he seemed -disturbed, then he laughed. - -“Where and when?” he asked. - -“This afternoon, somewhere after four; you were on the beach.” She -looked at him for a moment, standing very straight and her head flung -back. “I am glad you enjoyed your row,” she said with a laugh. - -“I must talk to Maradick about it,” he said to himself. He was quite -prepared for complications; of course, there were bound to be in such a -situation. But at present the memory of the wonderful afternoon -enwrapped him like a fire, so that he could not think of anything else, -he could not see anything but her eyes and smile and golden hair. The -empty room hung before his eyes, with the white cloths on innumerable -tables gleaming like white pools in rows across the floor, and dark -mysterious men, who might be perhaps, at more brightly lighted times, -waiters, moved silently from place to place. But beyond, outside the -room, there shone the white curve of the boat stealing like a ghost -across the water, and behind it the dark band of hill, the green clump -of trees, the dusky, trembling figures of the sheep. Oh! glorious hour! - -A little waiter, with a waistcoat that was far too large for him and a -tie that had crept towards his right ear, hung in the background. Tony -pushed his plate away and looked round. - -“I say,” he said, “are you in love with anyone?” - -The waiter, who hailed from Walham Green, and, in spite of his tender -years, was burdened with five children and a sick wife, coughed -apologetically. - -“Well, sir,” he said, “to be strictly truthful, I can’t say as I am, not -just at present. And perhaps it’s just as well, seeing as how I’ve been -a married man these fifteen years.” He folded a table-cloth carefully -and coughed again. - -“Well, isn’t it possible to be in love with your wife?” asked Tony. - -The waiter’s mind crept timidly back to a certain tea of shrimps and -buns on the Margate sands many, very many years ago. He saw a red sun -and a blue sky and some nigger minstrels, white and black; but that was -another lifetime altogether, before there were children and doctor’s -bills. - -“Well, sir,” he said, “it gets kind o’ casual after a time; not that -it’s anyone’s fault exactly, only times ’is ’ard and there’s the -children and one thing and another, and there scarcely seems time for -sentiment exactly.” - -He coughed his way apologetically back into the twilight at the farther -end of the room. - -“There scarcely seems time for sentiment exactly!” Tony laughed to -himself at the absurdity of it and stepped out into the garden. He -didn’t want to see the family just at present. They would grate and jar. -He could be alone; later, he would talk to Maradick. - -And Lady Gale, for the first time in her life, avoided him. She did not -feel that she could talk to him just yet; she must wait until she had -thought out the new developments and decided on a course of action. The -day had filled her with alarm, because suddenly two things had been -shown to her. The first, that there was no one in the world for whom she -really cared save Tony. There were other people whom she liked, friends, -acquaintances; for her own husband and Rupert she had a protecting -kindliness that was bound up intimately in her feeling for the family, -but love!—no—it was Tony’s alone. - -She had never realised before how deeply, how horribly she cared. It was -something almost wild and savage in her, so that she, an old lady with -white hair and a benevolent manner, would have fought and killed and -torn his enemies were he in danger. The wildness, the ferocity of it -frightened her so that she sat there in the dark with trembling hands, -watching the lights of the ships at sea and, blindly, blindly praying. - -She had known, of course, before, that he was everything to her, that -without him life would lose all its purpose and meaning and beauty, but -there had been other things that counted as well; now it seemed that -nothing else mattered in the least. - -And the second thing that she saw, and it was this second revelation -that had shown her the first, was that she was in danger of losing him. -The relationship of perfect confidence that had, she fondly imagined, -existed until now between them, had never been endangered, because there -had been nothing to hide. He had not told her everything, of course; -there must have been things at Oxford, and even before, that he had not -told her, but she had felt no alarm because they had been, she was sure, -things that did not matter. And then he had, so often, come and told -her, told her with his charming smile and those open eyes of his, so -that there could be no question of his keeping anything back. - -She had studied the relationship of mother and son so perfectly that she -had had precisely the right “touch” with him, never demanding what he -was not ready to give, always receiving the confidences that he handed -her. But now for the first time he was keeping things back, things that -mattered. When she had spoken so bravely to Maradick a fortnight ago, on -that day when she had first caught sight of the possible danger, she had -thought that she was strong enough and wise enough to wait, patiently, -with perfect trust. But it was not possible, it could not be done. She -could not sit there, with her hands folded, whilst some strange woman -down there in that dark, mysterious town caught her boy away from her. -Every day her alarm had grown; she had noticed, too, that their -relationship had changed. It had been so wonderful and beautiful, so -delicate and tender, that any alteration in its colour was at once -apparent to her. He had not been so frank, there had been even a little -artificiality in his conversations with her. It was more than she could -bear. - -But, although the uncertainty of it might kill her, she must not know. -She saw that as clearly, as inevitably as ever. Let her once know, from -his own confession, that he loved some girl down there in the town, and -she would be forced to stop it. The horizon would widen, and bigger, -louder issues than their own personal feelings would be concerned. The -family would be called into the issue, and she could not be false to its -claims. She could not be untrue to her husband and all the traditions. -And yet it was only Tony’s happiness that she cared for; that must be -considered above everything else. Maradick would know whether this girl -were, so to speak, “all right.” If she were impossible, then he -assuredly would have stopped it by now. Maradick was, in fact, the only -clue to the business that she had got. - -But it was partly because she was losing her trust in him that she was -unhappy now. His guard over Tony had, for to-day at any rate, been -miserably inadequate. He might feel, perhaps, that he had no right to -spend his time in hanging on to Tony’s coat-tails, it wasn’t fair on the -boy, but he ought to have been with him more. - -She was sitting now with Alice on the seat at the farther end of the -garden overlooking the town. The place seemed hateful to her, as she -stared down it acquired a personality of its own, a horrible menacing -personality. It lay there with its dark curved back like some horrible -animal, and the lights in the harbours were its eyes twinkling -maliciously; she shuddered and leant back. - -“Are you cold, dear?” It was the first time that Alice had spoken since -they had come out. She herself was sitting straight with her head back, -a slim white figure like a ghost. - -“No, it’s stiflingly warm, as a matter of fact. I was thinking, and -that’s about the only thing that an old woman can do.” - -“You are worried.” Alice spoke almost sharply. “And I hate you to be -worried. I’ve noticed during these last few days——” - -“Yes, I suppose I am a little,” Lady Gale sighed. “But then you’ve been -worried too, dear, for the matter of that. It hasn’t been altogether a -success, this place, this time. I don’t know what’s been wrong exactly, -because the weather’s been beautiful.” - -Alice put her hand on Lady Gale’s. “You won’t think me an utter pig, -will you, dear, if I go up to Scotland at the end of the week? I think I -had better, really. I’m not well down here, and it only makes it -uncomfortable for the rest of you if I’m cross and absurd.” - -Lady Gale sighed. “If you really want to go, dear,” she said, “of course -you must. Do just what you like. Only, I shall miss you badly. You’re a -great help to me, you know. Of course there’s Milly, but she’s been -funny lately. She always gets excited down here.” Lady Gale put her arm -round the girl. “Stay for a little, dear. I want you. We all want you.” - -Alice drew herself up for a moment as though she would repel the caress; -then she tried to say something, but the words would not come. With a -little cry she buried her face in the other’s dress. For a few moments -there was silence, then her shoulders heaved and she burst into -passionate sobbing. Lady Gale said nothing—only, with her hand, she -stroked her hair. The night was very still, so still that they could -hear coming up from the town the distant chorus of some song. - -At last Alice raised her head. “Please,” she said, “don’t worry about -me.” But she clutched Lady Gale’s hand. “Oh! I’m ashamed of myself. I’m -a fool to give way like this.” She suddenly drew her hand fiercely away. -But Lady Gale took it in hers. - -“Why,” she said, “I have been wanting you to speak to me all this time, -and you wouldn’t; of course I knew what the matter was, you can’t keep -that from his mother. We all seem to have been at cross-purposes, as it -is in a play, when one word would put everything right, but everybody is -afraid to say it. Why, I want to talk to you about it all. Do you -suppose that I am not having a bad time too?” - -Alice leaned towards her and kissed her. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve -been so selfish lately. I haven’t thought about anyone else. I hadn’t -realised what you must feel about it. I ought to have known.” - -She stopped for a moment, then she went on speaking in little gasps as -though she had been running. “But I hadn’t meant to speak at all -anything about it. I hate myself for having given way. I, who had always -prided myself on my restraint and self-possession, to cry like a child -for the moon.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed bitterly. “I won’t -give way again,” she said. - -Lady Gale put her arm round her and drew her close. “Alice, dear, let me -talk to you for a moment. You are going through a bad time, and it may -be a crisis and alter your whole life. You are very young, my dear, and -I am so old that I seem to have been through everything and to know it -all from the beginning. So perhaps I can help you. I love you from the -bottom of my heart, and this thing has drawn us together as nothing else -in the world possibly could.” - -Alice pressed close against her. “Oh! I’ve been so lonely these last -days, you can’t know how bad it has been.” - -“Yes, dear, of course I know. I saw at once when we came down here that -something was wrong. I wanted to talk to you, but it’s no use forcing -people’s confidence. I knew that you’d speak to me if you wanted to. But -we’re together in this, we both love Tony.” - -“Oh! I’m ashamed.” Alice spoke very low, it was almost a whisper. “And -yet, do you know, in a way I’m glad. It showed me that I’ve got -something that I was almost afraid wasn’t in me at all. In spite of my -pride I have been sometimes suddenly frightened, and wondered whether it -were really in me to care for anyone at all. And then all in a moment -this has come. I would die for Tony; I would let him trample on me, kill -me, beat me. Sometimes, when we are sitting, all of us, so quietly there -in the drawing-room or in the garden, and he talking, oh, I want to get -up and fling myself at him and hold him there before them all. I have -been afraid during these last few days that I shall suddenly lose -control. I have wondered once or twice whether I am not going mad. Now -you see why I must go.” - -She buried her face in her hands. - -Lady Gale bent over her. “Alice dear, I understand, of course I -understand. But let me try and show you, dear, why you must stay. Just -for this next week or two. You can be of so much help to me and to Tony. -I have been having rather a bad time too. It is like walking in the dark -with things on every side of you that you cannot see. And I want you, -dear.” - -Alice did not speak. The bells in the distant town struck ten, first one -and then another and then five or six at once. Five lights of boats at -sea gleamed in a row like stars that had fallen into the water, through -the dark mist of the trees a curved moon sailed. - -“You see, dear, things are so difficult now, and they seem to grow worse -every day. And really it comes to this. You and I and Mr. Maradick all -love Tony. The others don’t count. Of course I’m not sure about Mr. -Maradick, but I think he cares very much in his own way, and so we are, -you see, a bodyguard for him. I mean to do as he wants to. Tony has -always seen things perfectly clearly and has known what he wanted, but -now there are other things that make it harder for him. I hoped when we -came down here that he was going to marry you, dear, but perhaps after -all it is better that he shouldn’t. The only thing that matters in the -least in this world is love, getting it and keeping it; and if a man or -a woman have secured that, there is nothing else that is of any -importance. And so I always determined that Tony should have his own -choice, that he should go when he wished to.” - -She paused and took Alice’s hand and stroked it. “This is the first time -that he has ever really been in love. Of course I know—I knew at once -by the light in his eyes—and I want him to have it and to keep it and, -whatever happens, not to miss it. But of course I must not know about -it, because then his father would have to be told. Sir Richard thinks a -great deal of the family. It is the only thing that matters to him very -much. And of course there would be terrible scenes and I should have to -go with the family. So, whatever happens, I must not know about it.” - -“Yes,” said Alice, “I see that.” - -“And so, you see, I put Mr. Maradick there as a guard. He is a worthy -creature, a little dull, but very trustworthy, and I knew that he would -do his best. But it is harder than I had thought it would be. Now Sir -Richard is beginning to wonder where Tony goes, and I am afraid that in -a day or two there will be some terrible scene and Tony will go, perhaps -for ever. So I want you to be with me here. You can talk to Mr. -Maradick, and if I see that you are satisfied then I shall know that it -is all right. It will make all the difference in the world if I have -you.” - -“You are asking rather a lot,” Alice said. “I don’t think you quite -realise what it is to me. It is like some strange spell, and if I were -fanciful or absurd I should imagine that the place had something to do -with it. Of course it hasn’t, but I feel as if I should be my normal -self again if I could once get away.” - -“No. You’ll never be quite the same person again. One never can get -back. But look at it in this way, dear. Do you care enough for Tony to -be of real help to him, to do something for him that no one else can -possibly do?” - -“Do I care for him?” Alice laughed. “I care for him as no one has ever -cared for anyone before.” - -“Ah! That’s what we all think, my dear. I thought that once about Sir -Richard. But you can do everything for him now, if you will.” - -But Alice shrugged her shoulders. “As far as I understand it,” she said, -“you want me to spy on Mr. Maradick.” - -“No, not to spy, of course not. Only to behave to Tony as if nothing had -happened, and to help me about Sir Richard. And then you can talk to Mr. -Maradick, if you like; ask him right out about her.” - -“Oh, then he’ll say, and quite rightly too, that it’s none of my -business.” - -“But it is. It’s all our business. A thing like that can’t happen to -anybody without its interfering, like a stone and a pool, with -everything around it. Of course it’s your business, yours more than -anybody’s. And really, dear, I don’t think you’ll make things any better -by going away. Things seem far worse when you’ve got to look over ever -so many counties to see them at all. Stay here with Tony and live it -down. It will pass, like the measles or anything else.” - -She paused. Then she suddenly put her arms round the girl and held her -close. “I want you, I want you, dear. I am very miserable. I feel that I -am losing Tony, perhaps for always. He will never be the same again, and -I can’t bear it. He has always been the centre of everything, always. I -scarcely know how I could have faced some things if it hadn’t been for -him. And now I’ve got to face them alone; but if you are here with me I -shan’t be alone after all.” - -And Alice let her face rest in Lady Gale’s dress and she promised. There -was, as it happened, more in her promise than mere acquiescence. She had -her own curiosity as to the way it was all going to turn out, and -perhaps, deep in her heart, a hope that this girl down in the town would -be nothing after all, and that Tony would return, when the two or three -weeks were over, to his senses. But the real temptation that attacked -her was terribly severe. It would be fatally easy to talk to Sir -Richard, and, without saying anything either definite or circumstantial, -to put him unmistakably on the track. The immediate issue would, of -course, be instant marching orders for everybody, and that would be the -last that Tony would see of his rustic. Her thoughts lingered around the -girl. What was she like, she wondered? Coarse, with a face of beetroot -red and flaxen hair; no, Tony had taste, he would know what to choose. -She was probably pretty. Wild and uncouth, perhaps; that would be likely -to catch him. And now she, Alice Du Cane, must stand quietly by and play -the part of platonic friend. What fun life must be for the gods who had -time to watch. - -Meanwhile Tony had found Maradick in a deserted corner of the garden and -had poured the afternoon’s history into his ears. It was a complete -manual on the way to make love, and it came out in a stream of -uninterrupted eloquence, with much repetition and a continual impulse to -hark back to the central incident of the story. - -“And then, at last, I told her!” A small bird in a nest above their -heads woke for a moment and felt a little thrill of sympathy. “By -heaven, Maradick, old man, I had never lived until then. She and I were -swept into Paradise together, and for a moment earth had gone, rolled -away, vanished; I can’t talk about it, I can’t really. But there we were -on the sand with the sea and the sky! Oh, my word! I can’t make you feel -it, only now I am hers always and she is mine. I am her slave, her -knight. One always used to think, you know, that all the stuff men and -women put about it in books was rot and dreadfully dull at that, but now -it all seems different. Poetry, music, all the things that one loved, -are different now. They are new, wonderful, divine! and there we were in -the boat, you know, just drifting anywhere.” - -Maradick played audience to this enthusiasm with a somewhat melancholy -patience. He had felt like that once about Mrs. Maradick. How absurd! He -saw her as he had seen her last with the bed-clothes gathered about her -in a scornful heap and her eyes half closed but flashing fire. She had -refused to speak to him! And he had kissed her once and felt like Tony. - -“No, but a fellow can’t talk about it. Only, one thing, Maradick, that -struck me as awfully funny, the way that she accepted everything. When I -told her about my people, of course I expected her to be awfully -disappointed. But she seemed to understand at once and accepted it as -the natural thing. So that if it comes to running away she is quite -prepared.” - -“If it comes to running away!” The words at once brought the whole -situation to a point, and Maradick’s responsibility hit him in the face -like a sudden blow from the dark. For a moment fear caught him by the -throat; he wanted, wildly, to fling off the whole thing, to catch the -next train back to Epsom, to get away from this strange place that was -dragging him, as it were, with a ghostly finger, into a whirlpool, a -quagmire; anything was treacherous and dangerous and destructive. And -then he knew, in the next instant, that though he might go back to Epsom -and his office and all the drudgery of it, he would never be the same -man again, he could never be the same man again. He knew now that the -only thing in the world worth having was love—this town had shown him -that—and that, for it, all the other things must go. This boy had found -it and he must help him to keep it. He, Maradick, had found it; there -were friends of his here—Tony, Mrs. Lester—and he couldn’t go back to -the loneliness of his old life with the memory of these weeks. - -“Look here,” he gripped Tony’s arm, “I don’t suppose I ought to have -anything to do with it. Any man in his senses would tell your people, -and there’d be an end of the whole thing; but I gave you my word before -and I’ll go on with it. Besides, I’ve seen the girl. I’d fall in love -with her myself, Tony, if I were your age, and I don’t want you to miss -it all and make a damned muddle of your life just because you weren’t -brave enough or because there wasn’t anyone to help you.” - -“By Jove, Maradick, you’re a brick. I can’t tell you how I feel about -it, about her and you and everything, a chap hasn’t got words; only, of -course, it’s going forward. You see, you couldn’t tell my people after -all that you’ve done—you wouldn’t, you know; and as I’d go on whether -you left me or no you may just as well help me. And then I’m awfully -fond of you; I like you better than I’ve ever liked any man, you’re such -an understanding fellow.” - -Tony took breath a moment. Then he went on— - -“The mater’s really the only thing that matters, and if I wasn’t so -jolly sure that she’d like Janet awfully, and really would want me to -carry the thing through, I wouldn’t do it at all. But loving Janet as I -do has made me know how much the mater is to me. You know, Maradick, -it’s jolly odd, but there are little things about one’s mater that stick -in one’s mind far more than anything else. Little things . . . but she’s -always been just everything, and there are lots of blackguards, I know, -feel just the same . . . and so it sort of hurts going on playing this -game and not telling her about it. It’s the first thing I’ve not told -her . . . but it will be all right when it’s over.” - -“There are other people,” said Maradick; “your father——” - -“Oh, the governor! Yes, he’s beginning to smell a rat, and he’s -tremendous once he’s on the track, and that all means that it’s got to -be done jolly quickly. Besides, there’s Alice Du Cane; she saw us, Janet -and me, on the beach this afternoon, and there’s no knowing how long -she’ll keep her tongue. No, I’ll go and see Morelli to-morrow and ask -him right off. I went back with her to-night, and he was most awfully -friendly, although he must have had pretty shrewd suspicions. He likes -me.” - -“Don’t you be too sure about him,” said Maradick; “I don’t half like it. -I don’t trust him a yard. But see here, Tony, come and see me at once -to-morrow after you’ve spoken to him, and then we’ll know what to do.” - -Tony turned to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “I say. I don’t -know why you’re such a brick to me. I’ll never forget it”; and then -suddenly he turned up the path and was gone. - -Maradick climbed the dark stairs to his room. His wife was in bed, -asleep. He undressed quietly; for an instant he looked at her with the -candle in his hand. She looked very young with her hair lying in a cloud -about the pillow; he half bent down as though he would kiss her. Then he -checked himself and blew out the candle. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - - MORE OF THE ITINERANT OPTIMIST; ALICE DU CANE - ASKS MARADICK A FAVOUR - -Maradick awoke very early on the next morning. As he lay in his bed, his -mind was still covered with the cobwebs of his dreams, and he saw the -room in a fantastic, grotesque shape, so that he was not sure that it -was his room at all, but he thought that it might be some sea with the -tables and chairs for rocks, or some bare windy moor. - -The curtain blew ever so slightly in the wind from the crevice of the -door, and he watched it from his bed as it swelled and bulged and shrunk -back as though it were longing to break away from the door altogether -but had not quite courage enough. But although he was still confused and -vague with the lazy bewilderment of sleep, he realised quite definitely -in the back of his mind that there was some fact waiting for him until -he should be clear-headed enough to recognise it. This certainty of -something definite before him that had to be met and considered roused -him. He did not, in the least, know what that something was that awaited -him, but he tried to pull himself together. The sea receded, the beating -of its waves was very faint in his ears, and the rocks resolved into the -shining glass of the dressing-table and the solemn chairs with their -backs set resolutely against the wall, and their expressions those of -self-conscious virtue. - -He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes; he knew with absolute certainty -that he should not sleep again. The light was trying to pierce the blind -and little eyes of colour winked at him from the window, the silver -things on the dressing-table stood out, pools of white, against the dark -wood. - -He got out of bed, and suddenly the fact stared him in the face: it was -that he was committed, irrevocably committed, to help Tony. He had, in a -way, been committed before, ever since Lady Gale asked him for his help; -but there had always been a chance of escaping, the possibility, indeed, -of the “thing” never coming off at all. But now it was coming off, and -very soon, and he had to help it to come. - -He had turned the whole situation over in his mind so very often, and -looked at it from so very many points of view, with its absurdities and -its tragedies and its moralities, that there was nothing more to be said -about the actual thing at all; that was, in all conscience, concrete -enough. He saw it, as he sat on the bed swinging his feet, there in -front of him, as some actual personality with whom he had pledged -himself in league. He had sworn to help two children to elope against -everybody’s wishes—he, Maradick, of all people the most law-abiding. -What had come over him? However, there it was and there was nothing more -to be said about it. It wasn’t to be looked at again at all with any -view of its possible difficulties and dangers, it had just to be carried -through. - -But he knew, as he thought about it, that the issue was really much -larger than the actual elopement. It was the effect on him that really -mattered, the fact that he could never return to Epsom again with any -hope of being able to live the life there that he had lived before. - -The whole circle of them would be changed by this; it was the most -momentous event in all their lives. - -Maradick looked again at the morning. The mists were rising higher in -the air, and all the colours, the pale golden sand, the red roofs, the -brown bend of the rocks, were gleaming in the sun. He would go and bathe -and then search out Punch. - -It was a quarter past five as he passed down the stairs; the house was -in the most perfect stillness, and only the ticking of innumerable -clocks broke the silence. Suddenly a bird called from the garden; a -little breath of wind, bringing with it the scent of pinks and roses, -trembled through the hall. - -When he reached the cove the sea was like glass. He had never bathed -early in the morning before, and a few weeks ago he would have laughed -at the idea. A man of his age bathing at half-past five in the morning! -The water would be terribly cold. But it wasn’t. He thought that he had -never known anything so warm and caressing as he lay back in it and -looked up through the clear green. There was perfect silence. Things -came into his mind, some operas that he had heard, rather reluctantly, -that year in London. The opening of the third act of Puccini’s “Tosca,” -with the bell-music and the light breaking over the city. He remembered -that he had thought that rather fine at the time. The lovers in “Louise” -on Montmartre watching the lights burst the flowers below them and -saluting “Paris!” He had appreciated that too. A scene in “To Paradise,” -with a man somewhere alone in a strange city watching the people -hurrying past him and counting the lamps that swung, a golden chain, -down the street. Some picture in the Academy of that year, Sim’s “Night -Piece to Julia.” He hadn’t understood it or seen anything in it at the -time. “One of those new fellows who just stick the paint on anyhow,” he -had remarked; but now he seemed to remember a wonderful blue dress and a -white peacock in the background! - -How funny it was, he thought, as he plunged, dripping, back on to the -beach, that the things that a fellow scarcely noticed at all at the time -should be just the things that came into his mind afterwards. And on the -sand he saw Toby, the dog, gravely watching him. Toby came courteously -towards him, sniffed delicately at his socks, and then, having decided -apparently that they were the right kind of socks and couldn’t really be -improved on, sat down with his head against Maradick’s leg. - -Maradick tickled his head and decided that pugs weren’t nearly so ugly -as he had thought they were. But then there was a world of difference -between Toby and the ordinary pug, the fat pug nestling in cushions on -an old lady’s lap, the aristocratic pug staring haughtily from the soft -luxury of a lordly brougham, the town pug, over-fed, over-dressed, -over-washed. But Toby knew the road, he had seen the world, he was a dog -of the drama, a dog of romance; he was also a dog with a sense of -humour. - -He licked Maradick’s bare leg with a very warm tongue and then put a paw -on to his arm. They were friends. He ratified the contract by rolling -over several times on the sand; he then lay on his back with his four -paws suspended rigidly in the air, and then, catching sight of his -master, turned rapidly over and went to meet him. - -Punch expressed no surprise at finding Maradick there at that hour of -the morning. It was the most natural thing in the world. People who came -to Treliss were always doing things like that, and they generally spent -the rest of their lives in trying to forget that they had done them. - -“I’ve been wanting to see you, Mr. Maradick, sir,” he said, “and I’m -mighty glad to find you here when there’s nothing to catch our words -save the sea, and that never tells tales.” - -“Well, as a matter of fact, Garrick,” said Maradick, “I came down after -you. I meant to have gone up to your rooms after bathing, but as you are -here it’s all the better. I badly want to talk to you.” - -Punch sat down on the sand and looked quite absurdly like his dog. - -“I want to talk to you about Morelli, Garrick.” Maradick hesitated a -moment. It was very difficult to put into words exactly what he wanted -to say. “We have talked about the man before, and I shouldn’t bother you -about it again were it not that I’m very fond of young Tony Gale, and -he, as you know, has fallen in love with Morelli’s daughter. It’s all a -long story, but the main point is, that I want to know as much about the -man as you can tell me. Nobody here seems to know very much about him -except yourself.” - -Punch’s brow had clouded at the mention of Morelli’s name. - -“I don’t rightly know,” he said, “as I can say anything very definite, -and that being so perhaps one oughtn’t to say anything at all; but if -young Gale’s going to take that girl away, then I’m glad. He’s a good -fellow, and she’s on my mind.” - -“Why?” said Maradick. - -“Well, perhaps after all it’s best to tell what I know.” Punch took out -a pipe and slowly filled it. “Mind you, it’s all damned uncertain, a lot -of little things that don’t mean anything when taken by themselves. I -first met the man in ’89, twenty years ago. I was a young chap, -twenty-one or so. A kind of travelling blacksmith I used to be then, -with Pendragon up the coast as a kind o’ centre. It was at Pendragon I -saw him. He used to live there then as he lives in Treliss now; it was a -very different kind o’ place then to what it is now—just a sleepy, -dreamy little town, with bad lights, bad roads and the rest, and old -tumbled down ’ouses. Old Sir Jeremy Trojan ’ad the run of it then, him -that’s father of the present Sir Henry, and you wouldn’t have found a -quieter place, or a wilder in some ways.” - -“Wild?” said Maradick. “It’s anything but wild now.” - -“Yes, they’ve changed it with their trams and things, and they’ve pulled -down the cove; but the fisher-folk were a fierce lot and they wouldn’t -stand anyone from outside. Morelli lived there with his wife and little -girl. ’Is wife was only a young thing, but beautiful, with great eyes -like the sea on a blue day and with some foreign blood in ’er, dark and -pale. - -“’E wasn’t liked there any more than ’e is here. They told funny tales -about him even then, and said ’e did things to his wife, they used to -hear her crying. And they said that ’e’d always been there, years back, -just the same, never looking any different, and it’s true enough he -looks just the same now as he did then. It isn’t natural for a man never -to grow any older.” - -“No,” said Maradick, “it isn’t.” - -“There were other things that the men down there didn’t like about ’im, -and the women hated ’im. But whenever you saw ’im he was charming—nice -as ’e could be to me and all of ’em. And he was clever, could do things -with his ’ands, and make birds and beasts do anything at all.” - -“That’s strange,” said Maradick. “Tony said something of the same sort -the other day.” - -“Well, that ain’t canny,” said David, “more especially as I’ve seen -other animals simply shake with fear when he comes near them. Well, I -was telling you, they didn’t like ’im down in the cove, and they’d say -nothing to ’im and leave ’im alone. And then one night”—Punch’s mouth -grew set and hard—“they found Mrs. Morelli up on the moor lying by the -Four Stones, dead.” - -“Dead!” said Maradick, startled. - -“Yes; it was winter time and the snow blowing in great sheets across the -moor and drifting about her dress, with the moon, like a yellow candle, -hanging over ’er. But that weren’t all. She’d been killed, murdered. -There were marks on her face and hands, as though teeth had torn her. -Poor creature!” Punch paused. - -“Well,” said Maradick excitedly, “what was the end of it all?” - -“Oh! they never brought it ’ome to anyone. I ’ad my own thoughts, and -the men about there kind o’ talked about Morelli, but it was proved ’e -was somewhere else when it ’appened and ’e cried like a child when ’e -saw the body.” - -“Well,” said Maradick, laughing, “so far it isn’t very definite. That -might have happened to any man.” But it was, nevertheless, curiously in -keeping with the picture that he had in his mind. - -“Yes,” said Punch, “I told you already that I ’adn’t got anything very -definite. I don’t say as ’e did it or had anything to do with it, but -it’s all of a piece in a way. Thing got ’ot against ’im in Pendragon -after that and ’e ’ad to go, and ’e came ’ere with ’is girl. But they -say that ’e’s been seen there since, and in other places too. And then -I’ve seen ’im do other things. Kill rabbits and birds like a devil. ’E’s -cruel, and then again ’e’s kind, just like a child will pull flies to -bits. ’E _is_ just like a child, and so ’e isn’t to be trusted. ’E’s -wild, like Nature. ’E likes to have young things about ’im. That’s why -’e’s taken to young Gale, and ’e loves that girl in a way, although I -know ’e’s cruel——” - -“Cruel to her?” said Maradick. - -“Yes, ’e beats her, I know. I’ve been watching a long way back; and then -again ’e’ll kiss ’er and give ’er things and play with ’er, and then one -day ’e’ll kill ’er.” - -Maradick started again. “Kill her?” he said. - -“Yes. ’E’ll do anything when ’e’s mad. And a minute after ’e’ll be -sobbing and crying for sorrow over what ’e’s hurt; and be like a -drunkard when ’e’s angry.” - -“Then what do you make of it all?” said Maradick. - -“Make of it?” said Punch. “I don’t know. There ain’t another like ’im in -the kingdom. There’s more in the world than folk ’ave any idea of, -especially those that keep to towns. But it’s out on the road that -you’ll be seeing things, when the moon is up and the hedges purple in -their shadows. And ’e belongs to all of that. ’E’s like Nature in a way, -cruel and kind and wild. ’E’s not to be believed in by sober folks who -laugh at spirits, but there’s more in it than meets the eye.” - -And that was all that Maradick got from him; and after all it did not -amount to very much except a vague warning. But there was this definite -fact, that Janet was in danger where she was, and that was an added -impulse, of course, for going on with the whole adventure. To the -initial charm of helping a delightful boy was now added the romantic -sensation of the release of a captive lady; Maradick, knight! Forty and -married for a lifetime; oh! the absurd world. - -Then Maradick went up for breakfast. - -Mrs. Maradick’s first thought in the morning was her hair, and then, at -some considerable distance, the girls. It never happened that they were -both “right” simultaneously, and she would indeed have been considerably -surprised and felt a certain lack if there had been no cause for -complaint on either score. - -On the present morning everything was as it should be. Her hair “settled -itself” as though by magic, the girls had given no possible cause of -complaint; she came down to breakfast with an air of surprise and the -kind of mind that is quite sure something unpleasant is going to happen -simply because nothing unpleasant _has_ “happened” so far. She -presented, as she came down the hotel staircase, a delightful picture of -neat compact charm; her girls, in precise and maidenly attendance behind -her, accentuated her short stature by their own rather raw, long-legged -size, but there was nothing loose or uncouth about her. In her -colouring, in her light carnation silk waistband, in her high-heeled -shiny shoes, she was neatness personified. - -In the eyes of everyone except Mrs. Lawrence she had perhaps just a -little too much the air of being “somebody,” because really, of course, -she was nothing at all, simply Mrs. Maradick of Epsom; but then when you -were so small you had to do something to make up for it, and an “air” -did help undoubtedly. Her husband, coming in from the garden, met her at -the bottom of the stairs, and she treated him very graciously. He kissed -the girls with a “Well, Lucy!” and “Well, Annie!” and then Mrs. -Maradick, with a final feeling for her hair and a last pat to the -carnation riband, led the way in to breakfast. - -It appeared that she was inclined to treat him graciously, but in -reality she was trying to make up her mind; she was not a clever woman, -and she had never been so puzzled before. - -She had, indeed, never been forced to puzzle about anything at all. In -her orderly compact life things had always been presented to her with a -decency and certainty that left no room for question or argument. She -had been quiet and obedient at home, but she had always had her way; she -had married the man that had been presented to her without any -hesitation at all, it was a “good match,” and it meant that, for the -rest of her life, she would never be forced to ask any questions about -anything or anybody. For a wild week or two, at first, she had felt -strange undisciplined sensations that were undoubtedly dangerous; on -their wedding night she had suddenly suspected that there was another -woman there whose existence meant storm and disorder. But the morning -had come with bills and calls and “finding a house,” and that other Mrs. -Maradick had died. From that day to this there had been no cause for -alarm. James had soon been reduced to order and had become a kind of -necessity, like the sideboard; he paid the bills. Child-birth had been -alarming for a moment, but Mrs. Maradick had always been healthy and -they had an excellent doctor, but, after Annie’s appearance, she had -decided that there should never be another. James presented no -difficulties at all, and her only real worry in life was her “hair.” -There was not very much of it, and she spent her mornings and her temper -in devising plans whereby it should be made to seem “a lot,” but it -never was satisfactory. Her “hair” became the centre of her life, her -horizon. James fitted into it. If the “hair” were all right, he didn’t -seem so bad. Otherwise he was stupid, dull, an oaf. - -And so she had come down to Treliss and life had suddenly changed. It -had really changed from that first evening of their arrival when he had -been so rude to her, although she had not realised it at the time. But -the astonishing thing was that he had kept it up. He had never kept -anything up before, and it was beginning to frighten her. At first it -had seemed to her merely conceit. His head had been turned by these -people, and when he got back to Epsom and found that he wasn’t so -wonderful after all, and that the people there didn’t think of him at -all except as her husband, then he would find his place again. - -But now she wasn’t so sure. She had not been asleep last night when he -came to bed. She had seen him bend over with the candle in his hand, and -the look in his eyes had frightened her, frightened her horribly, so -that she had lain awake for hours afterwards, thinking, puzzling for the -first time in her life. During all these twenty years of their married -life he had been, she knew, absolutely faithful to her. She had laughed -at it sometimes, because it had seemed so absolutely impossible that -there should ever be anyone else. He did not attract people in Epsom in -the least; he had never made any attempt to, and she had imagined him, -poor fellow, sometimes trying, and the miserable mess that he would make -of it. - -And now she had got to face the certainty that there was some one else. -She had seen it in his eyes last night, and she knew that he would never -have had the strength to keep up the quarrel for nearly a fortnight -unless some one else had been there. She saw now a thousand things that -should have convinced her before, little things all culminating in that -horrible picnic a few days ago. It was as though, she thought, he had -come down to Treliss determined to find somebody. She remembered him in -the train, how pleasant and agreeable he had been! He had arranged -cushions for her, got things for her, but the moment they had arrived! -Oh! this hateful town! - -But now she had got to act. She had woke early that morning and had -found that he was already gone. That alone was quite enough to stir all -her suspicions. - -Perhaps now he was down there in the town with some one! Why should he -get up at an unearthly hour unless it were for something of the kind? He -had always been a very sound sleeper. At Epsom he would never have -thought of getting up before eight. Who was it? - -She put aside, for a moment, her own feelings about him, the curious way -in which she was beginning to look at him. The different side that he -was presenting to her and the way that she looked at it must wait until -she had discovered this woman, this woman! She clenched her little hands -and her eyes flashed. - -Oh! she would talk to her when she found her! - -His early escape that morning seemed to her a sign that the “woman” was -down in the town. She imagined an obvious assignation, but otherwise she -might have suspected that it was Mrs. Lester. That, of course, she had -suspected from the day of the picnic, but it seemed to her difficult to -imagine that a woman of the world, as Mrs. Lester, to give her her due, -most obviously was, could see anything in her hulk of a James; it would -be much more probable if it were some uncouth fisherwoman who knew, poor -thing, no better. - -She looked at him now across the breakfast-table; his red cheeks, his -great nostrils “like a horse’s,” his enormous hands, but it was not all -hostility the look that she gave him. There was a kind of dawning wonder -and surprise. - -They had their table by the window, and the sun beat through on to the -silver teapot and the ham and eggs. Annie had refused porridge. No, she -wasn’t hungry. - -“You should have bathed, as I did, before breakfast,” said Maradick. - -So he’d bathed before breakfast, had he? She looked across at him -smiling. - -“You were up very early,” she said. - -“Yes, I slept badly.” They were down again, those blinds! She saw him -drop them down as though by magic. He was playing his game. - -“Well, next time you must wake me and I’ll come too,” she said. His -sense of humour was touched at the idea of her coming down at five in -the morning, but he said nothing. - -The knowledge, the increasing certainty that there was something in it -all, was choking her so that she found it exceedingly difficult to eat. -But that she should be baffled by James was so incredible an idea that -she concealed her rising temper. - -She nodded gaily at Mrs. Lawrence, who swam towards their table with -outstretched hands and a blue scarf floating like wings behind her. - -“My dear!” - -“My dear!” - -“But you generally have it upstairs, I thought . . .” - -“Yes, I know; but _such_ a day, one couldn’t really . . .” - -“Yes, I was awake ever so . . . But James has been bathing. No, Lucy, -sit still, dear, until we’ve finished. Bathing before breakfast. I think -I really must to-morrow.” - -Epsom closed about the table. - -She was extremely nice to him throughout the meal, and even hinted at -their doing something, spending the day, “and _such_ a day.” It was a -shame not to take advantage of the weather “as a family.” Quite a new -idea, indeed, but he accepted it, and even began to suggest possible -places. She was baffled again, and, as the terrible prospect of a whole -day spent in James’s company, quite alone except for the girls, pressed -about her, became almost hysterical in her hurriedly discovered reasons -why, after all, it would never do. But he smiled at her, and although he -was quite ready to do anything that she might suggest, it was a -different kind of agreeing from a week or two ago. - -She retired from the breakfast-table baffled. - -He had been watching the door of the breakfast-room eagerly, and when he -went out down into the garden he was still looking for the same figure. -There was no longer, there could be no longer any disguise about the -person, it was Mrs. Lester beyond any possible question; but he _did_ -disguise the reason. He wanted to talk to her, he liked to talk to her, -just as he liked to talk to any understanding person, quite irrespective -of sex. She had, of course, her atmosphere; it had a great deal in -common with the place and the weather and the amazing riot of colour -that the weather had brought. He saw her always as she had been on that -first day, primrose, golden, in that dark dim drawing-room; but that he -should think of her in that way didn’t show him, as it should have done, -how the case was really beginning to lie. - -He had the “Play-boy” on his knee and the light swung, as some great -golden censor is swung before the High Altar, in waves of scent and -colour backwards and forwards before him. He watched, looking eagerly -down the sunlit path, but she did not come, and the morning passed in -its golden silence and he was still alone. - -It wasn’t indeed until after lunch that things began to move again, and -then Tony came to him. He was in a glow of pleasure and excitement; she -had written to him. - -“It was most awfully clever; she only wrote it after I left last night -and she hadn’t time to post it, of course, but she gave it to the old -apple-woman—you know, down by the tower—and right under her father’s -nose, and he hadn’t the least idea, and I’ve written back because I -mayn’t, perhaps, get a word with her this afternoon, and old Morelli -will be there.” - -He sat on the edge of the stone wall, looking down at the town and -swinging his legs. The town was in a blaze of sun, seen dimly through a -haze of gold-dust. It hung like a lamp against the blue sky, because the -mist gathered closely about its foundations, and only its roofs and -pinnacles seemed to swing in the shifting dazzling sun before their -eyes. - -“The old apple-woman,” said Tony, “is simply ripping, and I think she -must have had an awfully sad life. I should like to do something for -her.” There were at least ten people a day for whom he wanted to do -something. “I asked Bannister about her, but he wasn’t very interested; -but that’s because his smallest baby’s got whooping-cough. He told me -yesterday he simply whooped all night, and Mrs. Bannister had to sit up -with it, which pretty well rotted her temper next day.” Tony paused with -a consciousness that he was wandering from the point. “Anyhow, here’s -her letter, Janet’s, I mean. I know she wouldn’t mind you seeing it, -because you are in it almost as much as I am.” He held out the letter. - -“Did Morelli see her give it to the apple-woman?” asked Maradick. - -“Yes, she tells you in the letter. But he didn’t spot anything. He’s -such a funny beggar; he seems so smart sometimes, and then other times -he doesn’t see anything. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter much, because I’m -going to see him now and tell him everything.” - -“Well; and then?” said Maradick. - -“Oh! he’ll agree, I know he will. And then I think we’ll be married -right at once; there’s no use in waiting, you know, and there’s a little -church right over by Strater Cove, near the sea, a little tumbledown -place with a parson who’s an awful sportsman. He’s got five children and -two hundred a year, and—oh! where was I?—and then we’ll just come back -and tell them. They can’t do anything then, you know, and father will -get over it all right.” - -Tony was so serene about it, swinging his legs there in the sun, that -Maradick could say nothing. - -“And if Morelli doesn’t take to the idea?” he ventured at last. - -“Oh! he!” said Tony. “Oh, he’s really most awfully keen. You noticed how -we got on. I took to him from the first, there was something about him.” -But he swung round rather anxiously towards Maradick. “Why! do you think -he won’t?” he said. - -“I’m not sure of him,” Maradick answered. “I never have been. And then I -was with Punch this morning and he told me things about him.” - -“Things! What sort of things?” asked Tony rather incredulously. - -“Oh, about the way that he treated his wife.” It was, after all, -Maradick reflected, extremely vague, nothing very much that one could -lay hands on. “I don’t like the man, and I don’t for a minute think that -he’s playing square with you.” - -But Tony smiled, a rather superior smile. After all, that was Maradick’s -way, to be pessimistic about things; it was to do with his age. -Middle-aged people were always cautious and suspicious. For a moment he -felt quite a distance from Maradick, and something akin to the same -feeling made him stretch out his hand for Janet’s letter. - -“After all,” he said rather awkwardly, “perhaps she would rather that I -didn’t show it to anyone, even you.” He jumped down from the wall. -“Well, I must be off. It’s after three. I say, keep the family in the -dark until I’m back. They’re sure to ask. Now that Alice and father are -both beginning to think about it we shall fairly have to begin the -conspirator business.” He laughed in his jolly way and stood in front of -Maradick with a smile all over his face. Suddenly he leant forward and -put his hands on the other man’s shoulders and shook him gently. - -“You silly old rotter, don’t look so sad about it, you don’t know what -fun it will all be. And you are the biggest brick in the world, anyway. -Janet and I will never forget you.” He bent down lower. “I say, you’re -not sick with me, are you? Because, scold me like anything if I’ve done -things. I always am doing things, you know.” He turned round and faced -the shining path and the sky like glass. “I say! Isn’t it topping? But I -must be off. I’ll come at once and tell you when I get back. But I’ll -have to be in time for dinner to-night or the governor will keep me to -my room on bread and water.” He was gone. - -Maradick, looking back on it all afterwards, always saw that moment as -the beginning of the second act. The first act, of course, had begun -with that vision of Janet on the stairs with the candle in her hand. -That seemed a long while ago now. Then had come all the other things, -the picnic, the swim, the talk with Mrs. Lester, Tony’s proposal, his -own talk with Punch that morning; all little things, but all leading the -situation inevitably towards its climax. But they had all been in their -way innocent, unoffending links in the chain. Now there was something -more serious in it all, from that evening some other element mingled -with the comedy. - -He suddenly felt irritated with the sun and the colour and began to walk -up and down the path. The uneasiness that he had felt all the afternoon -increased; he began to wish that he had not allowed Tony to go down -alone. Nothing, of course, could happen to the boy; it was absurd that -he should imagine things, and probably it was due to the heat. Every now -and again some sound came up from the town—a cry, a bell, the noisy -rattle of a cart, and it seemed like an articulate voice; the town -seemed to have a definite personality, some great animal basking there -in the sun, and its face was the face of Morelli. - -He sat down on one of the seats in the shadiest part of the garden; the -trees hung over it in thick dark shadows, and at times a breeze pushed -like a bird’s wing through their branches. - -All around him the path was dark, beyond it was a broad belt of light. -He must have gone asleep, because almost immediately he seemed to be -dreaming. The shadows on the path receded and advanced as a door opens -and shuts; the branches of the trees bent lower and lower. It seemed in -his dream that he recognised something menacing in their movement, and -he rose and passed through the garden and in a moment he was in the -town. Here too it was dark, and in the market-place the tower stood, a -black mass against the grey sky behind it, and the streets twisted like -snakes up and down about the hill. - -And then suddenly he was at Morelli’s house, he recognised the strange -carving and the crooked, twisting shape of the windows. The door opened -easily to his hand and he passed up the stairs. The house was quite -dark; he had to grope to find his way. And then he was opposed by -another door, something studded with nails—he could feel them with his -hands—and heavily barred. He heard voices on the other side of the -door, low, soft whispers, and then he recognised them, they were Tony -and Morelli. He was driven by an impulse to beat the door and get at -them; some fear clutched at his throat so that he felt that Tony was in -terrible danger. In a minute he knew that he would be too late. - -He knocked, at first softly and then furiously; for a moment the voices -stopped, and then they began again. No one paid any attention to his -knocking. He knew with absolute certainty that in a few minutes the door -would open, but first something would happen. He began to beat on the -door with his fists and to call out; the house was, for the rest, -perfectly silent. - -And then suddenly he heard Morelli’s laugh. There was a moment’s -silence, and then Tony screamed, a terrified, trembling scream; the door -began to open. - -Maradick awoke to find himself on the garden seat with his head sunk on -his breast and some one looking at him; in the hazy uncertainty of his -waking his first thought was that it was Janet—he had scarcely -recovered from his dream. He soon saw that it was not Janet, and, -looking up confusedly, blushed on finding that it was Alice Du Cane. She -was dressed in white, in something that clung about her and seemed to be -made all in one piece. It looked to him very beautiful, and the great -sweeping dark hat that she wore must have been delightfully shady, but -it only had the effect of confusing him still more. - -He knew Alice Du Cane very slightly, in fact he couldn’t really be said -to know her at all. They said “good morning” and “good evening,” and it -had occasionally happened that they had had to talk “just to keep the -ball rolling” at some odd minute or other, but she had always given him -the impression of being in quite “other worlds,” from which she might -occasionally look down and smile, but into which he could never possibly -be admitted. He had quite acquiesced in all of this, although he had no -feeling of the kind about the rest of the party; but she belonged, he -felt, to that small, mysterious body of people who, in his mind at any -rate, “were the very top.” He was no snob about them, and he did not -feel that they were any the better people for their high position, but -he did feel that they were different. There were centuries of tradition -behind them, that perhaps was really it, and there were the old houses -with their lawns and picture galleries, and there were those wonderful -ancestors who had ruled England from the beginning of time. - -He had laughed sometimes when his wife had represented to him that -certain people in Epsom, alluded to in a hushed voice and mysterious -nods, were really “it.” He knew so well that they were not; nothing to -do with it at all. But he always recognised “it” at once when it was -there. He did not recognise “it” in the Gales; there was a certain -quality of rest arising from assurance of possession that they lacked, -but Alice Du Cane had got “it,” most assuredly she had got “it.” - -He liked to watch her. She moved with so beautiful a quiet and carried -herself with so sure a dignity; he admired her enormously, but had been -quite prepared to keep his distance. - -And then suddenly he had seen that she was in love with Tony, and she -was at once drawn into the vortex. She became something more than a -person at whom one looked, whom one admired as a picture; she was part -of the situation. He had been extremely sorry for her, and it had been -her unhappiness more than anything else that had worried him about his -part in the affair. But now, as he saw her there watching him with a -smile and leaning ever so slightly on her parasol, of ever so delicate a -pink, he was furiously embarrassed. - -He had been sleeping, probably with his mouth open, and she had been -watching him. He jumped to his feet. - -“Oh, Miss Du Cane,” he stammered, “I really——” - -But she broke in upon him, laughing. - -“Oh! what a shame! Really, Mr. Maradick, I didn’t mean to, but the -gravel scrunched or something and it woke you. I’ve been doing the same -thing, sleeping, I mean; it’s impossible to do anything else with heat -like this.” Then her face grew grave. “All the same I’m not sure that -I’m sorry, because I have wanted to talk to you very badly all day, and -now, unless you _do_ want to go to sleep again, it does seem to be a -chance.” - -“Why, of course,” he answered gravely, and he made way for her on the -seat. He felt the sinister afternoon pressing upon him again. He was -disturbed, worried, anxious; his nerves were all to pieces. And then she -did most certainly embarrass him. The very way that she sat down, the -careful slowness of her movement, and the grace with which she leant -slightly forward so that the curve of her neck was like the curve of a -pink shell against her white dress, embarrassed him. And he was tired, -most undoubtedly tired; it was all beginning to be too much for him. - -And then he suddenly caught a look in her eyes as she turned towards -him; something melancholy and appealing in it touched his heart and his -embarrassment left him. - -“Mr. Maradick,” she began hurriedly, with her face again turned away -from him, “you are much older than I am, and so I expect you’ll -understand what I am trying to get at. And anyhow, you know all that’s -been going on this week, more than anyone else does, and so there’s no -need to beat about the bush. Besides, I always hate it. I always want to -get straight at the thing, don’t you?” - -“Yes,” he said. It was one of the true things about both of them. - -“Well then, of course it’s about Tony. We all want to know about Tony, -and nobody does know except you, and everybody’s afraid to ask you -except myself, so there you are. You mustn’t think me impertinent; I -don’t mean to be, but we _must_ know—some of us, at any rate!” - -“What _must_ you know?” he said. He was suddenly on his mettle. He -resented the note of command in her voice. About his general position in -the world he was quite ready to yield place, but about Tony’s affairs he -would yield to no one; that was another matter. - -“Why, of course,” she said, looking at him, “what _I_ want to know, what -we all want to know, is what he is doing. Of course we have all, by this -time, a pretty good idea. I saw him with that girl down on the beach, -and it’s been pretty obvious, by his being away so continually, what he -is after. No, it isn’t exactly so much what he is doing as whether it’s -all right.” - -“But then,” said Maradick, facing her, “why exactly are you asking me? -Why not ask Tony?” - -“Oh! you know that would be no good,” she said, shaking her head -impatiently. “Tony would tell me nothing. If he wanted to tell us -anything he would have told us. You can see how secret he’s been keeping -it all. And you’re the only other person who knows. Besides, I don’t -want you to betray any secrets, it’s only to tell us if it’s all right. -If you say it is then we shall know.” - -“And who exactly is ‘we’?” Maradick asked. - -Alice hesitated a moment. Then she said, “It’s Lady Gale really who -wants to know. She’s suffering terribly all this time, but she’s afraid -to ask you herself because you might tell her too much, and then she -couldn’t be loyal to Sir Richard. But, you know, she spoke to you -herself about it.” - -“Yes, she did,” said Maradick slowly. “Then I suppose that this, her -sending you, means that she doesn’t quite trust me now. She said before -that she would leave it in my hands.” - -“Yes. She trusts you just as much, of course. Only—well, you see, you -haven’t known Tony all his life as we have, you haven’t cared for him -quite as much as we have. And then I’m a woman, I should probably see a -whole lot of things in it that you couldn’t see. It’s only that you -should tell me a little about it, and then, if Lady Gale sees that we -both think it’s all right, she will be happier. Only, she’s felt a -little, just lately, that you weren’t very comfortable about it.” - -“Is it only Lady Gale?” asked Maradick. - -“Well, of course I want to know too. You see, I’ve known Tony since we -were both babies, and of course I’m fond of him, and I should hate him -to get in a mess”; she finished up rather breathlessly. - -He had a strong feeling of the pathos of it all. He knew that she was -proud and that she had probably found it very difficult to come to him -as she had done. - -He could see now that she was struggling to keep her old pride and -reserve, but that she found it very hard. - -His voice was very tender as he spoke to her. - -“Miss Du Cane,” he said, “I understand. I do indeed. I would have spoken -to Lady Gale herself if she hadn’t begged me to keep quiet about it. -Besides, I wasn’t sure, I’m not sure now, how things were really going, -and I was afraid of alarming her.” - -“Then there _is_ trouble?” Alice said; “you _are_ anxious?” - -“No, not really,” Maradick hastened to assure her. “As far as the main -thing goes—the girl herself, I mean—it’s the best thing that could -possibly happen to Tony. The girl is delightful; better than that, she -is splendid. I won’t tell you more, simply that it _is_ all right.” - -“And Tony loves her?” Alice’s voice trembled in spite of itself. - -“Yes, heart and soul,” said Maradick fervently; “and I think when you -see her that you will agree about her. Only you must see the -difficulties as well as I do; what we are doing is the only thing to do. -I think that to take Tony away now would lead to dreadful disaster. He -must go through with it. The whole thing has gone too far now for it -possibly to be stopped.” - -“Then tell me,” Alice said slowly, “was she, do you suppose, the girl -that I saw down on the beach with Tony?” - -“Yes,” said Maradick, “she must have been.” - -The girl got up slowly from the seat and stood with her back to him, her -slim white figure drawn to its full height; the sun played like fire -about her dress and hair, but there was something very pathetic in the -way that she let her arms with a slow hopeless gesture fall to her side, -and stared, motionless, down the path. - -Then she turned round to him. - -“Thank you, Mr. Maradick,” she said, “that’s all I wanted to know. I am -happier about it, and Lady Gale will be too. You’re quite right about -taking Tony away. It would only mean a hopeless break with Sir Richard, -and then his mother would be caught into it too, and that must be -averted at all costs. Besides, if she is as nice as you say, perhaps, -after all, it is the best thing that could happen. And, at any rate,” -she went on after a little pause, “we are all most awfully grateful to -you. I don’t know what we should have done otherwise.” - -Some one was coming down the path. They both, at the same moment, saw -that it was Mrs. Lester. - -Alice turned. “I must go,” she said. “Thank you again for what you told -me.” - -He watched her walk down the path, very straight and tall, with a grace -and ease that were delightful to him. The two women stopped for a moment -and spoke; then Alice passed out of sight and Mrs. Lester came towards -him. - -Some clock in the distance struck six. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - - MARADICK IN A NEW RÔLE—HE AFTERWARDS SEES TONY’S - FACE IN A MIRROR - -He didn’t precisely know what his feelings were; he was too hot, and the -whole thing was too much of a surprise for him to think at all; the -thing that he did most nearly resemble, if he had wanted similes, was -some sharply contested citadel receiving a new attack on its crumbling -walls before the last one was truly over. - -But that again was not a simile that served with any accuracy, because -he was so glad, so tumultuously and intensely glad, to see her. He -wanted to keep that moment, that instant when she was coming down the -path towards him, quite distinct from all the other moments of his life -in its beauty and colours, and so he focussed in his mind the deep green -of the trees and their purple shadows on the path, the noise that two -birds made, and the deep rustle as of some moving water that her dress -sent to him as she came. - -He sat there, one hand on each knee, looking straight before him, -motionless. - -Mrs. Lester had that morning done her utmost to persuade her husband to -“play a game.” She was brimming over with sentiment, partly because of -the weather, partly because Treliss always made her feel like that, -partly because it was “in the air” in some vague way through Tony. - -She did not understand it, but she knew that she had one of her “fits,” -a craving for excitement, for doing anything that could give one -something of a fling. - -But her talk with her husband had also partly arisen from her -realisation of her feeling for Maradick. She was not a very serious -woman, she took life very lightly, but she knew that her affection for -her husband was by far the best and most important thing in her. - -She knew this through all the passing and temporary moods that she might -have, and she had learnt to dread those moods simply because she never -knew how far she might go. But then Fred would be so provoking! As he -was just now, for instance, paying no attention to her at all, wrapped -in his stupid writing, talking about nerves and suggesting doctors. - -But she had tried very hard that morning to awaken him to a sense of the -kind of thing that was happening to her. She had even, with a sudden -sense of panic, suggested leaving the place altogether, hinting that it -didn’t suit her. But he had laughed. - -She had, in fact, during these last few days, been thinking of Maradick -a great deal. For one thing, she hated Mrs. Maradick; she had never in -her life before hated anyone so thoroughly. She took people easily as a -rule and was charitable in her judgment, but Mrs. Maradick seemed to her -to be everything that was bad. The little woman’s assumption of a manner -that quite obviously could never belong to her, her complacent patronage -of everybody and everything, her appearance, everything seemed to Mrs. -Lester the worst possible; she could scarcely bear to stay in the same -room with her. She had, therefore, for Maradick a profound pity that had -grown as the days advanced. He had seemed to her so patient under what -must be a terrible affliction. And so “the game” had grown more serious -than usual, serious enough to make her hesitate, and to run, rather as a -frightened child runs to its nurse, to Fred for protection. But Fred -wouldn’t listen, or, what was worse, listened only to laugh. Well, on -Fred’s head be it then! - -She had not, however, set out that afternoon with any intention of -finding him; she was, indeed, surprised when she saw him there. - -They both, at once, felt that there was something between them that had -not been there before; they were both nervous, and she did not look at -him as she sat down. - -“How lazy we are!” she, said. “Why, during the last week we’ve been -nothing at all but ‘knitters in the sun!’ I know that’s a nice quotation -out of somewhere, but I haven’t the least idea where. But, as a matter -of fact, it’s only the irresponsible Tony who’s been rushing about, and -he’s made up for most of us.” - -She was dressed in her favourite colour, blue, the very lightest and -palest of blue. She had a large picture hat tied, in the fashion of a -summer of a year or two before, with blue ribbon under her chin; at her -belt was a bunch of deep crimson carnations. She took one of them out -and twisted it round in her fingers. - -She looked up at him and smiled. - -“You’re looking very cool and very cross,” she said, “and both are -irritating to people on a hot day. Oh! the heat!” She waved her -carnation in the air. “You know, if I had my way I should like to be -wheeled about in a chair carved out of ice and sprayed by cool negroes -with iced rose water! There! Isn’t that Théophile Gautier and Théodore -de Banville and the rest? Oh dear! what rot I’m talking; I’m——” - -“I wish,” he said, looking her all over very slowly, “that you’d be -yourself, Mrs. Lester, just for a little. I hate all that stuff; you -know you’re not a bit like that really. I want you as you are, not a -kind of afternoon-tea dummy!” - -“But I am like that,” she said, laughing lightly, but also a little -nervously. “I’m always like that in hot weather and at Treliss. We’re -all like that just now, on the jump. There’s Lady Gale and Sir Richard -and Alice Du Cane, and Rupert too, if he wasn’t too selfish, all -worrying their eyes out about Tony, and there’s Tony worrying his eyes -out about some person or persons unknown, and there’s my husband -worrying his eyes out about his next masterpiece, and there’s you -worrying your eyes out about——” She paused. - -“Yes,” said Maradick, “about?” - -“Oh! I don’t know—something. It was easy enough to see as one came -along. I asked Alice Du Cane; she didn’t know. What was she talking to -you for?” - -“Why shouldn’t she?” - -“Oh! I don’t know; only she’s on the jump like the rest of us and hasn’t -honoured anyone with her conversation very much lately. The place has -got hold of you. That’s what it is. What did I tell you? Treliss is full -of witches and devils, you know, and they like playing tricks with -people like yourself, incredulous people who like heaps of eggs and -bacon for breakfast and put half a crown in the plate on Sundays. I -know.” - -He didn’t say anything, so she went on: - -“But I suppose Alice wanted to know what Tony was doing. That’s what -they all want to know, and the cat will be out of the bag very soon. For -my part, I think we’d all better go away and try somewhere else. This -place has upset us.” Suddenly her voice dropped and she leant forward -and put her hand for a moment on his knee. “But please, Mr. -Maradick—we’re friends—we made a compact the other day, that, while we -were here, you know, we’d be of use to each other; and now you must let -me be of use, please.” - -That had never failed of its effect, that sudden passing from gay to -grave, the little emotional quiver in the voice, the gentle touch of the -hand; but now she was serious about it, it was, for once, uncalculated. - -And it had its effect on him. A quiver passed through his body at her -touch; he clenched his hands. - -“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “but I don’t think you can help me just -now, Mrs. Lester. Besides, I don’t think that I want any help. As you -say, we’re all a little strained just now; the weather, I suppose.” He -paused and then went on: “Only, you don’t know what it is to me to have -you for a friend. I’ve thought a good deal about it these last few days. -I’ve not been a man of very many friends, women especially little.” - -“Life,” she said, “is so difficult.” She liked to talk about life in the -abstract; she was not a clever woman and she never pretended to keep -pace with her husband in all his ideas, but, after all, it was something -to be able to talk about life at all—if one said that it was “queer” or -“difficult” or “odd” there was a kind of atmosphere. - -She said it again; “Life is so difficult . . . one really doesn’t know.” - -“I had never known,” he answered, looking steadily in front of him, -“until these last weeks how difficult it was. You’ve made it that, you -know.” - -She broke in nervously, “Oh, surely, Mr. Maradick.” - -She was suddenly frightened of him. She thought she had never seen -anyone so strong and fierce. She could see the veins stand out on the -back of his hands and the great curve of his arm as he leant forward. - -“Yes,” he went on roughly, “I’m not fooling. I’d never seen what life -was before. These last weeks, you and other things have shown me. I -thought it was life just going on in an office, making money, dining at -home, sleeping. Rot! That’s not life. But now! now! I know. I was forty. -I thought life was over. Rot! life’s beginning. I don’t care what -happens, I’m going to take it. I’m not going to miss it again. Do you -see? I’m not going to miss it again. A man’s a fool if he misses it -twice.” - -He was speaking like a drunken man. He stumbled over his words; he -turned round and faced her. He saw the ribbon under her chin rise and -fall with her breathing. She was looking frightened, staring at him like -a startled animal. He saw her dress in a blue mist against the golden -path and the green trees, and out of it her face rose white and pink and -a little dark under the eyes and then shadows under the sweeping hat. He -began to breathe like a man who has been running. - -She put out her hand with a gesture as though she would defend herself, -and gave a little cry as he suddenly seized and crushed it in his. - -He bent towards her, bending his eyes upon her. “No, it’s rot, missing -it again. My wife never cared for me; she’s never cared. Nobody’s cared, -and I’ve been a fool not to step out and take things. It isn’t any use -just to wait, I see that now. And now we’re here, you and I. Just you -and I. Isn’t it funny? I’m not going to make love to you. That’s rot, -there isn’t time. But I’ve got you; I’m strong!” - -She was terrified and shrunk back against the seat, but at the same time -she had an overwhelming, overpowering realisation of his strength. He -was strong. His hand crushed hers, she could see his whole body turning -towards her as a great wave turns; she had never known anyone so strong -before. - -“Mr. Maradick! Please! Let me go!” - -Her voice was thin and sharp like a child’s. But he suddenly leaned -forward and took her in his arms; he crushed her against him so that she -could feel his heart beating against her like a great hammer. He turned -her head roughly with his hand and bent down and kissed her. His mouth -met hers as though it would never go. - -She could not breathe, she was stifled—then suddenly he drew back; he -almost let her fall back. She saw him bend down and pick up his hat, and -he had turned the corner of the path and was gone. - -He did not know how he left the garden. He did not see it or realise it, -but suddenly he found himself in the stretch of cornfield that reached, -a yellow band, from horizon to horizon. The field ran down the hill, and -the little path along which he stumbled crept in and out across the top -of the slope. Below the corn was the distant white road, and curving -round to the left was the little heap of white cottages that stand, -stupidly, almost timidly, at the water’s edge. Then beyond that again -was the wide blue belt of the sea. The corn was dark brown like burnt -sugar at the top and a more golden yellow as it turned trembling to the -ground. The scarlet poppies were still split in pools and lakes and -rivers across its breast, and it seemed to have caught some of their -colour in its darker gold. - -Still not knowing what he was doing, he sat down heavily on a little -green mound above the path and looked with stupid, half-closed eyes at -the colour beneath him. He did not take it in, his heart was still -beating furiously; every now and again his throat moved convulsively, -his hands were white against his knee. - -But, through his dazed feelings, he knew that he was glad for what he -had done. Very glad! A kind of strange triumph at having really done it! -There was something pounding, drumming through his veins that was new—a -furious excitement that had never been there before. - -He felt no shame or regret or even alarm at possible consequences. He -did not think for an instant of Mrs. Maradick or the girls. His body, -the muscles and the nerves, the thick arms, the bull neck, the chest -like a rock—those were the parts of him that were glad, furiously glad. -He was primeval, immense, sitting there on the little green hill with -the corn and the sea and the world at his feet. - -He did not see the world at all, but there passed before his eyes, like -pictures on a shining screen, some earlier things that had happened to -him and had given him that same sense of furious physical excitement. He -saw himself, a tiny boy, in a hard tight suit of black on a Sunday -afternoon in their old home at Rye. Church bells were ringing somewhere, -and up the twisting, turning cobbles of the street grave couples were -climbing. The room in which he was hung dark and gloomy about him, and -he was trying to prevent himself from slipping off the shiny horsehair -chair on which he sat, his little black-stockinged legs dangling in the -air. In his throat was the heavy choking sensation of the fat from the -midday dinner beef. On the stiff sideboard against the wall were ranged -little silver dishes containing sugar biscuits and rather dusty little -chocolates; on the opposite side of the room, in a heavy gilt frame, was -the stern figure of his grandmother, with great white wristbands and a -sharp pointed nose. - -He was trying to learn his Sunday Collect, and he had been forbidden to -speak until he had learnt it; his eyes were smarting and his head was -swimming with weariness, and every now and again he would slip right -forward on the shiny chair. The door opened and a gentleman entered, a -beautiful, wonderful gentleman, with a black bushy beard and enormous -limbs; the gentleman laughed and caught him up in his arms, the -prayer-book fell with a clatter to the floor as he buried his curly head -in the beard. He did not know now, looking back, who the gentleman had -been, but that moment stood out from the rest of his life with all its -details as something wonderful, magic. . . . - -And then, later—perhaps he was about fifteen, a rather handsome, shy -boy—and he was in an orchard. The trees were heavy with flowers, and -the colours, white and pink, swung with the wind in misty clouds above -his head. Over the top of the old red-brown wall a girl’s face was -peeping. He climbed an old gnarled tree that hung across the wall and -bent down towards her; their lips met, and as he leaned towards her the -movement of his body shook the branches and the petals fell about them -in a shower. He had forgotten the name of the little girl, it did not -matter, but the moment was there. - -And then again, later still, was the moment when he had first seen Mrs. -Maradick. It had been at some evening function or other, and she had -stood with her shining shoulders under some burning brilliant lights -that swung from the ceiling. Her dress had been blue, a very pale blue; -and at the thought of the blue dress his head suddenly turned, the corn -swam before him and came in waves to meet him, and then receded, back to -the sky-line. - -But it was another blue dress that he saw, not Mrs. Maradick’s—the blue -dress, the blue ribbon, the trees, the golden path. His hands closed -slowly on his knees as though he were crushing something; his teeth were -set. - -Everything, except the one central incident, had passed from his mind, -only that was before him. The minutes flew past him; in the town bells -struck and the sun sank towards the sea. - -He made a great effort and tried to think connectedly. This thing that -had happened would make a great change in his life, it would always -stand out as something that could never be altered. Anyone else who -might possibly have had something to say about it—Mrs. Maradick, Mr. -Lester—didn’t count at all. It was simply between Mrs. Lester and -himself. - -A very faint rose-colour crept up across the sky. It lingered in little -bands above the line of the sea, and in the air immediately above the -corn tiny pink cushions lay in heaps together; the heads of the corn -caught the faint red glow and held it in the heart of their dark gold. - -The sheer physical triumph began to leave Maradick. His heart was -beating less furiously and the blood was running less wildly through his -veins. - -He began to wonder what she, Mrs. Lester, was thinking about it. She, of -course, was angry—yes, probably furiously angry. Perhaps she would not -speak to him again; perhaps she would tell her husband. What had made -him do it? What had come to him? He did not know; but even now, let the -consequences be what they might, he was not sorry. He was right whatever -happened. - -A long time passed. He was sunk in a kind of lethargy. The pink cushions -in the sky sent out fingers along the blue to other pink cushions, and -ribbons of gold were drawn across and across until they met in a golden -flame above the water. The sun was sinking and a little wind had stirred -the sea, the waves were tipped with gold. - -The breeze blew about his cheeks and he shivered. It must be late; the -sun was setting, the field of corn was sinking into silver mist from out -of which the poppies gleamed mysteriously. Suddenly he thought of Tony. -He had forgotten the boy. He had come back to the hotel probably by now; -he remembered that he had said that he must be back in time for dinner. -But Tony’s affairs seemed very far away; he did not feel that he could -talk about things to-night, or, indeed, that he could talk to anyone. He -could not go back to the hotel just yet. The sun had touched the sea at -last, and, from it, there sprung across the softly stirring water a band -of gold that stretched spreading like a wing until it touched the little -white houses now sinking into dusk. The sky was alive with colour and -the white road ran in the distance, like a ribbon, below the corn. - -The bells struck again from the town; he rose and stood, an enormous -dark figure, against the flaming sky. There was perfect stillness save -for the very gentle rustle of the corn. In the silence the stars came -out one by one, the colours were drawn back like threads from the pale -blue, and across the sea only the faintest gold remained; a tiny white -moon hung above the white houses and the white road, the rest of the -world was grey. The lights began to shine from the town. - -He was cold and his limbs ached; the dim light, the mysterious hour -began to press about him. He had a sudden wish, a sudden demand for -company, people, lights, noise. - -Not people to talk to, of course; no, he did not want anyone to talk to, -but here, in this silence, with the mysterious rustling corn, he was -nervous, uneasy. He did not want to think about anything, all that he -wanted now was to forget. He could not think; his brain refused, and -there was no reason why he should bother. To-morrow—to-morrow would do. -He stumbled down the path through the field; he could not see very well, -and he nearly fell several times over the small stones in his path; he -cursed loudly. Then he found the hard white road and walked quickly -down, past the little white houses, over the bridge that crossed the -river, up into the town. - -His need for company increased with every step that he took; the -loneliness, the half light, the cold breeze were melancholy. He turned -his head several times because he thought that some one was following -him, but only the white road gleamed behind him, and the hedges, dark -barriers, on either side. - -The lights of the town came to him as a glad relief. They were not very -brilliant; in the first streets of all the lamps were very wide apart, -and in between their dim splashes of yellow were caverns of inky -blackness. - -These streets were almost deserted, and the few people that passed -hurried as though they were eager to reach some more cheerful spot. Very -few lamps burnt behind the windows, but Maradick felt as though the -houses were so many eyes eagerly watching him. Everything seemed alive, -and every now and again his ear caught, he fancied, the sound of a -measured tread in his rear. He stopped, but there was perfect silence. - -His exultation had absolutely left him. He felt miserably depressed and -lonely. It seemed to him now that he had cut off his two friends with a -sudden blow for no reason at all. Mrs. Lester would never speak to him -again. Tony, on his return, would be furious with him for not being -there according to his solemn promise. Lady Gale and Alice Du Cane would -lose all their trust in him; his wife would never rest until she had -found out where he had been that night, and would never believe it if -she did find out. He now saw how foolish he had been not to go back to -the hotel for dinner; he would go back now if it were not too late; but -it was too late. They would have finished by the time that he was up the -hill again. - -He was hungry and tired and cold; he greeted the lights of the -market-place with joy. It was apparently a night of high festival. The -lamps on the Town Hall side showed crowds of swiftly moving figures, -dark for a moment in the shadows of the corner houses and then suddenly -flashing into light. The chief inn of the town, “The Green Feathers,” -standing flamboyantly to the right of the grey tower, shone in a blazing -radiance of gas. Two waiters with white cloths over their arms stood on -the top stair watching the crowd. Behind them, through the open door, -was a glorious glimpse of the lighted hall. - -The people who moved about in the market were fishermen and country -folk. Their movement seemed aimless but pleasant; suddenly some one -would break into song, and for a moment his voice would rise, as a fish -leaps from the sea, and then would sink back again. There was a great -deal of laughter and a tendency to grow noisier and more -ill-disciplined. - -Maradick, as he pushed his way through the crowd, was reminded of that -first night when Tony and he had come down; the dance and the rest! What -ages ago that seemed now! He was another man. He pushed his way -furiously through the people. He was conscious now of tremendous -appetite. He had not eaten anything since lunch, and then only very -little. He was tired both mentally and physically; perhaps after a meal -he would feel better. - -He walked wearily up the steps of “The Green Feathers” and accosted one -of the waiters. He must have food, a room alone, quiet. Maradick -commanded respect; the waiter withdrew his eye reluctantly from the -crowd and paid attention. “Yes—fish—a cutlet—a bottle of -Burgundy—yes—perhaps the gentleman would like the room upstairs. It -was a pleasant room. There was no one there just now; it overlooked the -market, but, with the windows down, the noise——” - -The idea of overlooking the market was rather pleasant; the people and -the lights would be there and, at the same time, there would be no need -to talk to anyone. Yes, he would like that room. He walked upstairs. - -There was much movement and bustle on the ground floor of the inn, -chatter and laughter and the chinking of glasses, but above stairs there -was perfect silence. The waiter lighted candles, two massive silver -candlesticks of venerable age, and entered the long dining-room carrying -them in front of him. He explained that they had not lighted this room -with gas because candles were more in keeping. He hinted at the -eighteenth century and powder and ruffles. He almost pirouetted as he -held the candles and bent to put them on the table by the window. He was -most certainly a waiter with a leg. - -He did, beyond question, suit the room with its long gleaming walls and -long gleaming table. The table at which he was to dine was drawn up -close to the window, so that he could watch the antics of the square. -The candle-light spread as far as the long table and then spread round -in a circle, catching in its embrace a tall mirror that ran from the -ceiling to the floor. This mirror was so placed that a corner of the -square, with its lights and figures and tall dark houses, was reflected -in it. - -The room seemed close, and Maradick opened the window a little and -voices came up to him. In places the people were bathed in light and he -could see their faces, their eyes and their mouths, and then in other -parts there was grey darkness, so that black figures moved and vanished -mysteriously. The tower reminded him curiously of the tower in his -dream; it rose black against the grey light behind it. - -His dinner was excellent; the waiter was inclined to be conversational. -“Yes, it was some kind o’ feast day. No, he didn’t know exactly. The -place was full of superstitions—no, he, thank Gawd, was from -London—yes, Clapham, where they did things like Christians—there were -meringues, apple-tart, or custard—yes, meringues.” He faded away. - -Voices came up to the room. Vague figures of three people could be seen -below the window. The quavering voice of an old man pierced the general -murmurs of the square. - -“Well, ’e’d seen the first wasp of the season, as early back as April; -yus, ’e was minded to give ’im a clout, but ’e missed it.” The wasp -figured largely in the discussion. They were all three rapidly reaching -that stage when excessive affection gives place to inimical distrust. -The old man’s voice quavered on. “If ’e called _’is_ woman names then ’e -didn’t see why ’e shouldn’t call _’is_ woman names.” This led to futile -argument. But the old man was obstinate. - -Stars burnt high over the roofs in a silver cluster, and then there -trailed across the night blue a pale white path like silk that was made -of other stars—myriads of stars, back in unlimited distance, and below -them there hung a faint cloud of golden light, the reflexion from the -lamps of the tower. - -Maradick’s dinner had done him good. He sat, with his chair tilted -slightly forward, watching the square. The magnificent waiter had -appeared suddenly, had caught the food in a moment with a magical net, -as it were, and had disappeared. He had left whisky and soda and -cigarettes at Maradicks side; the light of two candles caught the -shining glass of the whisky decanter and it sparkled all across the -table. - -The question of Tony had come uppermost again; that seemed now the -momentous thing. He ought to have been there when Tony came back. -Whatever he had done to Mrs. Lester, or she to him—that matter could be -looked at from two points of view at any rate—he ought to have gone -back and seen Tony. The apprehension that he had felt during the -afternoon about the boy returned now with redoubled force. His dream, -for a time forgotten, came back with all its chill sense of warning. -That man Morelli! Anything might have happened to the boy; they might be -waiting for him now up at the hotel, waiting for both of them. He could -see them all—Lady Gale, Alice Du Cane, Mrs. Lester, his wife. He had in -a way deserted his post. They had all trusted him; it was on that -condition that they had granted him their friendship, that they had so -wonderfully and readily opened their arms to him. And now, perhaps the -boy . . . - -He drank a stiff whisky-and-soda, his hand trembling a little so that he -chinked the glass against the decanter. - -He felt reassured. After all, what reason had he for alarm? What had he, -as far as Morelli was concerned, to go upon? Nothing at all; merely some -vague words from Punch. The boy was perfectly all right. Besides, at any -rate, he wasn’t a fool. He knew what he was about, he could deal with -Morelli, if it came to that. - -He drank another whisky-and-soda and regarded the mirror. It was funny -the way that it reflected that corner of the square, so that without -looking at all out of the window you could see figures moving, black and -grey, and then suddenly a white gleaming bit of pavement where the light -fell. His head became undoubtedly confused, because he fancied that he -saw other things in the mirror. He thought that the crowd in the square -divided into lines. Some one appeared, dancing, a man with a peaked cap, -dancing and playing a pipe; and the man—how odd it was!—the man was -Morelli! And suddenly he turned and danced down the lines of the people, -still piping, back the way that he had come, and all the people, -dancing, followed him! They passed through the mirror, dancing, and he -seemed to recognise people that he knew. Why, of course! There was Tony, -and then Janet Morelli and Lady Gale, Mrs. Lester, Alice Du Cane; and -how absurd they looked! There was himself and Mrs. Maradick! The scene -faded. He pulled himself up with a jerk, to find that he was nodding, -nearly asleep; the idea of the music had not been entirely a dream, -however, for a band had gathered underneath the window. In the uncertain -light they looked strangely fantastic, so that you saw a brass trumpet -without a man behind it, and then again a man with his lips pressed -blowing, but his trumpet fading into darkness. - -The crowd had gathered round and there was a great deal of noise; but it -was mostly inarticulate, and, to some extent, quarrelsome. Maradick -caught the old man’s voice somewhere in the darkness quavering “If ’e -calls my old woman names then I’ll call ’is old woman . . .” It trailed -off, drowned in the strains of “Auld Lang Syne,” with which the band, -somewhat mistakenly, had commenced. - -The time was erratic; the band too, it seemed, had been drinking, even -now he could see that they had mugs at their sides and one or two of -them were trying to combine drink and music. - -One little man with an enormous trumpet danced, at times, a few steps, -producing a long quivering note from his instrument. - -The crowd had made a little clearing opposite the window, for an old man -with a battered bowler very much on one side of his head was dancing -solemnly with a weary, melancholy face, his old trembling legs bent -double. - -Maradick felt suddenly sick of it all. He turned back from the window -and faced the mirror. He was unutterably tired, and miserable, -wretchedly miserable. He had broken faith with everybody. He was no use -to anyone; he had deceived his wife, Lady Gale, Tony, Mrs. Lester, -everybody. A load of depression, like a black cloud, swung down upon -him. He hated the band and the drunken crowd; he hated the place, -because it seemed partly responsible for what had happened to him; but -above all he hated himself for what he had done. - -Then suddenly he looked up and saw a strange thing. He had pulled down -the window, and the strains of the band came very faintly through; the -room was strangely silent. The mirror shone very clearly, because the -moon was hanging across the roofs on the opposite side of the square. -The corner of the street shone like glass. Nearly all the crowd had -moved towards the band, so that that part of the square was deserted. - -Only one man moved across it. He was coming with a curious movement; he -ran for a few steps and then walked and then ran again. Maradick knew at -once that it was Tony. He did not know why he was so certain, but as he -saw him in the mirror he was quite sure. He felt no surprise. It was -almost as though he had been expecting him. He got up at once from his -chair and went down the stairs; something was the matter with Tony. He -saw the waiter in the hall, and he told him that he was coming back; -then he crossed the square. - -Tony was coming with his head down, stumbling as though he were drunk. -He almost fell into Maradick’s arms. He looked up. - -“You! Maradick! Thank God!” - -He caught hold of his arm; his face was white and drawn. He looked -twenty years older. His eyes were staring, wide open. - -“I say—take me somewhere where I—can have a drink.” - -Maradick took him, without a word, back to the inn. He gulped down -brandy. - -Then he sighed and pulled himself together. “I say, let’s get back!” He -did not loosen his hold of Maradick’s arm. “Thank God you were here; I -couldn’t have faced that hill alone . . . that devil . . .” Then he said -under his breath, “My God!” - -Maradick paid his bill and they left. They passed the crowd and the -discordant band and began to climb the hill. Tony was more himself. “I -say, you must think me a fool, but, my word, I’ve had a fright! I’ve -never been so terrified in my life.” - -“Morelli!” said Maradick. - -“Yes; only the silly thing is, nothing happened. At least nothing -exactly. You see, I’d been there a deuce of a time; I wanted to speak to -him alone, without Janet, but he wouldn’t let her go. It was almost as -if he’d meant it. He was most awfully decent all the afternoon. We -fooled about like anything, he and all of us, and then I had to give up -getting back to dinner and just risk the governor’s being sick about it. -We had a most ripping supper. He was topping, and then at last Janet -left us, and I began. But, you know, it was just as if he knew what I -was going to say and was keeping me off it. He kept changing the -subject—pleasant all the time—but I couldn’t get at it. And then at -last my chance came and I asked him. He didn’t say anything. He was -sitting on the other side of the table, smiling. And then suddenly, I -don’t know what it was, I can’t describe it, but I began to be -terrified, horribly frightened. I’ve never felt anything like it. His -face changed. It was like a devil’s. You could only see his eyes and his -white cheeks and the tips of his ears, pointed. He was still laughing. I -couldn’t stir, I was shaking all over. And then he began to move, -slowly, round the table, towards me. I pulled myself together; I was -nearly fainting, but I rushed for the door. I got out just as he touched -me, and then I ran for my life.” - -He was panting with terror at the recollection of it. They were on the -top of the hill. He turned and caught Maradick’s hand. “I say,” he said, -“what does it mean?” - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - - WHY IT IS TO BE THE TWENTY-SEVENTH, AND WHAT THE - CONNEXION WAS BETWEEN JANET’S BEING FRIGHTENED - AND TOBY’S JOINING THE GREAT MAJORITY - -They all met at tea on the next afternoon, and for the gods who were -watching the whole affair from the sacred heights of Olympus, it must -have been a highly amusing sight. - -Mrs. Lawrence was the only person who might really be said to be “right -out of it,” and she had, beyond question, “her suspicions”; she had -_seen_ things, she had noticed. She had always, from her childhood, been -observant, and anyone could see, and so on, and so on; but nevertheless, -she was really outside it all and was the only genuine spectator, as far -as mere mortals went. - -For the rest, things revolved round Sir Richard; it being everyone’s -hidden intention, for reasons strictly individual and peculiar, to keep -everything from him for as long a period as possible. But everybody was -convinced that he saw further into the matter than anyone else, and was -equally determined to disguise his own peculiar cleverness from the rest -of the company. - -Tony was there, rather quiet and subdued. That was a fact remarked on by -everybody. Something, of course, had happened last night; and here was -the mystery, vague, indefinite, only to be blindly guessed at, although -Maradick knew. - -The fine shades of everybody’s feelings about it all, the special -individual way that it affected special individual persons, had to be -temporarily put aside for the good of the general cause, namely, the -hoodwinking and blinding of the suspicions of Sir Richard; such a -business! Conversation, therefore, was concerned with aeroplanes, about -which no one present had any knowledge at all, aeroplanes being very -much in their infancy; but they did manage to cover a good deal of -ground during the discussion, and everyone was so extraordinarily and -feverishly interested that it would have been quite easy for an -intelligent and unprejudiced observer to discover that no one was really -interested at all. - -Lady Gale was pouring out tea, and her composure was really admirable; -when one considers all that she had to cover it was almost superhuman; -but the central fact that was buzzing beyond all others whatever in her -brain, whilst she smiled at Mrs. Lester and agreed that “it would be -rather a nuisance one’s acquaintances being able to fly over and see one -so quickly from absolutely anywhere,” was that her husband had, as yet, -said nothing whatever to Tony about his last night’s absence. That was -so ominous that she simply could not face it at all; it meant, it meant, -well, it meant the tumble, the ruin, the absolute débâcle of the house; -a “house of cards,” if you like, but nevertheless a house that her -admirable tact, her careful management, her years of active and -unceasing diplomacy, had supported. What it had all been, what it had -all meant to her since Tony had been anything of a boy, only she could -know. She had realised, when he had been, perhaps, about ten years old, -two things, suddenly and sharply. She had seen in the first place that -Tony was to be, for her, the centre of her life, of her very existence, -and that, secondly, Tony’s way through life would, in every respect, be -opposed to his father’s. - -It would, she saw, be a question of choice, and from the instant of that -clear vision her life was spent in the search for compromise, something -that would enable her to be loyal to Tony and to all that his life must -mean to him, and something that should veil that life from his father. -She was, with all her might, “keeping the house together,” and it was no -easy business; but it was not until the present crisis that it seemed an -impossible one. - -She had always known that the moment when love came would be the moment -of most extreme danger. - -She had vowed to her gods, when she saw what her own marriage had made -of her life, that her son should absolutely have his way; he should -choose, and she would be the very last person in the world to stop him. -She had hoped, she had even prayed, that the woman whom he should choose -would be some one whom her husband would admit as possible. Then the -strength of the house would be inviolate and the terrible moment would -be averted. That was, perhaps, the reason that she had so readily and -enthusiastically welcomed Alice Du Cane. The girl would “do” from Sir -Richard’s point of view, and Lady Gale herself liked her, almost loved -her. If Tony cared, why then . . . and at first Tony had seemed to care. - -But even while she had tried to convince herself, she knew that it was -not, for him at any rate, the “real thing.” One did not receive it like -that, with that calmness, and even familiar jocularity, when the “real -thing” came. But she had persuaded herself eagerly, because it would, in -nearly every way, be so suitable. - -And then suddenly the “real thing” had come, come with its shining eyes -and beautiful colour; Tony had found it. She had no hesitation after -that. Tony must go on with it, must go through with it, and she must -prevent Sir Richard from seeing anything until it was all over. As to -that, she had done her best, heaven knew, she had done her best. But -circumstances had been too strong for her; she saw it, with frightened -eyes and trembling hands, slipping from her grasp. Why had Tony been so -foolish? Why had he stayed out again like that and missed dinner? Why -was he so disturbed now? It was all threatening to fall about her ears; -she saw the quarrel; she saw Tony, arrogant, indignant, furious. He had -left them, never to return. She saw herself sitting with her husband, -old, ill, lonely, by some desolate fireside in an empty house, and Tony -would never return. - -But she continued to discuss aeroplanes; she knew another thing about -her husband. She knew that if Tony was once married Sir Richard might -storm and rage but would eventually make the best of it. The house must -be carried on, that was one of his fixed principles of life; Tony -single, and every nerve should be strained to make his marriage a -fitting one, but Tony married! Why then, curse the young fool, what did -he do it for? . . . but let us nevertheless have a boy, and quick about -it! - -Provided the girl were possible—the girl _must_ be possible; but she -had Maradick’s word for that. He had told Alice that she was “splendid!” -Yes, let the marriage only take place and things might be all right, but -Sir Richard must not know. - -And so she continued to discuss aeroplanes. “Yes, there was that clever -man the other day. He flew all round the Crystal Palace; what was his -name? Porkins or Dawkins or Walker; she knew it was something like -Walker because she remembered at the time wondering whether he had -anything to do with the Walkers of Coming Bridge—yes, such nice -people—she used to be a Miss Temple—yes, the _Daily Mail_ had offered -a prize.” - -At the same time, Tony’s face terrified her. He was standing by the -window talking to Alice. She had never seen him look like that before, -so white and grave and stern—years older. What had he been doing last -night? - -She gave Mrs. Lawrence her third cup of tea. “Yes, but they are such -tiny cups—oh! there’s nothing. No, I’ve never been up in a balloon—not -yet—yes, I’m too old, I think; it doesn’t do, you know, for me at my -age.” - -Supposing it were all “off.” Perhaps it might be better; but she knew -that she would be disappointed, that she would be sorry. One didn’t get -the “real thing” so often in life that one could afford to miss it. No, -he mustn’t miss it—oh, he _mustn’t_ miss it. The older she grew, the -whiter her hair, the stiffer her stupid bones, the more eagerly, -enthusiastically, she longed that every young thing—not only Tony, -although he, of course, mattered most—should make the most of its time. -They didn’t know, dear people, how quickly the years and the stiffness -and the thinning of the blood would come upon them. She wanted them all, -all the world under thirty, to romp and live and laugh and even be -wicked if they liked! but, only, they must not miss it, they _must_ not -miss the wonderful years! - -Sir Richard was perfectly silent. He never said more than a word or two, -but his immobility seemed to freeze the room. His hands, his head, his -eyes never moved; his gaze was fixed on Tony. He was sitting back in his -chair, his body inert, limp, but his head raised; it reminded the -terrified Mrs. Lawrence of a snake ready to strike. - -Mrs. Lawrence found the situation beyond her. She found a good many -situations beyond her, because she was the kind of person whom people -continually found it convenient to leave out. - -Her attempts to force a way in—her weapons were unresting and tangled -volubility—always ended in failure; but she was never discouraged, she -was not clever enough to see that she had failed. - -She was sitting next to Sir Richard, and leant across him to talk to -Lady Gale. Mrs. Maradick and Mrs. Lester were sitting on the other side -of the table, Maradick talking spasmodically to Lester in the -background; Alice and Tony were together at the window. - -Maradick had not spoken to Mrs. Lester since their parting on the day -before. He was waiting now until her eyes should meet his; he would know -then whether he were forgiven. He had spent the morning on the beach -with his girls. He had come up to lunch feeling as he usually did after -a few hours spent in their company, that they didn’t belong to him at -all, that they were somebody else’s; they were polite to him, courteous -and stiffly deferential, as they would be to any stranger about whom -their mother had spoken to them. Oh! the dreariness of it! - -But it amused him, when he thought of it, that they, too, poor innocent -creatures, should be playing their unconscious part in the whole game. -They were playing it because they helped so decisively to fill in the -Epsom atmosphere, or rather the way that he himself was thinking of -Epsom—the particular greyness and sordidness and shabbiness of the -place and the girls. - -He had come up to lunch, therefore, washing his hands of the family. He -had other things to think of. The immediate affair, of course, was Tony, -but he had had as yet no talk with the boy. There wasn’t very much to -say. It had been precisely as he, Maradick, had expected. - -Morelli had refused to hear of it and Tony had probably imagined the -rest. In the calm light of day things that had looked fantastic and -ominous in the dark were clear and straightforward. - -After all, Tony was very young and over-confident. Maradick must see the -man himself. And so that matter, too, was put aside. - -“Yes,” Lester was saying, “we are obviously pushing back to Greek -simplicity, and, if it isn’t too bold a thing to say, Greek morals. The -more complicated and material modern life becomes the more surely will -all thinking men and lovers of beauty return to that marvellous -simplicity. And then the rest will have to follow, you know, one day.” - -“Oh yes,” said Maradick absently. His eyes were fixed on the opposite -wall, but, out of the corners of them, he was watching for the moment -when Mrs. Lester should look up. Now he could regard yesterday afternoon -with perfect equanimity; it was only an inevitable move in the -situation. He wondered at himself now for having been so agitated about -it; all that mattered was how she took it. The dogged, almost stupid -mood had returned. His eyes were heavy, his great shoulders drooped a -little as he bent to listen to Lester. There was no kindness nor charity -in his face as he looked across the floor. He was waiting; in a moment -she would look up. Then he would know; afterwards he would see Morelli. - -“And so, you see,” said Lester, “Plato still has the last word in the -matter.” - -“Yes,” said Maradick. - -Mrs. Lawrence was being entirely tiresome at the tea-table. The strain -of the situation was telling upon her. She had said several things to -Sir Richard and he had made no answer at all. - -He continued to look with unflinching gaze upon Tony. She saw from Lady -Gale’s and Mrs. Lester’s curious artificiality of manner that they were -extremely uneasy, and she was piqued at their keeping her, so -resolutely, outside intimacy. - -When she was ill at ease she had an irritating habit of eagerly -repeating other people’s remarks with the words a little changed. She -did this now, and Lady Gale felt that very shortly she’d be forced to -scream. - -“It will be such a nuisance,” said Mrs. Lester, still continuing the -“flying” conversation, “about clothes. One will never know what to put -on, because the temperature will always be so very different when one -gets up.” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Lawrence eagerly, “nobody will have the slightest idea -what clothes to wear because it may be hot or cold. It all depends——” - -“Some one,” said Lady Gale, laughing, “will have to shout down and tell -us.” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Lawrence, “there’ll have to be a man who can call out -and let us know.” - -Tony felt his father’s eyes upon him. He had wondered why he had said -nothing to him about his last night’s absence, but it had not really -made him uneasy. After all, that was very unimportant, what his father -or any of the rest of them did or thought, compared with what Morelli -was doing. He was curiously tired, tired in body and tired in mind, and -he couldn’t think very clearly about anything. But he saw Morelli -continually before him. Morelli coming round the table towards him, -smiling—Morelli . . . What was he doing to Janet? - -He wanted to speak to Maradick, but it was so hard to get to him when -there were all these other people in the room. The gaiety had gone out -of his eyes, the laughter from his lips. Maradick was everything now; it -all depended on Maradick. - -“You’re looking tired,” Alice said. She had been watching him, and she -knew at once that he was in trouble. Of course anyone could see that he -wasn’t himself, but she, who had known him all his life, could see that -there was more in it than that. Indeed, she could never remember to have -seen him like that before. Oh! if he would only let her help him! - -She had not been having a particularly good time herself just lately, -but she meant there to be nothing selfish about her unhappiness. There -are certain people who are proud of unrequited affection and pass those -whom they love with heads raised and a kind of “See what I’m suffering -for you!” air. They are incomparable nuisances! - -Alice had been rather inclined at first to treat Tony in the same sort -of way, but now the one thought that she had was to help him if only he -would let her! Perhaps, after all, it was nothing. Probably he’d had a -row with the girl last night, or he was worried, perhaps, by Sir -Richard. - -“Tony,” she said, putting her hand for a moment on his arm, “we are -pals, aren’t we?” - -“Why, of course,” pulling himself suddenly away from Janet and her -possible danger and trying to realise the girl at his side. - -“Because,” she went on, looking out of the window, “I’ve been a bit of a -nuisance lately—not much of a companion, I’m afraid—out of sorts and -grumpy. But now I want you to let me help if there’s anything I can do. -There might be something, perhaps. You know”—she stopped a -moment—“that I saw her down on the beach the other day. If there was -anything——” - -She stopped awkwardly. - -“Look here,” he began eagerly; “if you’re trying to find out——” Then -he stopped. “No, I know, of course you’re not. I trust you all right, -old girl. But if you only knew what a devil of a lot of things are -happening——” He looked at her doubtfully. Then he smiled. “You’re a -good sort, Alice,” he said, “I know you are. I’m damned grateful. Yes, -I’m not quite the thing. There are a whole lot of worries.” He hesitated -again, then he went on: “I tell you what you _can_ do—keep the family -quiet, you know. Keep them off it, especially the governor. They trust -you, all of them, and you can just let them know it’s all right. Will -you do that?” - -He looked at her eagerly. - -She smiled back at him. “Yes, old boy, of course. I think I can manage -Sir Richard, for a little time at any rate. And in any case, it isn’t -for very long, because we’re all going away in about a week; -twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, I think Lady Gale said.” - -Tony started. “Did she?” he said. “Are you sure of that, Alice? Because -it’s important.” - -“Yes. I heard Lady Gale discussing it with Sir Richard last night.” - -“By Jove. I’m glad to know that. Well, anyhow, Alice, I’ll never forget -it if you help us. We want it, by Jove.” - -She noticed the “we.” “Oh, that’s all right,” she said, smiling back at -him. “Count on me, Tony.” - -At that moment a general move was made. The meal, to everyone’s infinite -relief, was over. Mrs. Lester got up slowly from her chair, she turned -round towards Maradick. For an instant her eyes met his; the corners of -her mouth were raised ever so slightly—she smiled at him, then she -turned back to his wife. - -“Mrs. Maradick,” she said, “do come over and sit by the window. There’ll -be a little air there. The sun’s turned the corner now.” - -But Mrs. Maradick had seen the smile. Suddenly, in a moment, all her -suspicions were confirmed. She knew; there could be no doubt. Mrs. -Lester, Mrs. Lester and her husband—her husband, James. Dear, how -funny! She could have laughed. It was quite a joke. At the same time, -she couldn’t be well, because the room was turning round, things were -swimming; that absurd carpet was rising and flapping at her. - -She put her hand on the tea-table and steadied herself; then she smiled -back at Mrs. Lester. - -“Yes, I’ll bring my work over,” she said. - -The rest of the company seemed suddenly to have disappeared; Maradick -and Tony had gone out together, Lady Gale and Alice, followed by Sir -Richard and Lester, had vanished through another door; only Mrs. -Lawrence remained, working rather dismally at a small square piece of -silk that was on some distant occasion to be christened a table-centre. - -Mrs. Maradick sometimes walked on her heels to increase her height; she -did so now, but her knees were trembling and she had a curious feeling -that the smile on her face was fixed there and that it would never come -off, she would smile like that always. - -As she came towards the table where Mrs. Lester was another strange -sensation came to her. It was that she would like to strangle Mrs. -Lester. - -As she smiled at her across the table her hands were, in imagination, -stretching with long twisting fingers and encircling Mrs. Lester’s neck. -She saw the exact spot; she could see the little blue marks that her -fingers would leave. She could see Mrs. Lester’s head twisted to one -side and hanging in a stupid, silly way over her shoulder. She would -draw her fingers very slowly away, because they would be reluctant to -let go. Of course it was a very stupid, primitive feeling, because -ladies that lived in Epsom didn’t strangle other ladies, and there were -the girls to be thought of, and it wouldn’t really do at all. And so -Mrs. Maradick sat down. - -“It is quite cool,” she said as she brought out her work, “and after -such a hot day, too.” - -Mrs. Lester enjoyed the situation very much. She knew quite well that -Maradick had been watching her anxiously all the afternoon. She knew -that he was waiting to see what she was going to do about yesterday. She -had not been quite sure herself at first. In fact, directly after he had -left her she had been furiously angry; and then she had been frightened -and had gone to find Fred, and then had cried in her bedroom for half an -hour. And then she had dried her eyes and had put on her prettiest dress -and had come down to dinner intending to be very stiff and stately -towards him. But he had not been there; no one had known where he was. -Mrs. Maradick had more or less conveyed that Mrs. Lester could say if -she wanted to, but of course she wouldn’t. - -However, she really didn’t know. The evening was stupid, tiresome, and -very long. As the hours passed memories grew stronger. No one had ever -held her like that before. She had never known such strength. She was -crushed, gasping. There was a man! And after all, it didn’t matter; -there was nothing _wrong_ in _that_. Of course he oughtn’t to have done -it. It was very presumptuous and violent; but then that was just like -the man. - -It was the kind of thing that he did, the kind of thing, after all, that -he was meant to do! In the Middle Ages, of course, would have been his -time. She pictured him with some beautiful maiden swung across the -crupper, and the husband, fist in air but impotent—that was the kind of -man. - -And so she had smiled at him, to show him that, after all, she wasn’t -very angry. Of course, she couldn’t be always having it; she didn’t even -mean that she’d altogether forgiven him, but the whole situation was -given an extra piquancy by the presence of Mrs. Maradick. She didn’t -mean any harm to the poor little spectacle of a woman, but to carry him -off from under her very nose! Well! it was only human nature to enjoy -it! - -“You must come and see us, dear Mrs. Maradick, both of you, when you’re -back in town. We shall so like to see more of you. Fred has taken -enormously to your husband, and it’s so seldom that he really makes a -friend of anyone.” - -“Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Maradick, smiling, “we’ll be sure to look -you up. And you must come out to Epsom one day. People call it a suburb, -but really, you know, it’s quite country. As I often say, it has all the -advantages of the town and country with none of their disadvantages. A -motor-van comes down from Harrods’ every day.” - -“That must be delightful,” said Mrs. Lester. - -“And Lord Roseberry living so near makes it so pleasant. He’s often to -be seen driving; he takes great interest in the school, you know—Epsom -College for doctors’ sons—and often watches their football!” - -“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Lester. - -Mrs. Maradick paused and looked out of the window. What was she going to -do? What was she going to do? The great black elms outside the window -swept the blue sky like an arch. A corner of the lawn shone in the sun a -brilliant green, and directly opposite a great bed of sweet-peas -fluttered like a swarm of coloured butterflies with the little breeze. -What was she to do? - -She was feeling now, suddenly, for the first time in her selfish, -self-centred life utterly at a loss. She had never been so alone before. -There had always been somebody. At Epsom there had been heaps of people; -and, after all, if the worst came to the worst, there had always been -James. She had never, in all these years, very actively realised that he -was there, because she had never happened to want him; there had always -been so many other people. - -Now suddenly all these people had gone. Epsom was very, very far away, -and, behold, James wasn’t there either! - -She realised, too, that if it had been some one down in the town, a -common woman as she had at first imagined it, it would not have hurt so -horribly. But that some one like Mrs. Lester should care for James, -should really think him worth while, seemed at one blow to disturb, -indeed to destroy all the theories of life in general and of James in -particular that had governed her last twenty years. - -What could she see? What could any one of them see in him? she asked -herself again and again. - -Meanwhile, of course, it must all be stopped somehow. They must go away -at once. Or perhaps it would be better to be quiet for a day or two and -see. They would all be gone in a week or so. And then Epsom again, and -everything as it had been and none of this—she called it “intrigue.” - -“I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Lester, smiling, “that Tony Gale has taken so -strong a liking to your husband. It’s so good for a boy of that age to -have some one older. . . . He’s a charming boy, of course, but they -always need some one at that age just to prevent them from doing -anything foolish.” - -_This_ was fishing, Mrs. Maradick at once felt. She couldn’t see exactly -what Mrs. Lester wanted, but she _did_ want something, and she wasn’t -going to get it. She had a sudden desire to prove to Mrs. Lester that -she was a great deal more to her husband than appeared on the surface. A -great deal more, of course, than any of the others were. For the first -time in their married life she spoke of him with enthusiasm. - -“Ah! James,” she said, “is splendid with young men. Only I could really -tell the world what he has been to some of them. They take to him like -anything. There’s something so strong and manly about him—and yet he’s -sympathetic. Oh! I could tell you——” She nodded her head sagaciously. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Lester; “I can’t tell you how I admire him, how we all -do, in fact. He must be very popular in Epsom.” - -“Well, as a matter of fact he rather keeps himself to himself there. -They all like him enormously, of course; but he doesn’t want anything -really except just the family—myself and the girls, you know. He’s a -very domestic man, he always has been.” - -“Yes, one can see that,” said Mrs. Lester, smiling. “It’s delightful -when one sees that nowadays. It so seldom happens, I am afraid. You must -be very proud of him.” - -“I am,” said Mrs. Maradick. - -The impulse to lean over and take Mrs. Lester’s head and slowly bend it -back until the bones cracked was almost too strong to be resisted. - -Mrs. Maradick pricked her finger and stopped the blood with her -handkerchief. Both ladies were silent. The last rays of the sun as it -left the corner of the lawn fell in a golden shower upon the sweet-peas. - -Mrs. Lawrence could be heard counting her stitches. - -Meanwhile Mrs. Lester’s smile had had its effect upon Maradick. He had -waited, tortured, for the smile to come, but now it was all right. They -were still friends. He could not see it any farther than that. After -all, why should he trouble to look at it any more deeply? They were -friends. He would be able to talk to her again; he would see her smile -again. If she did not want him to behave like that, if she did not want -him to hold her hand, he was ready to obey in anything. But they were -still friends. She was not angry with him. - -His depression took wings and fled. He put his arm on Tony’s shoulder as -they went down the stairs. “Well, old chap,” he said, “I’m off to see -Morelli now. You can bet that it will be all right. Things looked a bit -funny last night. They always do when one’s tired and it’s dark. Last -night, you see, you imagined things.” - -But Tony looked up at him quietly with grave eyes. - -“No,” he said, “there was nothing to imagine. It was just as I told you. -Nothing happened. But I know now that there’s something in what the -chaps in the town said. I believe in devils now. But my God, -Maradick”—he clutched the other’s arm—“Janet’s down there. It isn’t -for myself I care. He can do what he likes to me. But it’s _her_, we -must get her away or there’s no knowing. . . . I didn’t sleep a wink -last night, thinking what he might be doing to her. He may carry her -away somewhere, where one can’t get at her; or he may do—God knows. But -that’s what he said last night, just that! that she wasn’t for me or for -anyone, that she was _never_ for anyone—that he would keep her.” Tony -broke off. - -“I’m silly with it all, I think,” he said, “it’s swung me off my balance -a bit. One can’t think; but it would be the most enormous help if you’d -go and see. It’s the uncertainty that’s so awful. If I could just know -that it’s all right . . . and meanwhile I’m thinking out plans. It’s all -got to happen jolly soon now. I’ll talk when you come back. It’s most -awfully decent of you. . . .” - -Maradick left him pacing the paths with his head down and his hands -clenched behind his back. - -He found Morelli sitting quietly with Janet and Miss Minns in the -garden. They had had tea out there, and the tea-things glittered and -sparkled in the sun. It would have been difficult to imagine anything -more peaceful. The high dark red brick of the garden walls gave soft -velvet shadows to the lawn; the huge tree in the corner flung a vast -shade over the beds and paths; rooks swung slowly above their heads -through the blue spacious silence of the summer evening; the air was -heavy with the scent of the flowers. - -Morelli came forward and greeted Maradick almost eagerly. “What! Have -you had tea? Sure! We can easily have some more made, you know. Come and -sit down. Have a cigar—a pipe? Right. I wondered when you were going to -honour us again. But we had young Gale in yesterday evening for quite a -long time.” - -Janet, with a smile of apology, went indoors. Miss Minns was knitting at -a distance. This was obviously the right moment to begin, but the words -would not come. It all seemed so absurd in this delicious garden with -the silence and the peace, and, for want of a better word, the sanity of -it all; all the things that Maradick had been thinking, Tony’s story and -the fantastic scene in the market-place last night, that and the ideas -that had sprung from it, were all so out of line now. People weren’t -melodramatic like that, only one had at times a kind of mood that -induced one to think things, absurd things. - -But Morelli seemed to be waiting for Maradick to speak. He sat gravely -back in his chair watching him. It was almost, Maradick thought, as -though he knew what he had come there for. It was natural enough that -Morelli should expect him, but he had not imagined precisely that kind -of quiet waiting for him. He had to clear all the other ideas that he -had had, all the kind of picture that he had come with, out of his head. -It was a different kind of thing, this sheltered, softly coloured garden -with its deep shadows and high reds and browns against the blue of the -sky. It was not, most emphatically it was not, melodrama. - -The uncomfortable thought that the quiet eyes and grave mouth had -guessed all this precipitated Maradick suddenly into speech. The peace -and silence of the garden seemed to mark his words with a kind of -indecency. He hurried and stumbled over his sentences. - -“Yes, you know,” he said. “I thought I’d just come in and see you—well, -about young Gale. He told me—I met him—he gave me to understand—that -he was here last night.” Maradick felt almost ashamed. - -“Yes,” said Morelli, smiling a little, “we had some considerable talk.” - -“Well, he told me, that he had said something to you about your -daughter. You must forgive me if you think that I’m intrusive at all.” - -Morelli waved a deprecating hand. - -“But of course I’m a friend of the boy’s, very fond of him. He tells me -that he spoke about your daughter. He loves Miss Morelli.” - -Maradick stopped abruptly. - -“Yes,” said Morelli gently, “he did speak to me about Janet. But of -course you must look on it as I do; two such children. Mind you, I like -the boy, I liked him from the first. He’s the sort of young Englishman -that we can’t have too much of, you know. My girl wouldn’t be likely to -find a better, and I think she likes him. But of course they’re too -young, both of them. You must feel as I do.” - -Could this be the mysterious terror who had frightened Tony out of his -wits? This gentle, smiling, brown-faced little man lying back there so -placidly in his chair with his eyes half closed? It was impossible on -the face of it. Absurd! And perhaps, after all, who knew whether it -wouldn’t be better to wait? If Morelli really felt like that about it -and was prepared eventually to encourage the idea; and then after all -Janet might be introduced gradually to the family. They would see, even -Sir Richard must see at last, what a really fine girl she was, fine in -every way. He saw her as she had stood up to meet him as he stepped -across the lawn, slim, straight, her throat rising like a white stem of -some splendid flower, her clear dark eyes pools of light. - -Oh! they must see if you gave them time. And, after all, this was rather -carrying the matter with a high hand, this eloping and the rest! - -The garden had a soothing, restful effect upon him, so that he began to -be sleepy. The high red walls rose about him on every side, the great -tree flung its shadow like a cloud across, and the pleasant little man -smiled at him with gentle eyes. - -“Oh yes, of course, they are very young.” - -“And then there’s another thing,” went on Morelli. “I don’t know, of -course, but I should say that young Gale’s parents have something else -in view for him in the way of marriage. They’re not likely to take some -one of whom they really know nothing at all. . . . They’ll want, -naturally enough, I admit, something more.” He paused for a moment, then -he smiled. “But perhaps you could tell me,” he said. - -Maradick had again the sensation that the man knew perfectly well about -the whole affair, about the Gales and Alice and Tony, and even perhaps -about himself. He also felt that whatever he could say would be of no -use at all; that Morelli was merely playing with him, as a cat plays -with a mouse. - -Meanwhile he had nothing to say. - -“Well, you see,” he began awkwardly, “as a matter of fact, they haven’t -had the opportunity—the chance, so to speak, of knowing—of meeting -Miss Morelli yet. When they do——” - -“They’ve been here,” broke in Morelli quietly, “some weeks now. Lady -Gale could have called, I suppose, if she had been interested. But I -gather that Gale hasn’t told her; hasn’t, indeed, told any of them. You -see,” he added almost apologetically, “she is my only child; she has no -mother; and I must, in a way, see to these things.” - -Maradick agreed. There was really nothing to be said. It was perfectly -true that the Gales didn’t want Janet, wouldn’t, in fact, hear of her. -The whole affair seemed to lose a great deal of its immediate urgency in -this quiet and restful place, and the fact that Morelli was himself so -quiet and restful was another motive for waiting. The girl was in no -danger; and, strangely enough, Maradick seemed to have lost for the -first time since he had known Morelli the sense of uneasy distrust that -he had had for the man; he was even rather ashamed of himself for having -had it at all. - -“Well,” he said slowly, “you don’t object to things being as they are -for a time. I’m sure Tony will see it sensibly, and perhaps Miss Morelli -might meet Lady Gale. It would be a pity, don’t you think, to put a stop -altogether to the acquaintance?” - -“Ah yes,” said Morelli, “certainly. We’ll say no more about it for the -present. It was very pleasant as it was. As I told you, I like young -Gale; and who knows?—perhaps one day——” - -Maradick sat back in his chair and looked up lazily at the sky. It was -all very pleasant and comfortable here in this delicious old garden; let -the matter rest. - -And then Morelli proved himself a most delightful companion. He seemed -to have been everywhere and to have seen everything. And it was not only -knowledge. He put things so charmingly; he had a thousand ways of -looking at things, a thousand ways of showing them off, so that you saw -them from new points of view, and the world was an amusing, entertaining -treasure-house of wonders. - -The minutes slipped by; the sun went down the sky, the shadow of the -tree spread farther and farther across the lawn, the pinks and roses lay -in bunches of red and pink and yellow against the dark background of the -wall. - -Maradick got up to go and Morelli walked with him, his hat set back, his -hands in his pockets. As they entered the house he said, “Ah, by the -way, there was that Spanish sword that I promised to show you. It’s a -fine thing and of some value; I’ll bring it down.” - -He disappeared up the stairs. - -Suddenly Janet was at Maradick’s elbow. He had not seen her coming, but -she looked round with quick, startled eyes. Her white dress shone -against the dark corners of the hall. He saw, too, that her face was -very white and there were dark lines under her eyes; to his surprise she -put her hand on his arm, she spoke in a whisper. - -“Mr. Maradick, please,” she said, “I must speak to you. There is only a -minute. Please listen, it’s dreadfully important. Tony says you want to -help us. There isn’t anyone else;” she spoke in little gasps and her -hand was at her throat as though she found it difficult to breathe. “I -must get away somehow, at once, I don’t know what will happen if I -don’t. You don’t know father, and I can’t explain now, but I’m terribly -frightened; and he will suddenly—I can see it coming.” She was nearly -hysterical; he could feel her whole body trembling. “Tony said something -yesterday that made father dreadfully angry. Tony ought not to have -come; anything might happen when father’s like that. If you can’t help -me I will run away; but you _must_ help.” - -She grew calmer but still spoke very rapidly, still throwing frightened -glances at the stairs. “Listen; on the twenty-seventh—that’s -Thursday—father’s going away. He’s going to Pendragon for the whole -day; it was arranged long ago. He was to have taken me, but he has -decided not to; I heard him tell Miss Minns—I——” - -But suddenly she was gone again, as quietly as she had come. He saw now -that there had been a door behind her leading to some room. He looked up -and saw that Morelli was coming downstairs carrying the sword. Five -minutes afterwards he had left the house. - -It had all happened so suddenly, so fantastically, that it was some -minutes before he could straighten it out. First he had the impression -of her, very young, very frightened, very beautiful. But there was no -question of the reality of her terror. All the feelings of danger that -he had had with Tony last night came crowding back now. It was true -then? It hadn’t only been Tony’s imagination. After all, Janet must -know. She hadn’t lived with her father all those years without knowing -more about it than he, Maradick, possibly could. She wouldn’t have been -likely to have taken the risk of seeing him like that if there was -nothing in it, if there was only the mere ordinary domestic quarrel in -it. But above all, there was the terror in her eyes; that he had seen. - -He could not, he must not, leave her then. There was danger threatening -her somewhere. The whole business had entirely changed from his original -conception of it. It had been, at first, merely the love affair of a boy -and girl, and he, from a pleasant sense of romance and a comfortable -conviction that it was all good for his middle-aged solidity, had had -his share in it. But now it had become suddenly a serious and most -urgent affair, perhaps even a matter of life and of death. - -He turned, as he had turned before, to Punch. There was no time to lose, -and he was the man to see about it; he must find him at once. - -The lights were coming out in the town as he passed through the streets; -there were not many people about, and the twilight was lingering in the -air so that all the colours of the sky and the houses and the white -stretches of pavement had a faint pure light. The sky was the very -tenderest blue, and the last gleam from the setting sun still lingered -about the dark peaks and pinnacles of the houses. - -He was soon on the outskirts of the town, and at last he trod the white -high road. At the farther turn were Punch’s lodgings. There was a full -round globe of a moon, and below him he could hear the distant beating -of the sea. - -Some one was walking rapidly behind him; he turned round, and to his -astonishment saw, as the man came up to him, that it was the very person -for whom he was looking. - -“Ah! that’s splendid, Garrick,” he said, “I was just coming for you. I’m -a bit worried and I want your advice.” - -“I’m a bit worried too, sir, as a matter of fact,” said Punch, “but if -there’s anything I can do——” - -Maradick saw now that the man was very different from his usual cheerful -self. He was looking anxious, and his eyes were staring down the road as -though he were expecting to see something. - -“What’s the matter?” said Maradick. - -“Well, it’s the dog,” said Punch, “Toby, you know. He’s missing, been -gone all the afternoon. Not that there’s very much in that in the -ordinary way. He often goes off by ’imself. ’E knows the neighbourhood -as well as I do; besides, the people round ’ere know him and know his -mind. But I’m uneasy this time. It’s foolish, perhaps, but when a man’s -got only one thing in the world——” He stopped. - -“But why should you be uneasy?” said Maradick. The loss of a dog seemed -a very small thing compared with his own affairs. - -“Well, as a matter of fact, it’s Morelli.” The lines of Punch’s mouth -grew hard. “’E’s owed me a grudge ever since I spoke to ’im plain about -them animals. And ’e knows that I know a good bit, too. He passed me in -the market-place two days back, and stopped for an instant and looked at -the dog. To them that don’t know Morelli that’s nothing; but for them -that do—’e’d think nothing of having his bit of revenge. And it’s late -now, and the dog’s not home.” The little man looked at Maradick almost -piteously, as though he wanted to be reassured. - -“Oh, I expect it’s all right,” said Maradick. “Anyhow, I’ll come along -with you and we can talk as we go.” - -In a few words he explained what had happened that afternoon. - -Punch stopped for a moment in the road and stared into Maradick’s face. - -“Get ’er away, sir,” he said, “whatever you do, get ’er away. I know the -girl; she wouldn’t have spoken to you like that unless there was -something very much the matter. And I know the man; there’s nothing ’e’d -stop at when ’e’s roused.” - -“But why,” said Maradick, “if he feels like this about it did he let -them go about together? He helped them in every way. He seemed to love -to have Tony there. I can’t understand it.” - -“Ah, sir, if you take Morelli as an ordinary man you won’t understand -’im. But ’e’s a kind of survival. ’E loves to be cruel, as they did in -the beginning of things when they didn’t know any better. It’s true. -I’ve seen it once or twice in my life. It’s a lust like any other lust, -so that your body quivers with the pleasure of it. But there’s more in -it than that. You see ’e wants to have young things about ’im. ’E’s -always been like that; will play with kittens and birds and puppies, and -then p’r’aps, on a sudden, kill them. That’s why he took to young Gale, -because of ’is youth. And ’e liked to watch them together; but now, when -young Gale comes and talks of marriage, why, that means that they both -leave ’im and ’e can’t play with them any more, so ’e’ll kill them -instead. Take ’er away, sir, take ’er away.” - -They were out now upon the moor that ran between the woods and the sea; -the world was perfectly still save for the distant bleating of some -sheep and the monotonous tramp of the waves on the shore far below them. -There was no sign of any other human being; the moon flung a white -unnatural light about the place. - -Punch walked with his eyes darting from side to side; every now and -again he whistled, but there was no answering bark. - -“It may seem a bit absurd to you, sir,” Punch said almost -apologetically, “to be fussing this way about a dog, but ’e’s more to me -than I could ever explain. If I hadn’t got ’im to talk to and have about -at nights and kind o’ smile at when you’re wanting company the world -would be another kind of place.” - -Maradick tried to fix his mind on Punch’s words, but the ghostliness of -the place and the hour seemed to hang round him so that he could not -think of anything, but only wanted to get back to lights and company. -Every now and again he turned round because he fancied that he heard -steps. Their feet sank into the soft soil and then stumbled over tufts -of grass. Faint mists swept up from the sea and shadowed the moon. - -Behind them the lights of the town twinkled like the watching eye of -some mysterious enemy. A bird rose in front of them with shrill -protesting cries, and whirled, screaming, into the skies. - -Punch seemed to be talking to himself. “Toby, boy, where are you? Toby, -old dog. You know your master and you wouldn’t hide from your master. -It’s time to be getting home, Toby. Time for bed, old boy. Damn the dog, -why don’t ’e come? Toby, old boy!” - -Every few minutes he started as though he saw it, and he would run -forward a few paces and then stop. And indeed, in the gathering and -shifting mist that went and came and took form and shape, there might -have been a thousand white dogs wandering, an army of dogs, passing -silently, mysteriously across the moor. - -“Toby, old boy, it’s time to be getting back. ’E was that used to the -place you couldn’t imagine ’is being lost anywhere round about. ’E was -that cunning . . .” - -But the army of dogs passed silently by, curving with their silent feet -in and out of the mists. One new dog had joined their ranks. He fell in -at the rear and went by with the others; but his master did not see -them. - -Suddenly the mists broke and the moon shone out across the moor like a -flame. The moon leapt into the light. A little to the right on a raised -piece of ground lay something white. - -The army of dogs had vanished. The woods, the moor, the sea, were bathed -in white colour. - -Punch ran forward with a cry; he was down on his knees and his arms were -round the dog’s body. - -He bent down, and for a moment there was perfect silence, only, in a far -distant field, some sheep was crying. Then he looked up. - -The tears were rolling down his face; he lifted his hand and brushed -them back. “It’s Toby. My dog! ’E’s been killed. Something’s torn -’im. . . .” - -He bent down and picked it up and held it in his arms. “Toby, old dog, -it’s time to go back. It’s all right; ’e hasn’t hurt you, old boy. It’s -all right.” He broke off. “Curse him,” he said, “curse him! ’E did it—I -know his marks—I’ll kill ’im for it.” His hands fell down to his side. -“Toby, old dog! Toby. . . .” - -The moon crept back again behind the mist. In the shadow the man sat -nursing the dog in his arms. - -Far below him sounded the sea. - - - - - PART III - - THE TOWER - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - - MRS. LESTER, TOO, WOULD LIKE IT TO BE THE TWENTY-SEVENTH - BUT MARADICK IS AFRAID OF THE DEVIL - -On Monday the 24th the weather broke. Cold winds swept up from the sea, -mists twisted and turned about the hotel, the rain beat in torrents -against the panes. In all the rooms there were fires, and it seemed -impossible that, only the day before, there should have been a burning, -dazzling sun. - -It was after lunch, and Lady Gale and Tony were sitting over the fire in -the drawing-room. Tony had been obviously not himself during these last -few days, and his mother felt that her silence could last a very little -time longer. However, matters were at length approaching a crisis. -Things must decide themselves one way or the other in a day or two, for -Sir Richard had, at lunch, announced his intention of departing on -Saturday the 29th; that is, they had the inside of a week, and then -Treliss, thank Heaven, would be left behind. Surely nothing very much -could happen in a week. - -Her earlier feeling, that above all she did not want Tony to miss this -girl if she were the right one for him, had yielded now to a kind of -panic. All that she could think of now was to get him away. There was a -look in his eyes that she had never seen in his face before. It was a -look that aged him, that robbed him altogether of that delightful youth -and vitality that had been his surprising, his charming gift! But there -was more than a look of weariness and distress, there was positive -fright there! - -She watched him when he was in the room with her, and she had seen him -suddenly start and tremble, fling back his head as though he expected to -find some one behind him. He, her boy Tony, who had never been afraid of -anyone or anything. And then, too, she had seen a new look of -determination in his mouth and eyes during these last days. His mind was -made up to something, but to what she was too afraid to think! - -She must get him away, and she had heard her husband’s decision about -Saturday with tremendous relief. She had watched Tony’s face at the -announcement. But it had not changed at all; only, for a moment he had -looked quickly across at Maradick; it had apparently not startled him. - -His indifference frightened her. If he was taking it so calmly then he -must have decided on something that this date could not affect, on -something probably before the date? But what could he do before -Saturday? She seemed to miss altogether the obvious thing that he could -do. - -But it had been seldom enough that she had had him to herself during -these last weeks, and now she snatched eagerly at her opportunity. She -sat on one side of the fire, one hand up to shield her face, her rings -glittering in the firelight; her brown dress stood out against the white -tiles of the fireplace and her beautiful snow-white hair crowned her -head gloriously. - -Tony sat at her feet, one hand in hers. He stared straight before him -into the fire. She had noticed during these last three days a delightful -tenderness towards her. His attitude to her had always been charming, -courteous, affectionate and yet companionable; but now he seemed to want -to do everything that he could to show her that he loved her. And yet -though she valued and treasured this it also frightened her. It was a -little as though he were preparing for some departure, at any rate some -change, that might hurt her. - -Well, they were going at the end of the week, only a few more days. - -He took her fingers and stroked them. His hand stopped at the wedding -ring and he passed his thumb across it. - -“I say, mother,” he looked up in her face with a little laugh, “I -suppose you’d say that you’d rather lose anything in the world than -that.” - -“Yes, dear, it’s very precious;” but she sighed. - -“I suppose it is. It must be ripping having something that is just yours -and nobody else’s, that you simply don’t share with anyone. It must be -ripping having somebody that belongs to you and that you belong to; just -you two.” - -“Yes, But that ring means more to me than that. It means you and Rupert -as well as your father. It means all those hours when you screamed and -kicked, and the day when you began to talk, and the first adventurous -hours when you tried to cross the nursery floor. And yes, a thousand -things besides.” - -“Dear old mater,” he said softly. “It’s been just ripping having you. -You’ve always understood so splendidly. Some chaps’ mothers I’ve seen, -and they don’t know their sons in the very least. They do all the things -that are most likely to drive them wild, and they never seem to be able -to give them a bit what they want.” - -“Yes, but it works both ways,” she answered. “A son’s got to try and -understand his mother too. It’s no use their leaving it all to her, you -know.” - -“No, of course not.” Then he turned his body round and looked her in the -face. “But you do understand so splendidly. You always have understood. -You see, you trust a fellow.” Then he added quickly, “You’re trusting me -now, aren’t you?” - -“Yes,” she answered, looking at him steadily, “perfectly. Only, just -these last few days, perhaps I’ve been a little tiny bit worried. You -haven’t been looking happy, and then I’m always worried; it’s so seldom -that you’re not all right.” - -“But you’d rather not know—what’s going on, I mean. It’s all right, -perfectly right, and if it wasn’t—if it wasn’t right for you, I mean, -as well as for me—I wouldn’t go on with it for a moment. Only it’s -dreadfully important.” - -“Yes, dear, I know. And if Mr. Maradick knows about it——” - -“He’s a brick, isn’t he?” Tony interrupted eagerly. “You know, so few -middle-aged men can understand the point of view of a chap who’s only -about twenty-five. They are either fatherly and patronising or -schoolmasterly and bossing, or kind of wise and beneficent; but -Maradick’s most awfully young really, and yet he’s wise too. He’s a -ripper.” - -He stopped. They neither of them spoke for some minutes. “It will be -quite all right, mother,” he said, “very soon. Just now things are a -little difficult, but we’ll pull through.” - -He got up and stood looking down at her. “You are a brick to trust me -and not to ask,” he said. “It would make things so awfully difficult if -you asked.” He bent down and kissed her. “It’s a bit of luck having -you,” he said. - -But as soon as he had left the room his face was serious again. He -passed Mrs. Lester on the stairs and smiled and hurried on. It was all -very well; she was there, of course, real enough and all that sort of -thing, but she simply didn’t count for him at that moment, she didn’t -exist, really, any more than the hotel or the garden did. Nothing -existed except that house in the town with Janet somewhere in it waiting -for him to set her free. - -That was the one point on which his eyes were now fixed. In his earlier -days it had, perhaps, been one of his failings—that he had run rather -too eagerly after too many interests, finding in everything so immediate -an excitement that he forgot the purpose of yesterday in the purpose of -to-day. It had always been the matter with him that he had too many -irons in the fire. Life was so full and such fun!—that had been the -excuse. _Now_ it was deadly earnest. - -But it was the first time that the world had so resolved into one single -point for him. He was already years older; these last days had made him -that, the uncertainties, the indecisions, the fluctuating enthusiasms, -the passing from wonder to wonder. All these had solidified into one -thing, and one thing only—Janet, how to get her out, how to marry her, -how to have her for always; the rest of the world was in shadow. - -To-day was Monday; Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday, Thursday the -27th. That was the day on which everything must be done. He was thinking -it all out, they had got that one chance. If they missed it Morelli -would be back, and for ever. They must not miss it. - -But he was perfectly calm about it. His agitation seemed curiously to -have left him. He was cold and stern and absolutely collected. He and -Maradick were going to pull it through. - -He could not find Maradick. He searched for him in the dining-room, the -passages, the billiard-room. - -No. The servants hadn’t seen him. Mrs. Maradick was with Mrs. Lawrence -in one of the drawing-rooms; no, they hadn’t see him, he had disappeared -after lunch. - -Mrs. Maradick smiled. “Find Mrs. Lester” was the advice that she would -have given him. She went back to her novel with tightly closed mouth and -refused to talk to Mrs. Lawrence. - -And then Tony suddenly remembered. Of course, he would be up in that old -room where he so often went, the room with the gallery. Tony found him -there. - -The rain was beating furiously against the panes, and there was a very -dismal light that struggled across the floor and lost itself hopelessly -in the dark corners under the gallery. Maradick was sitting close up -against the window, reading in the rather feeble light. He looked up -when he saw Tony and put his book down. - -“Ah, Tony, I was coming down to find you; Sir Richard’s decision at -lunch pretty well settles things, doesn’t it? We must move at once.” - -He looked up at the boy and saw the age in his face. - -“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to pull it through all right.” - -“Oh, I’m not worrying,” Tony answered shortly. “It’s too damned serious, -and besides, there’s no time.” He paused as though he were collecting -his thoughts, and then he went on. “Look here, I’ve thought it all out. -I’ve been able to write to Janet and have had several letters from her. -She’s plucky, my word, you can’t think! Anyhow, that beast’s all right -for the moment, it seems, only he keeps looking at her as though he was -meaning to do something, and she’s terribly frightened, poor little -girl. But he’s going on Thursday all right, and that’s when we’ve got to -do the trick.” - -“Yes,” said Maradick. “I’m absolutely at your service.” Their positions -had changed. Tony was taking the lead. - -“Yes,” said Tony, very solemnly and speaking rather quickly. “It’s all -got to be Thursday. I want you to go off this afternoon, if you don’t -very much mind, to that parson I was telling you of—the parson at -Tremnan. He knows me and he’s a real sportsman. He must do the trick. -You can tell him, 1.30 Thursday. Then there’s the licence to be got. -I’ll see to that. I’ve been here three weeks now, so that’s all right. -Then it only remains to think about that, I’m going to get ’em—the -family, I mean—to go for an expedition on Thursday. Mother will -understand if I ask her, and that will get them out of the way. Then we -just take a cab, you and I and Janet and Miss Minns.” - -“Miss Minns?” broke in Maradick. - -“Yes,” said Tony, still very seriously. “The poor woman’s frightened out -of her life, and Janet’s taken her into her confidence. We’re going to -take her away with us. She’s going to live with us. That’ll be all -right. She’s got more sense than you think. Well, we four drive out to -the church and there the thing’s done. Then we get back and catch the -three o’clock up to town. Then off to Paris that same night; and there -you are!” - -He stopped and looked at Maradick for a moment. - -“The only thing,” he said, “is about you.” - -“About me?” Maradick looked up, smiling. - -“Yes. What are we going to do about you? Of course you can come off with -us, too, if you like, but then there’s your wife and the girls. You -couldn’t do that very well, I suppose?” - -“No,” said Maradick, “I couldn’t.” - -“Well, but, you know, if you’re left, why then, everybody’s got you, so -to speak—Morelli, my people, everybody. There’s only you to turn on; -you’ll have a pretty rotten time. It isn’t fair. And even now, you know, -if you’d rather get out of it I expect I’ll manage.” - -Maradick said nothing. - -“I hadn’t really seen how damned selfish it all was until just now. I -asked you to come and didn’t see it really a bit, what it would all lead -to, I mean, and especially for you.” - -Maradick looked up, laughing. - -“My dear boy, do you suppose I, at any rate, haven’t seen? Why, from the -beginning, from that first night of all when we talked about it, I was -responsible; responsible to your mother at any rate, and she’s the only -person who really matters. As to Morelli, he can do nothing. When I see -a girl look as Janet looked the other night, why, then it was time some -steps were taken by somebody to get her away.” - -He put his hand on Tony’s arm. “And besides, whatever happened to me, do -you suppose that I could ever cease to be grateful for all that you’ve -done for me, your being with me, your showing me a new kind of life -altogether? I’d be a bit of a cur if I wasn’t ready to help you after -that. Nothing that I can do can quite repay you.” - -“That’s all right, then,” said Tony. He was a little impatient, just -then, of Maradick’s approach to sentiment. It was off the mark; it -hadn’t anything at all to do with Janet, and besides, it was all rot, -anyway, to talk about all that he’d done. He’d done nothing. But he -didn’t, in the least, want to be ungracious. “But that’s most awfully -good of you, really, and I don’t suppose, as a matter of fact, they’ll -do very much. They can’t, anyhow. I’m over age, and I shan’t have to go -to the governor for money. Besides, it will be all right in a week or -two. The governor’s like that; I know him, and once the thing’s over -he’ll get over it, because he loathes things being uncomfortable; -besides, mother will manage him. Anyhow, are you sure you don’t mind -going off to the parson? I’d come, too, but I think it would be safer -for me on the whole to hang round here this afternoon.” - -No, Maradick didn’t mind. Maradick would like to go; Maradick would do -anything. And, as a matter of fact, he wanted to get out and away—away -from the house and the people in it, where he could think undisturbed. - -He left Tony and started down to the town. His brain was still on fire -with his meeting with Mrs. Lester on the evening before. During these -last three days they had had very few opportunities of meeting, but the -affair had nevertheless advanced with extraordinary rapidity. Then, last -night, he had been alone with her, after dinner, in the garden. It had -been terribly hot and oppressive, a prelude to the storm that came a few -hours later. - -There was not a breath of wind; the world might have been of carved -stone, so motionless was it. He had had her in his arms; her hands had -crept round his neck and had pulled his head down until it rested on her -breast. He had been on fire—the world had been on fire—and he had -poured into her ear, in fierce hurried words, passion such as it seemed -to him no man had ever known before. He had told her the old, old -arguments; things that seemed to him absolutely new and fresh. Their -marriages had been, both of them, absurd. They had been joined, each of -them, to persons who did not understand them, people who did not even -care to understand them. After all, what were marriage vows? A few words -spoken hurriedly when they could not possibly tell whether there was -even a chance of their being able to keep them. - -They were not meant to keep them. They had made their mistake, and now -they must pay for it; but it was better to break with those bonds now, -to have done with them once and for all, than to go on for ever in -hypercritical mockery, pretending what they could not feel, acting a lie -before God and man. - -But now, if they could escape now, away from this stupid country with -its stupid conventions, away to some place where they would be happy -together for ever until death . . . and so on, and so on; and the leaves -and the paths and the dark sky were held together, motionless, by the -iron hand of God. - -And then some one had in a moment interrupted them; some fool from the -hotel. Maradick’s fingers itched to be about his throat. “What a close -night! Yes, a storm must be coming up. They’d heard very distant -thunder; how solemn the sea sounded . . .” and so they had gone into the -hotel. - -The rain had ceased. The streets stretched in dreary wet lines before -him, the skies were leaden grey; from some room the discordant jingle of -a piano came down to him, a cart bumped past him through the mud and -dirt. - -And then suddenly the tower in the market-place sprung upon him. It was -literally that, a definite springing out from all the depths of greyness -and squalor behind it to meet him. On shining days, when the sky was -very blue and the new smart hotel opposite glittered in all its -splendour, the tower put on its most sombre cloak of grey and hid -itself. - -That was no time or place for it when other things could look so -brilliant, but now, in the absolutely deserted market-place, when the -cobbles glittered in the wet and the windows, like so many stupid eyes, -gave back the dead colour of the sky, it took its rightful place. - -It seemed to be the one thing that mattered, with its square and sturdy -strength, its solidity that bid defiance to all the winds and rains of -the world. Puddles lay about its feet and grey windy clouds tugged at -its head, but it stood confidently resolute, while the red hotel -opposite shrunk back, with its tawdry glitter damped and torn and -dishevelled. - -So Maradick stood alone in the market-place and looked at it, and -suddenly realised it as a symbol. He might have his room from which he -looked out and saw the world, and he held it to be good; Tony had shown -him that. He might have his freedom, so that he might step out and take -the wonderful things that he had seen; Punch had shown him that. But he -must also have—oh! he saw it so clearly—his strength, the character to -deal with it all, the resolution to carve his own actions rather than to -let his actions carve him; and the tower had shown him that! - -As he looked at it, he almost bowed his head before it. Foolish to make -so much of an old thing like that! Sentimental and emotional with no -atom of common-sense in it, but it had come out to meet him just when he -wanted it most. It needed all his resolution to persuade himself that it -had not a life of its own, that it did not know, like some old, sober, -experienced friend, what danger he was running. - -He passed out into the country. Although the rain had ceased and the -grass was scenting the air with the new fragrance that the storm had -given it, the sky was dark and overcast, grey clouds like Valkyries -rushed furiously before the wind, and the sea, through the mist, broke -into armies of white horses. As far as the eye could reach they kept -charging into the grey dun-coloured air and fell back to give way to -other furious riders. - -The mist crept forward like live things, twisting and turning, forming -into pillars and clouds, and then rent by the screaming wind into a -thousand tatters. - -The road was at a high level, and he could see the coast for some miles -bending round until it reached the headland; a line of white foam -stretched, with hard and clear outline, from point to point. This was a -new Cornwall to him, this grey mysterious thing, hinting at so much, -with a force and power almost terrible in its ominous disregard of human -individuality. He had thought that the right light for Cornwall was on a -day of gold and blue, now he knew that he had not seen half the wonder -and fascination; it was here, with this crawling foam, the sharp rocks, -the screaming wind and the turning, twisting mist, that she was rightly -to be seen. - -The wind tore at his coat and beat him about the face. It was incredible -that only yesterday there should have been heat and silence and dazzling -colour. He pressed forward. - -His thought now was that he was glad Mrs. Maradick did not know. Until -this morning he had not considered her at all. After all, she had given -him a bad twenty years of it, and she had no right to complain. Other -men did it with far less excuse. - -But there had been something when she had met him at breakfast this -morning that he had not understood. She had been almost submissive. She -had spoken to him at breakfast as she had never spoken to him in their -married life before. She had been gentle, had told Annie not to jingle -her teaspoon because it worried father, and had inquired almost timidly -what were his plans for the day. - -He had felt yesterday that he rather wanted her to see that Mrs. Lester -was fond of him; she had driven it into him so often that he was only -accepted by people as her husband, that he had no value in himself at -all except as a payer of bills. She had even chaffed him about certain -ladies of whom she had ironically suggested that he was enamoured. And -so it had seemed in its way something of a triumph to show her that he -wasn’t merely a figurehead, a person of no importance; that there was -somebody who found him attractive, several people, indeed. But now he -was ashamed. He had scarcely known how to answer her when she had spoken -to him so gently. Was she too under influence of the place? - -In fact, he did not know what he was going to do. He was tired, worn -out; he would not think of it at all. He would see how things turned -out. - -The character of the day had changed. The mists were still on the sea, -but behind them now was the shining of the sun, only as a faint light -vaguely discerned, but the water seemed to heave gently as though some -giant had felt the coming of the sun and was hurrying to meet it. - -The light was held back by a wall of mist, but in places it seemed to be -about to break through, and the floor of the sea shone with all the -colours of mother of pearl. - -The little church stood back from the cliff; it stood as though it had -faced a thousand years of storm and rain, as an animal stands with its -feet planted wide and its ears well back ready for attack. Its little -tower was square and its stone was of weather-beaten grey, only the -little windows with deep blue glass caught the haze from the sea and -shone like eyes through the stone and across the grass. - -The little rectory stood on the other side of the road. It also was -minute and absolutely exposed to the elements; here lived the Rev. Mark -Anstey, aged eighty-two, quite alone except for the company of five -dogs, six cats, three pigeons, a parrot, two tame rabbits, a hedgehog -and a great many frogs, these last in a pond near by. - -When Maradick came up the road he saw the old man standing in his garden -watching the sea. The mist had been drawn back, as a veil is drawn back -by a mysterious hand, until it lay only on the horizon. The sea was -still grey, but it hinted, as it were, at wonderful colours. You fancied -that you could see blue and gold and purple, and yet when you looked -again it was still grey. It was as though a sheet of grey gauze had been -stretched over a wonderful glittering floor and the colours shone -through. - -The old man was a magnificent figure of enormous height. He had a great -white beard that fell almost to his waist and his snow-white hair had no -covering. Three of his dogs were at his side and the five cats sat in a -row on his doorstep. He was standing with his hands behind his back and -his head up as though to catch the wind. - -Maradick introduced himself and stated his errand. The old man shook him -warmly by the hand. - -“Ah, yes; come in, won’t you? Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Maradick. -Come into my study and I’ll just take down details.” - -His voice was as clear as a bell, and his eyes, blue as the sea, looked -him through and through. - -“Here, this is my room. Bit of a mess, isn’t it? But a bachelor can’t -help that, you know; besides, I like a mess, always did.” - -Whatever it was, it was the right kind of mess. The fireplace was of -bright blue tiles; there were books, mostly, it seemed, theological, -fishing tackle cumbered one corner, guns another, a writing-desk took up -a good deal of the room. The old man filled the place. He really was -enormous, and he had a habit of snapping his fingers with a sharp, -clicking noise like the report of a pistol. Two deerhounds were lying by -the fireplace, and these came to meet him, putting their noses into his -hands. - -“Ah, ha! Hum—where are we? Oh! yes! Sit down, Mr. Maradick, won’t you? -Oh, clear those things off the chair—yes—let me see! Anthony -Gale—Janet Morelli—what? Morelli? How do you spell it? What? -M-o-r-e—oh! yes, thanks! Thursday—1.30. Yes, I know the boy; going to -be married, is he? Well, that’s a good thing—can’t start breeding too -young—improves the race—fill the country with children. Married -yourself, Mr. Maradick? Ah! that’s good.” - -Maradick wondered whether the name, Morelli, would seem familiar to him, -but he had obviously never heard it before. “We don’t have many weddings -up in this church here, nowadays. They don’t come this way much. Just -the people down at the cove, you know. . . . Have some tea—oh, yes! you -must have some tea.” - -He rang the bell and a small boy with a very old face came and received -orders. “Remarkable thing, you know,” said Mr. Anstey when the boy had -gone out again. “That boy’s twenty-three. You wouldn’t think it, now, -would you? But it’s true. Stopped growing, but he’s a good boy; rings -the bell in the church, and digs in the garden and all the rest of it. -We’ll have tea outside. It’s warm enough and it’s going to be fine, I -think. Besides, I always must have my eyes on the sea if it’s possible.” - -They had tea in the little porch over the door; the honeysuckle was -still in flower and there were still roses in the beds, a mass of red -hollyhocks at the farther end of the garden stood out against the sky. -The old man talked of Tony. - -“Yes, I’ve met him several times; a splendid boy, a friend of Garrick’s -who’s brought him up here. Ah, you know Garrick?” - -Yes, Maradick knew Garrick. - -“Well, there’s a man! God made that man all right, even though he isn’t -often inside a church. He worships in his own kind way, you know, as -most of us do, if you only look into it. God’s more tolerant than most -of us parsons, I can tell you, and understands people a lot better, too. -Not that we parsons aren’t a pretty good lot on the whole, but we’re a -bit apt to have our eyes fixed on our little differences and our creeds -and our little quarrels when we ought to be having our eyes on the sky. -Ah, if I could get a few of those gentlemen who are quarrelling there up -in London and just set them here in this garden in rows with that to -look at!” He waved his hand at the sea. - -The hill bent at the end of the garden and disappeared, and beyond the -bend there was nothing but the sea. The blue was beginning to steal into -it in little lakes and rivers of colour. - -“That’s God’s work, you know; take your atheist and show him that.” - -He talked about Tony. - -“A nice boy, if ever there was one. But what’s this about marriage? -Well, I suppose I mustn’t ask questions. You’re a friend of his and -you’re looking after him. But that’s a boy who’ll never go wrong; I’d -trust any woman to him.” - -Soon Maradick got up to go. This man had impressed him strangely; he had -got that thing that Tony and Punch had got, but he had used it in the -right way. There was not only the sentiment, the emotion of the view, -there was the strength of the tower as well. - -Maradick left him standing gazing at the sea. His figure seemed to fill -the sky. - -On his way back the sky grew clearer, and although the sun was never -actually to be seen its light was felt in the air and over the sea. -There was a freshness about everything around him. The sheaves on the -hills, the grass waving on the moor, the sheep clustered in their pens, -the hard white clean lines of the road surrounded him with new life. He -felt suddenly as though he had been standing during these last days in a -dark, close room with the walls pressing about him and no air. - -And yet he knew, as he neared the town, that the fascination, the -temptation was beginning to steal about him again. As the door of the -hotel closed round him, the tower, the clear colours of the land and -sky, the man standing gazing at the sea—these things were already -fading away from him. - -He had nearly finished dressing when his wife came into his room. She -talked a little, but had obviously nothing very much to say. He was -suddenly conscious that he avoided looking at her. He busied himself -over his tie, his shirt; it was not, he told himself angrily, that he -was ashamed of facing her. After all, why should he be? All that he had -done was to kiss another woman, and most men had done that in their -time. He was no saint and, for that matter, neither was she. Nobody was -a saint; but he was uncomfortable, most certainly uncomfortable. Looking -into the glass as he brushed his hair, he caught sight of her staring at -him in a strange way, as though she were trying to make up her mind -about something. - -Puzzled—puzzled—puzzled about what? Perhaps it was just possible that -she too was just discovering that she had missed something in all these -years. Perhaps she too was suddenly wondering whether she had got -everything from life that she wanted; perhaps her mind was groping back -to days when there did seem to be other things, when there were, most -obviously, other people who had found something that she had never even -searched for. - -The thought touched him strangely. After all, what if there was a chance -of starting again? Lord! what a fool he was to talk like that! Didn’t he -know that in another two hours’ time he would be with the other woman, -his pulses beating to a riotous tune that she, his wife, could never -teach him; you couldn’t cure the faults, the mistakes, the omissions of -twenty years in three weeks. - -Dinner that night was of the pleasantest. Tony was at his very best. He -seemed to have recovered all his lost spirits. That white, tense look -had left his face, the strain had gone out of his eyes; even the waiters -could not keep back their smiles at his laughter. - -They discussed the hour of departure and Tony did not turn a hair. Mrs. -Lester glanced for an instant at Maradick, but that was all. - -“I’m afraid I shall have to go up on Thursday night,” said Lester. -“One’s publishers, you know, need continual looking after, and if I -don’t see them on Friday morning it may be some time before I get a -chance again. But I’ll leave my wife in your hands, Lady Gale. I know -she’ll be safe enough.” - -“Oh! we’ll look after her, Lester,” said Tony, laughing; “won’t we, -Milly? We’ll look after you all the time. I’ll constitute myself your -special knight-errant, Milly. You shall want for nothing so long as I am -there.” - -“Thank you, Tony,” said Mrs. Lester. - -It was a fine enough night for them all to go into the garden, and very -soon Maradick and Mrs. Lester were alone. It was all about him once -again, the perfume that she used, the rustle of her dress, the way that -her hair brushed his cheek. But behind it, in spite of himself, he saw -his wife’s face in the mirror, he saw Tony, he saw the tower, and he -felt the wind about his body. - -She bent over him and put her arms about his neck; but he put them back. - -“No,” he said almost roughly, “we’ve got to talk; this kind of thing -must be settled one way or the other.” - -“Please, don’t be cross.” Her voice was very gentle; he could feel her -breath on his cheek. “Ah, if you knew what I’d been suffering all day, -waiting for you, looking forward, aching for these minutes; no, you -mustn’t be cruel to me now.” - -But he stared in front of him, looking into the black depths of the -trees that surrounded them on every side. - -“No, there’s more in it than I thought. What are we going to do? What’s -going to happen afterwards? Don’t you see, we must be sensible about -it?” - -“No,” she said, holding his hand. “There is no time for that. We can be -sensible afterwards. Didn’t you hear at dinner? Fred is going away on -Thursday night; we have that, at any rate.” - -“No,” he said, roughly breaking away from her, “we must not.” - -But she pressed up against him. Her arm passed slowly round his neck and -her fingers touched, for a moment, his cheek. “No; listen. Don’t you see -what will happen if we don’t take it? All our lives we’ll know that -we’ve missed it. There’s something that we might have had—some life, -some experience. At any rate we had lived once, out of our stuffy lives, -our stupid, dull humdrum. Oh! I tell you, you mustn’t miss it! You’ll -always regret, you’ll always regret!” - -Her whole body was pressed against his. He tried to push her away with -his hand. For a moment he thought that he saw Tony watching him and then -turning away, sadly, scornfully. And then it swept over him like a wave. -He crushed her in his arms; for some minutes the world had stopped. Then -again he let her go. - -“Ah!” she said, smiling and touching her dress with her fingers. “You -are dreadfully strong. I did not know how strong. But I like it. And now -Thursday night will be ours; glorious, wonderful, never to be forgotten. -I must go. They’ll be wondering. You’d better not come back with me. -Good-night, darling!” She bent down, kissed him and disappeared. - -But he sat there, his hands gripping his knees. - -What sort of scum was he? He, a man? - -_This_ then was the fine new thing that Tony and Punch had shown him. -_This_ the kind of world! _This_ the great experience. Life! - -_No._ With all his soul he knew that it was not; with all his soul he -knew that the devil and all his angels were pressing about his -path—laughing, laughing. - -And the moon rose behind the trees and the stars danced between the -branches. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - - MORNING AND AFTERNOON OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH—TONY, - MARADICK, JANET, AND MISS MINNS HAVE A RIDE - AFTER THE WEDDING - -But Mrs. Lester had not the courage of her convictions. Those -convictions were based very largely on an audacious standing up against -Providence, although she herself would never have seen it in that light. -In each of her “affairs” she went breathlessly forward, as it were on -tiptoe, with eyes staring and heart beating; wondering what would be the -dangers, gasping at possibly startling adventures. - -But the real thing had never met her before. The two or three men who -had been concerned in her other experiences had understood quite as well -as she did that it was only a game, _pour passer le temps_, and a very -pleasant way of passing it too. But this man was taking it very -differently. It was no game at all to him; he did not look as though he -could play a game if he wanted to. But it was not Maradick who -frightened her; it was herself. She had never gone so far as this -before, and now as she undressed she was suddenly terribly frightened. - -Her face seemed white and ghostly in the mirror, and in a sudden panic, -she turned on all the lights. Then the blaze frightened her and she -turned them all out again, all save the one over the mirror. - -She sat gazing into it, and all the dark corners of the room seemed to -gather round her like living things; only her white face stared out of -the glass. If Fred hadn’t been so horribly humdrum, if she hadn’t known -so thoroughly every inch of him, every little trick that he had, every -kind of point of view that he ever had about anything, then this never -would have happened. Because, really, he had been a very good husband to -her, and she was really fond of him; when one came to think of it, he -had been much better than a good many husbands she had known. She leaned -back in her chair and looked at herself. - -It had once been more than mere fondness, it had been quite exciting; -she smiled, reminiscences crowded about her . . . dear old Fred! - -But she pulled herself up with a jerk. That, after all, wasn’t the -point; the point, the thing that mattered, was Thursday night. Out there -in the garden, when he had held her like that, a great lawlessness had -come upon her. It was almost as though some new spirit had entered into -her and was showing her things, was teaching her emotions that she had -never been shown or learnt before. And, at that moment, it had seemed to -her the one thing worth having. - -She had never lived before. Life was to be counted by moments, those few -golden moments that the good gods gave to one, and if one didn’t take -them, then and there, when they were offered, why then, one had never -lived at all, one might as well never have been born. - -But now, as she sat there alone in her room, she was realising another -thing—that those moments had their consequences. What were they going -to do afterwards? What would Maradick do? What, above all, would her own -attitude to Fred be? She began, very slowly, to realise the truth, that -the great laws are above creeds and all dogmas because they are made -from man’s necessities, not from his superstitions. What was she going -to do? - -She knew quite well what she would do if she were left there alone on -Thursday night, and at the sudden thought of it she switched off the -light and plunged the room into darkness. She lay in bed waiting for -Fred to come up. She felt suddenly very unprotected. She would ask him -to take her with him on Thursday, she would make some excuse; he would -probably be glad. - -She heard him undressing in the next room. He was whistling softly to -himself; he stumbled over something and said “Damn.” She heard him -gargle as he brushed his teeth. He hummed a song of the moment, “I -wouldn’t go home in the dark”; and then she heard him stepping across -the carpet towards the bed, softly lest he should wake her. He got into -bed and grunted with satisfaction as he curled up into the sheets; his -toe touched her foot and she shivered suddenly because it was cold. - -“Hullo, old girl,” he said, “still awake?” - -She didn’t answer. Then she turned slowly round towards him. - -“Fred,” she said, “I think I’ll come away with you on Thursday after -all.” But, as she said it to him, she was suddenly afraid of his -suspecting something. He would want to know the reason. “It’s not,” she -added hurriedly, “that I’m not perfectly happy here. I’m enjoying it -awfully, it’s delightful; but, after all, there isn’t very much point in -my staying here. I don’t want to after you’re gone.” - -But he was sleepy. He yawned. - -“I’m awfully tired, dear. We’ll talk about it to-morrow. But anyhow, I -don’t quite see the point. You won’t want to be pottering about London -with me. I’m only up there for business—these beastly publishers,” he -yawned again. “You’d be bored, you know; much better stay here with Lady -Gale. Besides, it’s all arranged.” His voice died off into a sleepy -murmur. - -But the terror seemed to gather about her in the darkness. She saw with -amazing vision. She did not want to be left; she must not be left. - -She put her hand on his arm. - -“Fred, please—it’s important; I don’t want to stay.” - -And then she was suddenly frightened. She had said too much. He would -want to know why she didn’t want to stay. But he lay there silently. She -was afraid that he would go to sleep. She knew that when the morning -came things would seem different. She knew that she would persuade -herself that there was no immediate hurry. She would leave things to -settle themselves; and then. Oh! well! there would be no question as to -how things would go! She saw, with absolute clearness that this was the -moment that was granted her. If she could only persuade him to take her -now, then she would have that at any rate afterwards to hold herself -back. She would not want to go back on her word again. Her only feeling -now was that Fred was so safe. The thought of the evening, the garden, -Maradick, filled her now with unreasoning terror; she was in a panic -lest this minute, this opportunity, should leave her. - -She turned towards him and shook his arm. - -“Fred, just keep awake for a minute; really it’s important. Really, I -want to go away with you, on Thursday, not to stay on. I don’t like the -place. I shan’t a bit mind being in London, it will be rather fun; there -are lots of people I want to see. Besides, it’s only a day or two after -all.” - -But he laughed sleepily. - -“What’s all the fuss, old girl? I’m simply damned tired; I am, really. -We’ll talk about it to-morrow. But anyhow, you’d better stay; it’s all -arranged, and Lady Gale will think it rather funny.” - -His voice trailed off. For a moment there was silence and she heard his -breathing. He was asleep. - -She listened furiously. Oh, well, if he didn’t care more than that! If -he couldn’t keep awake longer than that! She dug her nails into her -hand. There it was; he could go to sleep when she was in torture. He -didn’t care; the other man! Her mind flew back to the evening again. Ah! -he would not have gone off to sleep! He would have listened—listened. - -But she lay for hours staring into the darkness, listening to the man’s -even breathing. - - * * * * * - -But there had been another example of “any wife to any husband,” that -must, for a moment, have its record. - -Maradick feared, on coming into his room, that his wife was not yet in -bed. She was sitting in front of her glass brushing her hair. She must -have seen him in the mirror, but she did not move. She looked very -young, almost like a little doll; as she sat there he had again the -curious feeling of pathos that he had known at breakfast. Absurd! Emmy -Maradick was the last person about whom anyone need be pathetic, but -nevertheless the feeling was there. He got into bed without a word. She -went on silently combing her hair. It got on his nerves; he couldn’t -take his eyes off her. He turned his eyes away towards the wall, but -slowly they turned back again, back to the silent white figure in the -centre of the room by the shining glass. - -He suddenly wanted to scream, to shout something at her like “Speak, you -devil!” or “don’t go on saying nothing, you mummy, sitting still like -that.” - -At last he did speak. - -“You’re late, Emmy,” he said, “I thought you’d have been in bed.” His -voice was very gentle. If only she would stop moving that brush up and -down with its almost mechanical precision! She put the brush slowly down -on the table and turned towards him. - -“Yes,” she said, “I was waiting for you, really, until you came up.” - -He was suddenly convinced that she knew; she had probably known all -about it from the first. She was such a clever little woman, there were -very few things that she didn’t know. He waited stupidly, dully. He -wondered what she was going to say, what she was going to propose that -they should do. - -But having got so far, she seemed to have nothing more to say. She -stared at the glass with wide, fixed eyes; her cheeks were flushed, and -her fingers played nervously with the things on the dressing-table. - -“Well,” he said at last, “what is it?” - -Then, to his intense surprise, she got up and came slowly towards him; -she sat on the edge of the bed whilst he watched her, wondering, amazed. -He had never seen her like that before, and his intense curiosity at her -condition killed, for a moment, the eagerness with which he would -discover how much she knew. But her manner of taking it was surely very -strange. - -Temper, fury, passion, even hate, that he could understand, and that, -knowing her, he would have expected, but this strange dreamy quiet -frightened him. He caught the bed-clothes in his hands and twisted them; -then he asked again: “Well, what is it?” But when she did at last speak -she did not look at him, but stared in front of her. It was the -strangest thing in the world to see her sitting there, speaking like -that; and he had a feeling, not to be explained, that she wasn’t there -at all really, that it was some one else, even, possibly, some strange -thing that his actions of these last few days had suddenly called -forth—called forth, that was, to punish him. He shrunk back on to his -pillows. - -“Well,” her voice just went on, “it isn’t that I’ve really anything to -say; you’ll think me silly, and I’m sure I don’t want to keep you when -you want to go to sleep. But it isn’t often that we have anything very -much to say to one another; it isn’t, at any rate, very often here. -We’ve hardly, you know, talked at all since we’ve been here. - -“But these last few days I’ve been thinking, realising perhaps, that -it’s been my fault all these years that things haven’t been -happier. . . . I don’t think I’d thought about anyone except -myself. . . . In some sort of way I hadn’t considered you at all; I -don’t quite know why.” - -She paused as though she expected him to say something, but he made no -sound. - -Then she went on: “I suppose you’ll think it foolish of me, but I feel -as though everything has been different from the moment that we came -here, from the moment that we came to Treliss; you have been quite -different, and I am sorry if I have been so disagreeable, and I’m going -to try, going to try to be pleasanter.” - -She brought it out with a jerk, as though she were speaking under -impulse, as though something was making her speak. - -And he didn’t know what to say; he could say nothing—his only emotion -that he was angry with her, almost furious, because she had spoken like -that. It was too bad of her, just then, after all these years. There -had, at any rate, been some justification before, or, at least, he had -tried to persuade himself that there was, in his relations with Mrs. -Lester. He had been driven by neglect, lack of sympathy, and all the -rest of it; and now, suddenly, that had been taken away from under his -feet. Oh! it was too bad. - -And then his suspicions were aroused again. It was so unlike her to -behave like that. Perhaps she was only behaving like this in order to -find out, to sound him, as it were. Oh, yes! it was a clever move; but -he couldn’t say anything to her, the words refused to come. - -She waited, a little pathetically, there on the bed, for him to speak; -and then as nothing came, still without looking at him, she said quietly -“Good-night,” and stepped softly across the room. - -He heard her switch the light off, the bed-clothes rustled for a moment, -and then there was silence. - - * * * * * - -And these next two days were torture to him, the most horrible days that -he had ever known. Partly they were horrible because of the general -consciousness that something was going to happen. Lady Gale, in -obedience to Tony, had arranged a picnic for Thursday, but “for ladies -only. You see, Mr. Lester is leaving in the afternoon, and my husband -and Rupert talk of going with him as far as Truro; my husband has some -relations there. And really, I know you and Tony would rather go off on -your own, Mr. Maradick. It would be too boring for you. We’re only going -to sit in the sun, you know, and talk!” - -It was understood that Mr. Maradick had, as a matter of fact, fixed up -something. Yes, he had promised his day to Tony, it being one of the -last that they would have together. They would probably go for a sail. -He would like to have come. He enjoyed the last, &c., &c. - -But this was quite enough to “do” the trick. What a picnic! Imagine! -With everyone acutely conscious that there was something “going on” just -over the hill, something that, for Lady Gale, at any rate, meant almost -life and death. Thursday began to loom very large indeed. What would -everyone be doing and thinking on Friday? Still more vital a question, -_where_ would everyone be on Friday? - -But at any rate he could picture them: the ladies—Lady Gale, Alice Du -Cane, Mrs. Lester, his wife, even poor Mrs. Lawrence—sitting there, on -the edge of the hill, silent, alert, listening. - -What a picnic! - -But their alertness, or rather their terrible eagerness to avoid seeming -alert, horrified him. They seemed to pursue him, all five of them, -during those two dreadful days with questioning glances; only his wife, -by her curious patient intentness, as though she were waiting for the -crisis to come, frightened him most of all. The more he thought of her -strange behaviour the less he understood her. It was all so utterly -unlike her. And it was not as though she had altered at all in other -ways. He had heard her talking to other people, he had watched her -scolding the girls, and it was the same sharp, shrill voice, the same -fierce assumption that the person she was with must necessarily be -trying to “get” at her; no, she was the same Emmy Maradick as far as the -rest of the world was concerned. But, with him, she was some one -altogether new, some one he had never seen before; and always, through -it all, that strange look of wonder and surprise. He often knew that her -eyes were upon him when he was talking to some one else; when he talked -to her himself her eyes avoided him. - -And then Mrs. Lester, too, was so strange. During the whole of Tuesday -she avoided him altogether. He had a few minutes with her at teatime, -but there were other people there, and she seemed anxious to get away -from him, to put the room between them. And seeing her like this, his -passion grew. He felt that whatever happened, whatever the disaster, he -must have her, once at least, in his arms again. The memories of their -other meetings lashed him like whips. He pictured it again, the -darkness, the movement of the trees, the touch of her cheek against his -hand; and then he would feel that his wife was looking at him from -somewhere across the room. He could feel her eyes, like little gimlets, -twisting, turning into his back. And then other moods would come, and -the blackest despair. He was this kind of man, this sort of scoundrel; -he remembered once that there had been a man at Epsom who had run away -with a married woman, a man who had been rather a friend of his. He -remembered what he had said to him, the kind of way that he had looked -at him, poor, rotten creature; and now what was he? - -But he could not go; he could not move. He was under a spell. When he -thought of Mrs. Lester his blood would begin to race again. He told -himself that it was the sign of his freedom, the natural consequences of -the new life that had come to him; and then suddenly he would see that -moment when his wife, sitting forlornly on his bed, had spoken to him. - -And then on Wednesday there was a moment when Mrs. Lester was herself -again. It was only a moment, an instant after dinner. Their lips met; he -spoke of Thursday and she smiled at him, then the others had come upon -them. For an hour or two he was on fire, then he crept miserably, like a -thief, to the room of the minstrels and sat wretchedly, hour after hour, -looking at the stars. - -The day would soon dawn! Thursday! The crisis, as it seemed to him, of -the whole of his life. He saw the morn draw faint shadows across the -earth, he saw all the black trees move like a falling wall against the -stars, he felt the wind with the odour of earth and sea brush his cheek, -as he waited for the day to come. - -He knew now that it was to be no light thing; it was to be a battle, the -fiercest that he had ever waged. Two forces were fighting over him, and -one of them, before the next night had passed, would win the day. No -Good and Evil? No God and Devil? No Heaven and Hell? Why, there they -were before his very eyes; the two camps and the field between! And so -Thursday dawned! - -But it came with grey mists and driving rain. The sea was hidden; only -the tops of the trees in the garden stood disconsolately dripping above -the fog. - -Everyone came down shivering to breakfast, and disappointments that -seemed unjust on ordinary days were now perfectly unbearable. If there -were no letters, one was left out in the cold, if there were a lot, they -were sure to be bills. It was certain to be smoked haddock when that was -the one thing above all others that you loathed; and, of course, there -were numbers of little draughts that crept like mice about your feet and -wandered like spiders about your hair. - -But one thing was perfectly obvious, and that was, that of course there -could be no picnic. To have five ladies sitting desolately alone on the -top of the hill, bursting with curiosity, was melancholy enough; but to -have them sitting there in driving rain was utterly impossible. - -Nevertheless some people intended to venture out. Sir Richard and -Rupert—mainly, it seemed, to show their contempt of so plebeian a thing -as rain—were still determined on Truro. - -Tony also was going to tramp it with Maradick. - -“Where are you going?” This from Sir Richard, who had just decided that -his third egg was as bad as the two that he had already eaten. - -“Oh! I don’t know!” said Tony lazily, “over the hills and far away, I -expect. That’s the whole fun of the thing—not knowing. Isn’t it, -Maradick?” - -“It is,” said Maradick. - -He showed no signs of a bad night. He was eating a very hearty -breakfast. - -“But you must have some idea where you are going,” persisted Sir -Richard, gloomily sniffing at his egg. - -“Well, I expect we’ll start out towards that old church,” said Tony. -“You know, the one on the cliff; then we’ll strike inland, I expect. -Don’t you think so, Maradick?” - -“Yes,” said Maradick. - -There was no doubt at all that the five ladies were extremely glad that -there was to be no picnic. Mrs. Lawrence meant to have a really cosy day -reading by the fire one of those most delightful stories of Miss -Braddon. She was enormously interested in the literature of the early -eighties; anything later than that rather frightened her. - -“We can have a really cosy day,” said Mrs. Lester. - -“Yes, we shall have quite a comfortable time,” said Mrs. Lawrence. - -“It is so nice having an excuse for a fire,” said Lady Gale. - -“I do love it when one can have a fire without being ashamed, don’t -you?” said Mrs. Lawrence. - -Mrs. Maradick gathered her two girls about her and they disappeared. - -Slowly the clock stole towards half-past eleven, when the first move was -to be made. Mr. Lester had left quite early. He said good-bye to -Maradick with great cordiality. - -“Mind you come and see us, often. It’s been delightful meeting you. -There’s still plenty to talk about.” - -He said good-bye to his wife with his usual rather casual geniality. - -“Good-bye, old girl. Send me a line. Hope this weather clears off”—and -he was gone. - -She had been standing by the hall door. As the trap moved down the drive -she suddenly made a step forward as though she would go out into the -rain after him and call him back. Then she stopped. She was standing on -the first step in front of the door; the mist swept about her. - -Lady Gale called from the hall: “Come in, dear, you’ll get soaking wet.” - -She turned and came back. - -To Tony, as he watched the hands of the clock creep round, it seemed -perfectly incredible that the whole adventure should simply consist in -quietly walking out of the door. It ought to begin, at any rate, with -something finer than that, with an escape, something that needed secrecy -and mystery. It was so strange that he was simply going to walk down and -take Janet; it was, after all, a very ordinary affair. - -At quarter-past eleven he found his mother alone in her room. - -He came up to her and kissed her. “I’m going off with Maradick now,” he -said. - -“Yes,” she answered, looking him in the eyes. - -“You know I’m in for an adventure, mother?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“You trust me, don’t you?” - -“Of course, dear, perfectly.” - -“You shall know all about it to-morrow.” - -“When you like, dear,” she answered. She placed her arms on his -shoulders, and held him back and looked him in the face. Then she -touched his head with her hands and said softly— - -“You mustn’t let anything or anyone come between us, Tony?” - -“Never, mother,” he answered. Then suddenly he came very close to her, -put his arms round her and kissed her again and again. - -“God bless you, old boy,” she said, and let him go. - -When he had closed the door behind him she began to cry, but when Mrs. -Lester found her quarter of an hour later there were no signs of tears. - -Maradick and Tony, as half-past eleven struck from the clock at the top -of the stairs, went down the steps of the hotel. - -As they came out into the garden the mists and rain swam all about them -and closed them in. The wind beat their faces, caught their coats and -lashed them against their legs, and went scrambling away round the -corners of the hill. - -“My word! what a day!” shouted Tony. “Here’s a day for a wedding!” He -was tremendously excited. He even thought that he liked this wind and -rain, it helped on the adventure; and then, too, there would be less -people about, but it would be a stormy drive to the church. - -They secured a cab in the market-place. But such a cab; was there ever -another like it? It stood, for no especial reason it seemed, there in -front of the tower, with the rain whirling round it, the wind beating at -the horse’s legs and playing fantastic tricks with the driver’s cape, -which flew about his head up and down like an angry bird. He was the -very oldest aged man Time had ever seen; his beard, a speckly grey, fell -raggedly down on to his chest, his eyes were bleared and nearly closed, -his nose, swollen to double its natural size, was purple in colour, and -when he opened his mouth there was visible an enormous tooth, but one -only. - -His hands trembled with ague as he clutched the reins and addressed his -miserable beast. The horse was a pitiful scarecrow; its ribs, like a -bent towel-rack, almost pierced the skin; its eye was melancholy but -patient. The cab itself moved as though at any moment it would fall to -pieces. The sides of the carriage were dusty, and the wheels were thick -with mud; at every movement the windows screamed and rattled and shook -with age—the cabman, the four-wheeler and the horse lurched together -from side to side. - -However, there was really nothing else. Time was precious, and it -certainly couldn’t be wasted in going round to the cab-stand at the -other end of the town. On a fine day there would have been a whole row -of them in the market-place, but in weather like this they sought better -shelter. - -The wind whistled across the cobbles; the rain fell with such force that -it hit the stones and leaped up again. The aged man was murmuring to -himself the same words again and again. “Eh! Lor! how the rain comes -down; it’s terrible bad for the beasts.” The tower frowned down on them -all. - -Tony jumped in, there was nothing else to be done; it rattled across the -square. - -Tony was laughing. It all seemed to him to add to the excitement. “Do -you know,” he said, “James Stephens’s poem? It hits it off exactly;” and -he quoted: - - “The driver rubbed at his nettly chin, - With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black, - And his wobbly violent lips sucked in, - And puffed out again and hung down slack: - One fang shone through his lop-sided smile, - In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile. - - And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked, - And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old, - And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked - It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold - Its big, skinny head up—then I stepped in - And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin. - -Only this old boy couldn’t climb if he were paid for it. I wonder how he -gets up to his box in the morning. I expect they lift him, you know; his -old wife and the children and the grandchildren—a kind of ceremony.” - -They were being flung about all this time like peas in a bladder, and -Tony had to talk at the top of his voice to make himself heard. “Anyhow -he’ll get us there all right, I expect. My word, what rain! I say, you -know, I can’t in the very least realise it. It seems most frightfully -exciting, but it’s all so easy, in a kind of way. You see I haven’t even -had to have a bag or anything, because there’ll be heaps of time to stop -in town and get things. And to-morrow morning to see the sun rise over -Paris, with Janet!” - -His eyes were on fire with excitement. But to Maradick this weather, -this cab, seemed horrible, almost ominous. He was flung against the side -of the window, then against Tony, then back again. He had lost his -breath. - -But he had realised something else suddenly; he wondered how he could -have been so foolish as not to have seen it before, and that was, that -this would be probably, indeed almost certainly, the last time that he -would have Tony to himself. The things that the boy had been to him -during these weeks beat in his head like bells, reminding him. Why, the -boy had been everything to him! And now he saw suddenly that he had, in -reality, been nothing at all to the boy. Tony’s eyes were set on the -adventure—the great adventure of life. Maradick, and others like him, -might be amusing on the way; were of course, “good sorts,” but they -could be left, they must be left if one were to get on, and there were -others, plenty of others. - -And so, in that bumping cab, Maradick suddenly realised his age. To be -“at forty” as the years go was nothing, years did not count, but to be -“at forty” in the way that he now saw it was the great dividing line in -life. He now saw that it wasn’t for him any more to join with those who -were “making life,” that was for the young, and they would have neither -time nor patience to wait for his slower steps; he must be content to -play his part in other people’s adventures, to act the observer, the -onlooker. Those young people might tell him that they cared, that they -wanted him, but they would soon forget, they would soon pass on until -they too were “at forty,” and, reluctantly, unwillingly, must move over -to the other camp. - -He turned to Tony. - -“I say, boy,” he said almost roughly, “this is the last bit that we -shall have together; alone, I mean. I say, don’t forget me altogether -afterwards. I want to come and see you.” - -“Forget you!” Tony laughed. “Why never! I!” - -But then suddenly the aged man and his coach bumped them together and -then flung them apart and then bumped them again so that no more words -were possible. The cab had turned the corner. The house, with its -crooked door, was before them. - -In the hall there were lights; underneath the stairs there was a lamp -and against the wall opposite the door there were candles. In the middle -of the hall Janet was standing waiting; she was dressed in some dark -blue stuff and a little round dark blue hat, beneath it her hair shone -gloriously. She held a bag in her hand and a small cloak over her arm. -Tony came forward with a stride and she stepped a little way to meet -him. Then he caught her in his arms, and her head went back a little so -that the light of the lamp caught her hair and flung a halo around it. -Miss Minns was in the background in a state of quite natural agitation. -It was all very quiet and restrained. There seemed to Maradick to fall a -very beautiful silence for a moment about them. The light, the colour, -everything centred round those two, and the world stood still. Then Tony -let go and she came forward to Maradick. - -She held out her hand and he took it in his, and he, suddenly, moved by -some strange impulse, bent down and kissed it. She let it lie there for -a moment and then drew it back, smiling. - -“It’s splendid of you, Mr. Maradick,” she said; “without you I don’t -know what we’d have done, Tony and I.” - -And then she turned round to Tony and kissed him again. There was -another pause, and indeed the two children seemed perfectly ready to -stand like that for the rest of the day. Something practical must be -done. - -“I think we ought to be making a move,” said Maradick. “The cab’s -waiting outside and the train has to be caught, you know.” - -“Why, of course.” Janet broke away from Tony. “How silly we are! I’m so -sorry, Miss Minns, have you got the bag with the toothbrush? It’s all -we’ve got, you know, because we can buy things in Paris. Oh! Paris!” - -She drew a breath and stood there, her eyes staring, her hands on her -hips, her head flung back. It really was amazing the way that she was -taking it. There was no doubt or alarm at the possible consequences of -so daring a step. It must be, Maradick thought, her ignorance of all -that life must mean to her now, all the difference that it would have -once this day was over, that saved her from fear. - -And yet there was knowledge as well as courage in her eyes, she was not -altogether ignorant. - -Miss Minns came forward, Miss Minns in an amazing bonnet. It was such an -amazing bonnet that Miss Minns must positively have made it herself; it -was shaped like a square loaf and little jet beads rang little bells on -it as she moved. She was in a perfect tremble of excitement, and the -whole affair sent her mind back to the one other romantic incident in -her life—the one and only love affair. But the really amazing discovery -was that romance wasn’t over for her yet, that she was permitted to take -part in a real “affair,” to see it through from start to finish. She was -quivering with excitement. - -They all got into the cab. - -It was a very silent drive to the church. The rain had almost stopped. -It only beat every now and again, a little doubtfully, against the -window and then went, with a little whirl of wind, streaming away. - -The cab went slowly, and, although it lurched from side to side and -every now and again pitched forward, as though it would fall on its -head, they were not shaken about very badly. Janet leaned back against -Tony, and he had his arm round her. They neither of them spoke at all, -but his fingers moved very lightly over her hand and then to her cheek, -and then back to her hand again. - -As they got on to the top of the hill and started along the white road -to the church the wind from the sea met them and swept about them. Great -dark clouds, humped like camels, raced across the sky; the trees by the -roadside, gnarled and knotted, waved scraggy arms like so many witches. - -Miss Minns’s only remark as they neared the church was, “I must say I -should have liked a little bit of orange-blossom.” - -“We’ll get that in Paris,” said Tony. - -The aged man was told to wait with his coach until they all came out of -church again. He seemed to be quite prepared to wait until the day of -doom if necessary. He stared drearily in front of him at the sea. To his -mind, it was all a very bad business. - -Soon they were all in the church, the clergyman with the flowing beard, -his elderly boy, acting as a kind of verger and general factotum, Miss -Minns, Maradick, and there, by the altar rails, Tony and Janet. - -It was a very tiny church indeed, and most of the room was taken up by -an enormous box-like pew that had once been used by “The Family”; now it -was a mass of cobwebs. Two candles had been lighted by the altar and -they flung a fitful, uncertain glow about the place and long twisting -shadows on the wall. On the altar itself was a large bowl of white -chrysanthemums, and always for the rest of his life the sight of -chrysanthemums brought back that scene to Maradick’s memory: the blazing -candles, the priest with his great white beard, the tiny, dusty church, -Miss Minns and her bonnet, Tony splendidly erect, a smile in his eyes, -and Janet with her hair and her blue serge dress and her glance every -now and again at Tony to see whether he were still there. - -And so, there, and in a few minutes, they were married. - -For an instant some little wind blew along the floor, stirred the dust -and caught the candles. They flared into a blaze, and out of the shadows -there leapt the dazzling white of the chrysanthemums, the gold of -Janet’s hair, and the blue of the little stained-glass windows. The rain -had begun again and was beating furiously at the panes; they could hear -it running in little streams and rivers down the hill past the church. - -Maradick hid his head in his hands for an instant before he turned away. -He did not exactly want to pray, he had not got anyone to pray to, but -he felt again now, as he had felt before in the room of the minstrels, -that there was something there, with him in the place—touching him, -Good and Evil? God and the Devil? Yes, they were there, and he did not -dare to raise his eyes. - -Then at last he looked up again and in the shock of the sudden light the -candles seemed to swing like golden lamps before him and the altar was a -throne, and, before it, the boy and girl. - -And then, again, they were all in the old man’s study, amongst his -fishing-rods and dogs and books. - -He laid both his hands on Tony’s shoulders before he said good-bye. Tony -looked up into his face and smiled. - -And the old man said: “I think that you will be very happy, both of you. -But take one word of advice from some one who has lived in the world a -very long time and knows something of it, even though he has dwelt in -only an obscure corner of it. My dear, keep your Charity. That is all -that I would say to you. You have it now; keep it as your dearest -possession. Judge no one; you do not know what trouble has been theirs, -what temptation, and there will be flowers even in the dreariest piece -of ground if only we sow the seed. And remember that there are many very -lonely people in the world. Give them some of your vitality and -happiness and you will do well.” - -Miss Minns, who had been sniffing through the most of the service, very -nearly broke down altogether at this point. And then suddenly some one -remembered the time. - -It was Tony. “My word, it’s half-past two. And the train’s quarter-past -three. Everything’s up if we miss it. We must be off; we’ll only just do -it as it is.” - -They found the aged man sitting in a pool of water on the box. Water -dripped from the legs of the trembling horse. The raindrops, as though -possessed of a devil, leaped off the roof of the cab like peas from a -catapult. - -Tony tried to impress the driver with the fact that there was no time to -lose, but he only shook his head dolefully. They moved slowly round the -corner. - -Then there began the most wonderful drive that man or horse had ever -known. - -At first they moved slowly. The road was, by this time, thick with mud, -and there were little trenches of water on both sides. They bumped along -this for a little way. And then suddenly the aged man became seized, as -it were, by a devil. They were on the top of the hill; the wind blew -right across him, the rain lashed him to the skin. Suddenly he lifted up -his voice and sang. It was the sailor’s chanty that Maradick had heard -on the first day of his coming to Treliss; but now, through the closed -windows of the cab, it seemed to reach them in a shrill scream, like -some gull above their heads in the storm. - -Wild exultation entered into the heart of the ancient man. He seemed to -be seized by the Furies. He lashed his horse wildly, the beast with all -its cranky legs and heaving ribs, darted madly forward, and the rain -came down in torrents. - -The ancient man might have seemed, had there been a watcher to note, the -very spirit of the moor. His eyes were staring, his arms were raised -aloft; and so they went, bumping, jolting, tumbling along the white -road. - -Inside the cab there was confusion. At the first movement Miss Minns had -been flung violently into Maradick’s lap. At first he clutched her -wildly. The bugles on her bonnet hit him sharply in the eyes, the nose, -the chin. She pinched his arm in the excitement of the moment. Then she -recovered herself. - -“Oh! Mr. Maradick!” she began, “I——” but, in a second, she was seized -again and hurled against the door, so that Tony had to clutch her by the -skirt lest the boards should give and she should be hurled out into the -road. But the pace of the cab grew faster and faster. They were now all -four of them hurled violently from one side of the vehicle to the other. -First forward, then backwards, then on both sides at once, then all in a -tangled heap together in the middle; and the ancient man on the top of -the box, the water dripping from his hat in a torrent, screamed his -song. - -Then terror suddenly entered into them all. It seemed to strike them all -at the same moment that there was danger. Maradick suddenly was afraid. -He was bruised, his collar was torn, he ached in every limb. He had a -curious impulse to seize Miss Minns and tear her to pieces, he was wild -with rage that she should be allowed to hit and strike him like that. He -began to mutter furiously. And the others felt it too. Janet was nearly -in tears; she clung to Tony and murmured, “Oh! stop him! stop him!” - -And Tony, too. He cried, “We must get out of this! We must get out of -this!” and he dragged furiously at the windows, but they would not move; -and then his hand broke through the pane, and it began to bleed, there -was blood on the floor of the carriage. - -And they did not know that it was the place that was casting them out. -They were going back to their cities, to their disciplined places, to -their streets and solemn houses, their inventions, their rails and lines -and ordered lives; and so the place would cast them out. It would have -its last wild game with them. The ancient man gave a last shrill scream -and was silent. The horse relapsed into a shamble; they were in the -dark, solemn streets. They climbed the hill to the station. - -They began to straighten themselves, and already to forget that it had -been, in the least, terrible. - -“After all,” said Tony, “it was probably a good thing that we came at -that pace. We might have missed the train.” - -He helped Janet to tidy herself. Miss Minns was profuse in her -apologies: “Really, Mr. Maradick, I don’t know what you can have thought -of me. Really, it was most immodest; and I am afraid that I bumped you -rather awkwardly. It was most——” - -But he stopped her and assured her that it was all right. He was -thinking, as they climbed the hill, that in another quarter of an hour -they would both be gone, gone out of his life altogether probably. There -would be nothing left for him beyond his explanations; his clearing up -of the bits, as it were, and Mrs. Lester. But he would not think of her -now; he put her resolutely from him for the moment. The thought of her -seemed desecration when these two children were with him—something as -pure and beautiful as anything that the world could show. He would think -of her afterwards, when they had gone. - -But as he looked at them a great pang of envy cut him like a knife. Ah! -that was what life meant! To have some one to whom you were the chief -thing in the world, some one who was also the chief thing to you! - -And he? Here, at forty, he had got nothing but a cheque book and a -decent tailor. - -They got out of the cab. - -It was ten minutes before the train left. It was there, waiting. Tony -went to get the tickets. - -Janet suddenly put her hand on Maradick’s arm and looked up into his -face: - -“Mr. Maradick,” she said, “I haven’t been able, I haven’t had a chance -to say very much to you about all that Tony and I owe you. But I feel -it; indeed, indeed I do. And I will never, never forget it. Wherever -Tony and I are there will always be a place for you if you want one. You -won’t forget that, will you?” - -“No, indeed,” said Maradick, and he took her hand for a moment and -pressed it. Then suddenly his heart stopped beating. The station seemed -for a moment to be pressed together, so that the platform and the roof -met and the bookstall and the people dotted about disappeared -altogether. - -Sir Richard and Rupert were walking slowly towards them down the -platform. There was no question about it at all. They had obviously just -arrived from Truro and Rupert was staring in his usual aimless fashion -in front of him. There was simply no time to lose. They were threatened -with disaster, for Tony had not come back from the ticket-office and -might tumble upon his father at any moment. - -Maradick seized Janet by the arm and dragged her back into the -refreshment room. “Quick,” he said, “there isn’t a moment to -lose—Tony’s father. You and Miss Minns must get in by yourselves; trust -to luck!” In a moment she had grasped the situation. Her cheeks were a -little flushed, but she gave him a hurried smile and then joined Miss -Minns. Together they walked quietly down the platform and took their -seats in a first-class carriage at the other end of the train. Janet was -perfectly self-possessed as she passed Sir Richard. There was no -question that this distinguished-looking gentleman must be Tony’s -father, and she must have felt a very natural curiosity to see what he -looked like; she gave him one sharp glance and then bent down in what -was apparently an earnest conversation with Miss Minns. - -Then Rupert saw Maradick. “Hullo! there’s Maradick!” He came forward -slowly; but he smiled a little in a rather weary manner. He liked -Maradick. “What a day! Yes, Truro had been awful! All sorts of dreadful -people dripping wet!” - -Yes, Maradick had been a tramp in the rain with Tony. Tony was just -asking for a parcel that he was expecting; yes, they’d got very wet and -were quite ready for tea! Ah! there was Tony. - -Maradick gazed at him in agony as he came out of the ticket office. -Would he give a start and flush with surprise when he saw them? Would he -look round vaguely and wildly for Janet? Would he turn tail and flee? - -But he did none of these things. He walked towards them as though the -one thing that he had really expected to see, there on the platform, was -his father. There was a little smile at the corners of his mouth and his -eyes were shining especially brightly, but he sauntered quite casually -down the platform, as though he hadn’t the least idea that the train was -going off in another five minutes, and that Janet was close at hand -somewhere and might appear at any moment. - -“Hullo, governor! Rupert! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? I -suppose the weather sent you back. Maradick and I have been getting -pretty soaked out there on the hill. But one thing is that it sends you -in to a fire with some relish. I’m after a rotten old parcel that Briggs -was sending me—some books. He says it ought to have come, but I can’t -get any news of it here. We’ll follow you up to the hotel to tea in a -minute.” - -But Rupert seemed inclined to stay and chat. “Oh! we’ll come on with -you; we’re in no particular hurry, are we, governor? I say, that was a -damned pretty girl that passed just now; girl in blue. Did you see her, -Maradick?” - -No, Maradick hadn’t seen her. In blue? No, he hadn’t noticed. The -situation was beginning to get on his nerves. He was far more agitated -than Tony. What were they to do? The guard was passing down the platform -looking at tickets. Doors were beginning to be banged. A great many -people were hurriedly giving a great many messages that had already been -given a great many times before. What was to be done? To his excited -fancy it almost seemed as though Sir Richard was perfectly aware of the -whole business. He thought his silence saturnine; surely there was a -malicious twinkle. - -“Yes,” Rupert was saying, “there she was walking down Lemon Street, -dontcher know, with her waterproof thing flapping behind her in the most -_absurd_——” The doors were all banged; the guard looked down the line. - -Suddenly Sir Richard moved. “I’m damned cold; wet things.” He nodded -curtly to Maradick. “See you later, Mr. Maradick.” - -They moved slowly away; they turned the corner and at the same instant -the train began to move. Tony snatched at Maradick’s hand and then made -a wild leap across the platform. The train was moving quite fast now; he -made a clutch at one of the carriages. Two porters rushed forward -shouting, but he had the handle of the door. He flung it open; for a -sickening instant he stood swaying on the board; it seemed as though he -would be swept back. Then some one pulled him in. He lurched forward and -disappeared; the door was closed. - -A lot of little papers rose in a little cloud of dust into the air. They -whirled to and fro. A little wind passed along the platform. - -Maradick turned round and walked slowly away. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - - AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH—MARADICK - GOES TO CHURCH AND AFTERWARDS PAYS A - VISIT TO MORELLI - -As he came out of the station and looked at the little road that ran -down the hill, at the grey banks of cloud, at the white and grey valley -of the sea, he felt curiously, uncannily alone. It was as though he had -suddenly, through some unknown, mysterious agency been transported into -a new land, a country that no one ever found before. He walked the hill -with the cautious adventurous sense of surprise that some explorer might -have had; he was alone in the world of ghosts. - -When he came to the bottom of the road he stopped and tried to collect -his thoughts. Where was he? What was he going to do? What were the -thoughts that were hovering, like birds of prey, about his head, waiting -for the moment of descent to come? He stood there quite stupidly, as -though his brain had been suddenly swept clear of all thought; it was an -empty, desolate room. Everything was empty, desolate. Two plane trees -waved mournfully; there were little puddles of rain-water at his feet -reflecting the dismal grey of the sky; a very old bent woman in a black -cloak hobbled slowly up the hill. Then suddenly his brain was alive -again, suddenly he knew. Tony was gone. Tony was gone and he must see -people and explain. - -The thought of the explanations troubled him very little; none of those -other people really mattered. They couldn’t do very much; they could -only say things. No, they didn’t matter. He didn’t mind about them, or -indeed about anyone else in the world except Tony. He saw now a thousand -little things that Tony had done, ways that Tony had stood, things that -Tony had said, little tricks that he had; and now he had gone away. - -Things could never be quite the same again. Tony had got some one else -now. Everyone had got some one else, some one who especially belonged to -them; he saw the world as a place where everyone—murderer, priest, -king, prostitute—had his companion, and only he, Maradick, was alone. -He had been rather proud of being alone before; he had rather liked to -feel that he was quite independent, that it didn’t matter if people died -or forgot, because he could get on as well by himself! What a fool he -had been! Why, that was simply the only thing worth having, -relationships with other people, intimacy, affection, giving anything -that you had to some one else, taking something in return from them. Oh! -he saw that now! - -He had been walking vaguely, without thought or purpose. Now he saw that -his feet had led him back into the town and that he was in the -market-place, facing once more the town. He was determined not to go -back to the hotel until he had seen Morelli, and that he could not do -before the evening; but that would be the next thing. Meanwhile he would -walk—no matter where—but he would get on to the road, into the air, -and try and straighten out all the tangled state of things that his mind -was in. - -For a moment he stood and looked at the tower. It gave him again that -sense of strength and comfort. He was, after all, not quite alone, -whilst the world was the place that it was. Stocks and stones had more -of a voice, more of a personal vital activity than most people knew. But -he knew! He had known ever since he came to this strange town, this -place where every tree and house and hill seemed to be alive. - -And then, with the thought of the place, Mrs. Lester came back to him. -He had forgotten her when he was thinking of Tony. But now that Tony was -gone, now that that was, in a way, over, the other question suddenly -stepped forward. Mrs. Lester with her smile, her arms, the curve of her -neck, the scent that she used, the way that her eyes climbed, as it -were, slowly up to his just before she kissed him. . . . Mrs. Lester -. . . and it must be decided before to-night. - -He started walking furiously, and soon he was out on the high road that -ran above the sea. The rain had stopped; the sun was not actually -shining, but there was a light through the heavy clouds as though it -were not very far away, and the glints of blue and gold, not actually -seen, but, as it were, trembling on the edge of visible appearance, -seemed to strike the air. Everything shone and glittered with the rain. -The green of trees and fields was so bright against the grey of sea and -sky that it was almost dazzling; its brightness was unnatural, even a -little cruel. And now he was caught up in the very heat of conflict. The -battle seemed suddenly to have burst upon him, as though there were in -reality two visible forces fighting for the possession of his soul. At -one moment he seemed calm, resolute; Tony, Janet, his wife (and this was -curious, because a few days before she would not have mattered at all), -Punch, the tower, all kinds of queer bits of things, impressions, -thoughts, and above all, a consciousness of some outside power fighting -for him—all these things determined him. He would see Mrs. Lester -to-night and would tell her that there must be nothing more; they should -be friends, good friends, but there must be no more of that dangerous -sentiment, one never knew where it might go. And after all, laws were -meant to be kept. A man wasn’t a man at all if he could injure a woman -in that sort of way. And then he had been Lester’s friend. How could he -dishonour his wife? - -And then suddenly it came from the other side, fierce, hot, wild, so -that his heart began to beat furiously, his eyes were dim. He only saw -her, all the rest of the world was swept away. They should have this one -adventure, they _must_ have their one adventure. After all they were no -longer children. They had neither of them known what life was before; -let them live it now, their great experience. If they missed it now they -would regret it all their lives. They would look back on the things that -they might have done, the things that they might have known, and see -that they had passed it all simply because they had not been brave -enough, because they had been afraid of convention, of old musty laws -that had been made thousands of years ago for other people, people far -less civilised, people who needed rules. And then the thought of her -grew upon him—details, the sense of holding her, keeping her; and then, -for an instant, he was primitive, wild, so that he would have done -anything to seize her in the face of all the world. - -But it passed; the spirit left him, and again he was miserable, -wretched, penitent. He was that sort of man, a traitor to his wife, to -his friends, to everything that was decent. He was walking furiously, -his hair was blown by the wind, his eyes stared in front of him, and the -early dusk of a grey day began to creep about his feet. - -It all came to this. Was there one ethical code for the world, or must -individuals make each their law for their individual case? - -There were certain obvious things, such as doing harm to your -neighbours, lying, cruelty, that was bad for the community and so must -be forbidden to the individual; but take an instance of something in -which you harmed no one, did indeed harm yourself by denying it, was -that a sin even if the general law forbade it? What were a man’s -instincts for? Why was he placed so carefully in the midst of his -wonderful adventurous life if he were forbidden to know anything of it? -Why these mists? This line of marble foam far below him? This hard black -edge of the rocks against the sky? It was all strong, remorseless, -inevitable; and he by this namby-pamby kind of virtue was going contrary -to nature. - -He let the wind beat about his face as he watched the mists in great -waves and with encircling arms sweep about the cove. There came to him -as he watched, suddenly, some lines from end of “To Paradise.” He could -not remember them exactly, but they had been something like this: - - To Tressiter, as to every other human being, there had come - suddenly his time of revelation, his moment in which he was to - see without any assistance from tradition, without any reference - to things or persons of the past. He beheld suddenly with the - vision of some one new-born, and through his brain and body into - the locked recesses of his soul there passed the elemental - passions and movements of the world that had swayed creation - from the beginning. The great volume of the winds, the tireless - beating of waves upon countless shores, the silent waters of - innumerable rivers, the shining flanks of a thousand cattle upon - moorlands that stretch without horizon to the end of time—it - was these things rather than any little acts of civilisation - that some few hundred years had seen that chimed now with the - new life that was his. He had never seen before, he had never - known before. He saw now with unprejudiced eyes, he knew now - with a knowledge that discounted all man-made laws and went, - like a child, back to Mother Earth. . . . But with this new - knowledge came also its dangers. Because some laws seemed now of - none effect it did not mean that there must be no laws at all. - That way was shipwreck. Only, out of this new strength, this new - clarity of vision, he must make his strength, his restraint, his - discipline for himself, and so pass, a new man, down the other - side of the hill. . . . This is the “middle-age” that comes to - every man. It has nothing to do with years, but it is the great - Rubicon of life. . . . - -And so Lester. Fine talk and big words, and a little ludicrous, perhaps, -if one knew what Lester was, but there was something in it. Oh! yes! -there was something in it! - -And now this time, this “middle-age,” had come upon him. - -He found that his steps had led him back again to the little church -where he had been already that day. He thought that it might be a good -place to sit and think things out, quiet and retired and in shelter, if -the rain came on again. - -The dusk was creeping down the little lane, so that the depths of it -were hidden and black; but above the dark clumps of trees the sky had -begun to break into the faintest, palest blue. Some bird rejoiced at -this return of colour and was singing in the heart of the lane; from the -earth rose the sweet clean smell that the rain leaves. From behind the -little blue windows of the church shone a pale yellow light, of the same -pallor as the faint blue of the sky, seeming in some intimate, friendly -way, to re-echo it. The body of the church stood out grey-white against -the surrounding mists. It seemed to Maradick (and this showed the way -that he now credited everything with vitality) to be bending forward a -little and listening to the very distant beating of the sea; its windows -were golden eyes. - -The lights seemed to prophesy company, and so he was surprised, on -pushing the door softly back and entering, to find that there was no one -there. But there were two large candles on the altar, and they waved -towards him a little with the draught from the door as though to greet -him. The church seemed larger now in the half light. The great box-like -family pew was lost in the dark corners by the walls; it seemed to -stretch away into infinite space. The other seats had an air of -conscious waiting for some ceremony. On one of them was still an open -prayer-book, open at the marriage service, that had been left there that -afternoon. And at the sight of it the memories of Tony and Janet came -back to him with a rush, so that they seemed to be there with him. -Already it seemed a very, very long time since they had gone, another -lifetime almost. And now, as he thought of it, perhaps, after all, it -was better that they had gone like that. - -He thought over the whole affair from the beginning. The first evening -in Treliss, that first night when he had quarrelled with her, and then -there had been Tony. That dated the change in him. But he could not -remember when he had first noticed anything in her. There had been the -picnic, the evening in their room when he had nearly lost control of -himself and shaken her. . . . Yes, it was after that. That placed it. -Well, then, it was only, after all, because he had shown himself firm, -because, for once, he had made her afraid of him. Because, too, no -doubt, she had noticed that people paid him attention. For the first -time in their married life he had become “somebody,” and that perhaps -had opened her eyes. But then there had been that curious moment the -other night when she had spoken to him. That had been extraordinarily -unpleasant. He could feel again his uncomfortable sensation of -helplessness, of not in the least knowing how to deal with her. That was -the new Mrs. Maradick. He had therefore some one quite new to reckon -with. - -And then he saw suddenly, there in the church, the right thing to do. It -was to go back. To go back to Epsom, to go back to his wife, to go back -to the girls. He saw that she, Mrs. Maradick, in her own way, had been -touched by the Admonitus Locorum—not that he put it that way; he called -it the “rum place” or “the absurd town.” She was going to try (she had -herself told him so) to be better, more obliging. He could see her now, -sitting there on the end of the bed, looking at him so pathetically. - -The shadows gathered about the church, creeping along the floor and -blotting out the blue light from the windows, and only there was a glow -by the altar where the candles seemed to increase in size, and their -light, like a feathery golden mist, hung in circles until it lost itself -in the dusky roof. - -But he stared in front of him, seeing simply the two women, one on each -side of him. He had forgotten everything else. They stood there waiting -for him to make his choice. It was the parting of the ways. - -And then suddenly he fell asleep. He did not know that his eyes closed; -he seemed to be still stupidly staring at the two candles and the rings -that they made, and the way that the altar seemed to slope down in front -of him like the dim grey side of a hill. And it was a hill. He could see -it stretch in front of him, up into the air, until the heights of it -were lost. At the foot of the hill ran a stream, blue in the half-light, -and in front of the stream a green plain stretching to his feet. Along -the stream were great banks of rushes, green and brown, and away to the -right and left were brown cliffs running sheer down into the sea. - -And then in his dream he suddenly realised that he had seen the place -before. He knew that beyond the plain there should be a high white road -leading to a town, that below the cliffs there was a cove with a white -sandy bay; he knew the place. - -And people approached. He could not see their faces, and they seemed in -that half light in which the blue hills and the blue river mingled in -the grey of the dusk to be shadows such as a light casts on a screen. -They were singing very softly and moving slowly across the plain. Then -they passed away and there was silence again, only a little wind went -rustling down the hill and the rushes all quivered for an instant. Then -the rushes were parted, and a face looked out from between them and -looked at Maradick and smiled. And Maradick recognised the smile. He had -seen it for the first time in a public-house, thick with smoke, noisy -with drinking and laughter. He could see it all again; the little man in -brown suddenly at his table, and then that delightful charming laugh -unlike anything else in the world—Morelli. - -But this figure was naked, his feet were goats’ feet and on his head -were horns; his body was brown and hairy and in his hand was a pipe. He -began to play and slowly the shadowy figures came back again and -gathered about him. They began to dance to his playing moving slowly in -the half-light so that at times they seemed only mist; and a little moon -like a golden eye came out and watched them and touched the tops of the -blue hills with flame. - -Maradick woke. His head had slipped forward on to the seat in front of -him. He suddenly felt dreadfully tired; every limb in his body seemed to -ache, but he was cold and the seat was very hard. - -Then he was suddenly aware that there was some one else in the church. -Over by the altar some one was kneeling, and very faintly there came to -him the words of a prayer. “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be -Thy name. . . . Thy will be done, . . . as it is in Heaven. . . . lead -us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil. . . .” It was the old -clergyman, the old clergyman with the white beard. - -Maradick sat motionless in his seat. He made no movement, but he was -praying, praying furiously. He was praying to no God that had a name, -but to the powers of all honour, of all charity, of all goodness. - -Love was the ultimate test, the test of everything. He knew now, with a -clearness that seemed to dismiss all the shadows that had lingered for -days about him, that he had never loved Mrs. Lester. It was the cry of -sensuality, the call of the beast; it was lust. - -“Deliver us from evil.” He said it again and again, his hands clenched, -his eyes staring, gazing at the altar. The powers of evil seemed to be -all about him; he felt that if he did not cling with all his strength to -that prayer, he was lost. The vision of Mrs. Lester returned to him. She -seemed to get between him and the old man at the altar. He tried to look -beyond her, but she was there, appealing, holding out her arms to him. -Then she was nearer to him, quite close, he could feel her breath on his -cheek; and then again, with all the moral force that was in him, he -pushed her away. - -Then he seemed to lie for a long time in a strange lassitude. He was -still sitting forward with his hands pressed tightly together, his eyes -fixed on the altar, but his brain seemed to have ceased to work. He had -that sensation of suddenly standing outside and above himself. He saw -Maradick sitting there, he saw the dusky church and the dim gold light -over the altar, and outside the sweep of the plain and the dark plunging -sea; and he was above and beyond it all. He wondered a little that that -man could be so troubled about so small an affair. He wondered and then -pitied him. What a perspective he must have, poor thing, to fancy that -his struggles were of so vast an importance. - -He saw him as a baby, a boy, a man—stolid, stupid self-centred, -ignorant. Oh! so dull a soul! such a lump of clay, just filling space as -a wall fills it; but no use, with no share at all in the music that was -on every side of him. - -And then, because for an instant the flame has descended upon him and -his eyes have been opened, he rushes at once to take refuge in his body. -He is afraid of his soul, the light of it hurts him, he cowers in his -dark corner groping for his food, wanting his sensuality to be -satisfied; and the little spark that has been kindled is nearly out, in -a moment it will be gone, because he did not know what to do with it, -and the last state of that man is worse than the first. - -And slowly he came back to himself. The candles had been extinguished. -The church was quite dark. Only a star shone through the little window -and some late bird was singing. He gathered himself together. It must be -late and he must see Morelli. He stumbled out of the church. - -He knew as he faced the wind and the night air that in some obscure way, -as yet only very vaguely realised, he had won the moral victory over -himself. He had no doubt about what he must do; he had no doubt at all -about the kind of life that he must lead afterwards. He saw that he had -been given something very precious to keep—his _vie sacré_, as it -were—and he knew that everyone had this _vie sacré_ somewhere, that it -was something that they never talked about, something that they kept -very closely hidden, and that it was when they had soiled it, or hurt -it, or even perhaps for a time lost it, that they were unhappy and saw -life miserably and distrusted their fellow beings. He had never had it -before; but he had got it now, his precious golden box, and it would -make all life a new thing. - -But there was still his body. He had never felt so strong in his life -before; the blood raced through his veins, he felt as though he would -like to strip himself naked and fight and battle with anything furious -and strong. - -His sense of weariness had left him; he felt that he must have some vent -for his strength immediately or he would commit some crime. For a few -minutes he stood there and let the wind blow about his forehead. The -storm had passed away. The sky was a very dark blue, and the stars had a -wind-blown, misty look, as they often have after a storm. Their gold -light was a little watery, as though they had all been dipped in some -mysterious lake somewhere in the hills of heaven before they were out in -the sky. In spite of the wind there was a great silence, and the bird on -some dark wind-bent tree continued to sing. The trees on either side of -the lane rose, dark walls, against the sky. Then in the distance there -were cries, at first vague and incoherent, almost uncanny, and then, -coming down the lane, he heard the bleating of innumerable sheep. They -passed him, their bodies mysteriously white against the dark hedges; -they pressed upon each other and their cries came curiously to him, -hitting the silence as a ball hits a board; there were very many of them -and their feet pattered away into distance. They seemed to him like all -the confused and dark thoughts that had surrounded him all these weeks, -but that he had now driven away. His head was extraordinarily clear; he -felt as though he had come out of a long sleep. - -The lights were beginning to come out in the town as he entered it. It -must be, he thought, about eight o’clock, and Morelli had probably -returned from Truro. It had not occurred to him until now to think of -what he was going to say to Morelli. After all, there wasn’t really very -much to say, simply that his daughter was gone and that she would never -come back again, and that he, Maradick, had helped her to go. It hadn’t -occurred to him until now to consider how Morelli would probably take -his share in it. He wouldn’t like it, of course; there would probably be -some unpleasantness. - -And then Morelli was undoubtedly a queer person. Tony was a very healthy -normal boy, not at all given to unnecessary terror, but he had been -frightened by Morelli. And then there were a host of little things, none -of them amounting to anything in themselves, but taken together—oh yes! -the man was queer. - -The street was quite empty; the lamplighter had not yet reached that -part of the town and the top of the hill was lost in darkness. Maradick -found the bell and rang it, and even as he did so a curious feeling of -uneasiness began to creep over him. He, suddenly and quite -unconsciously, wanted to run away. He began to imagine that there was -something waiting for him on the other side of the door, and when it -actually opened and showed him only Lucy, the little maid-of-all-work, -he almost started with surprise. - -“No, sir; they’re all out. I don’t know when Miss Janet will be back, -I’m sure. I’m expecting the master any moment, sir.” She seemed, -Maradick thought, a little frightened. “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir, -about Miss Janet; she said nothing about dinner, sir. I’ve been alone.” -She stopped and twisted her apron in her hands. - -Maradick looked down the street, then he turned back and looked past her -into the hall. “Mr. Morelli told me that he would be back about now,” he -said; “I promised to wait.” - -She stood aside to let him enter the hall. She was obviously relieved -that there was some one else in the house. She was even inclined to be a -little confidential. “That kitchen,” she said and stopped. - -“Yes?” he said, standing in the hall and looking at her. - -“Well, it fairly gives you the creeps. Being alone all day down in the -basement too. . . .” There was a little choke in her voice and her face -was very white in the darkness. She was quite a child and not very tidy; -pathetic, Maradick thought. - -“Well,” he said, “your master will be back in a minute.” - -“Yes, sir, and it’s all dark, sir. I’ll light the lamp upstairs.” - -She led the way with a candle. He followed her up the stairs, and his -uneasiness seemed to increase with every step that he took. He had a -strange consciousness that Morelli had really returned and that he was -waiting for him somewhere in the darkness. The stairs curved, and he -could see the very faint light of the higher landing above him; the -candle that the girl carried flung their two heads on to the wall, -gigantic, absurd. His hair seemed to stand up in the shadow like a -forest and his nose was hooked like an elephant’s trunk. - -She lit the lamp in the sitting-room and then stood with the candle by -the door. - -“I suppose you couldn’t tell me, sir,” she said timidly, “when Miss -Janet is likely—what time she’ll be in?” - -“Your master will probably be able to tell you,” said Maradick. - -Lucy was inclined for conversation. “It’s funny, sir,” she said, “what -difference Miss Janet makes about the house, comin’ in and goin’ out. -You couldn’t want a better mistress; but if it weren’t for ’er . . . I -must be seein’ to things downstairs.” She hurried away. - -The room was quiet save for the ticking of the clock. The little blue -tiles of the fireplace shone under the lamp, the china plates round the -wall made eyes at him. - -He was sitting straight up in his chair listening. The uneasiness that -he had felt at first would soon, if he did not keep it in check, grow -into terror. There was no reason, no cause that he could in the least -define, but he felt as though things were happening outside the door. He -didn’t know what sort of things, but he fancied that by listening very -hard he could hear soft footsteps, whispers, and a noise like the -rustling of carpets. The ticking of the clock grew louder and louder, -and to forget it he flung up the window so that he could hear the noises -of the town. But there weren’t any noises; only, very far away, some cat -was howling. The night was now very dark; the stars seemed to have -disappeared; the wind made the lamp flare. He closed the window. - -At the same moment the door opened and he saw Morelli standing there -smiling at him. It was the same charming smile, the trusting, confiding -laugh of a child; the merry twinkle in the eyes, taking the whole world -as a delightful, delicious joke. - -“Why, Maradick!” He seemed surprised, and came forward holding out his -hand. “I’m delighted! I hope you haven’t been waiting long. But why is -Janet not entertaining you? She’s only upstairs, I expect. I’ll call -her.” He moved back towards the door. - -“Miss Morelli isn’t in,” Maradick said slowly. He was standing up and -resting one hand on the table. - -“Not in?” - -“No. Your servant told me so.” - -He wanted to say more. He wanted to give his message at once and go, but -his tongue seemed tied. He sat down, leaning both his arms on the table. - -Morelli laughed. “Oh well, I expect she’s out with Minns -somewhere—walking, I suppose. They’re often late; but we’ll wait supper -a little if you don’t mind. We’ll give them ten minutes. Well, how’s -young Gale?” - -Seeing him like this, it was almost impossible to reconcile him with all -the absurdly uncouth ideas that Maradick had had of him. But the uncanny -feeling of there being some one outside the door was still with him; he -had a foolish impulse to ask Morelli to open it. - -Then he leant across the table and looked Morelli in the face. - -“That’s what I came to tell you. Young Gale has gone.” - -“Gone? What, with his people? I’m sorry. I liked him.” - -“No. Not with his people. He was married to your daughter at two o’clock -this afternoon. They have gone to London.” - -There was absolute silence. Morelli didn’t move. He was sitting now on -the opposite side of the table facing Maradick. - -“My daughter has gone to London with Gale?” he said very slowly. The -smile had died away from his face and his eyes were filled with tears. - -“Yes. They were married to-day. They have gone to London.” - -“Janet!” He called her name softly as though she were in the next room. -“Janet!” He waited as though he expected an answer, and then suddenly he -burst into tears. His head fell forward between his arms on to the -table; his shoulders shook. - -Maradick watched him. It was the most desolate thing in the world; he -felt the most utter cad. If it had been possible he would have, at that -moment, brought Janet and Tony back by main force. - -“I say,” he muttered, “I’m awfully sorry.” He stopped. There was nothing -to say. - -Then suddenly Morelli looked up. The tears seemed to have vanished, but -his eyes were shining with extraordinary brilliance. His hands, with -their long white fingers, were bending over the table; his upper lip -seemed to have curled back like the mouth of a dog. - -He looked at Maradick very intently. - -“You saw them married?” - -“Yes.” - -“You saw them leave for London?” - -“Yes.” - -“You have helped them all this time?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why?” - -“I thought that they ought to marry; I was fond of both of them. I -wanted them to marry.” - -“And now I will kill you.” - -He said it without moving; his face seemed to grow more like a beast’s -at every moment. His hands stretched across the table; the long fingers -were like snakes. - -“I must go.” Maradick got up. Panic was about him again. He felt that he -ought to make some kind of defence of what he had done, but the words -would not come. - -“You will see, afterwards, that what I did was best. It was really the -best. We will talk again about it, when you feel calmer.” - -He moved towards the door; but Morelli was coming towards him with his -head thrust forward, his back a little bent, his hands hanging, curved, -in mid-air, and he was smiling. - -“I am going to kill you, here and now,” he said. “It is not a very -terrible affair. It will not be very long. You can’t escape; but it is -not because you have done this or that, it is not for anything that you -have done. It is only because you are so stupid, so dreadfully stupid. -There are others like you, and I hate you all, you fools. You do not -understand anything—what I am or who I am, or the world—nothing.” - -Maradick said nothing. The terror that had once seized Tony was about -him now like a cloud; the thing that was approaching him was not a man, -but something impure, unclean. It was exactly as though he were being -slowly let down into a dungeon full of creeping snakes. - -His breath was coming with difficulty. He felt stifled. - -“You must let me out,” he gasped. - -“Oh no, I will throw you out, later. Now, you are here. That boy -understood a little, and that girl too. They were young, they were -alive, they were part of me; I loved to have them about me. Do you -suppose that I care whether they are married; what is that to me? But -they are gone. You with your blundering, you fat fool, you have done -that; and now I will play with you.” - -Maradick, suddenly feeling that if he did not move soon he would be -unable to move at all, stumbled for the door. In an instant Morelli was -upon him. His hand hung for an instant above Maradick like a whip in the -air, then it fastened on his arm. It passed up to Maradick’s neck; his -other hand was round his waist, his head was flung back. - -Then curiously, with the touch of the other man’s hand Maradick’s -strength returned. He was himself again; his muscles grew taut and firm. -He knew at once that it was a case of life and death. The other man’s -fingers seemed to grip his neck like steel; already they were pressing -into the flesh. He shot out his arm and caught Morelli’s neck, but it -was like gripping iron, his hand seemed to slip away. Then Morelli’s -hand suddenly dug into Maradick’s shoulder-bone. It turned about there -like a gimlet. Suddenly something seemed to give, and a hot burning pain -twisted inside his flesh as an animal twists in its burrow. They swayed -backwards and forwards in the middle of the room. Maradick pushed the -other body slowly back and, with a crash, it met the table. The thing -fell, and the lamp flamed for an instant to the ceiling and then was on -the floor in a thousand pieces. - -When the lamp fell the darkness seemed to leap like a wall out of the -ground. It fell all about them; it pressed upon them, and the floor -heaved to and fro. - -They had turned round and round, so that Maradick was confused and could -not remember where the door was. Then the other man’s hand was pressing -on his throat so that he was already beginning to be stifled; then he -felt that he was dizzy. He was swimming on a sea, lights flashed in and -out of the darkness; the window made a grey square, and through this -there seemed to creep innumerable green lizards—small with burning -eyes; they crawled over the floor towards him. He began to whimper, “No, -Morelli, please . . . my God . . . my God!” His shoulder burnt like -fire; his brain began to reel so that he fancied that there were many -people there crushing him. Then he knew that Morelli was slowly pressing -him back. One hand was about his neck, but the other had crept in -through his shirt and had touched the skin. Maradick felt the fingers -pressing over his chest. Then the fingers began to pinch. They caught -the flesh and seemed to tear it; it was like knives. All his body was on -fire. Then the fingers seemed to be all over his limbs. They crept down -to his hip, his thigh. They bit into his flesh, and then he knew that -Morelli was pressing some nerve in his hip and pushing it from the -socket. At that moment he himself became aware, for the first time, of -Morelli’s body. He pressed against his chest and his fingers had torn -the man’s clothes away. Morelli’s chest was hairy like an animal’s and -cold as marble. He was sweating in every pore, but Morelli was icy cold. -He dug his nails into the flesh, but they seemed to slip away. His arm -was right round Morelli’s body; the cold flesh slipped and shrunk -beneath his touch. His mouth was against Morelli’s neck. He had a sudden -wild impulse to bite. He was becoming a wild beast. . . . - -Then Morelli seemed to encircle the whole of him. Every part of his body -was touched by those horrible fingers—his arms, his neck; it was as -though he were being bitten to death. Then he felt in his neck teeth; -something was biting him. . . . - -He screamed again and again, but only a hoarse murmur seemed to come -from his lips. He was still struggling, but he was going; the room -seemed full of animals. They were biting him, tearing him; and then -again he could feel the soft fingers stealing about his body. - -A curious feeling of sleepiness stole over him. The pain in his shoulder -and his arm was so terrible that he wanted to die; his body twitched -with a fresh spasm of pain. Things—he did not know what they were—were -creeping up his legs; soon they would be at his chest. - -He knew that they were both naked to the waist. He could feel the blood -trickling down his face and his arms. . . . - -Tony was in the room! Yes, Tony. How was he there? Never mind! He would -help him! “Tony! Tony! They’re doing for me!” Tony was all over the -room. He pulled himself together, and suddenly fell against the knob of -the door. They fell against it together. He hit at the other’s naked -body, hit at it again and again. Strength seemed to pour back into his -body in a flood. He had been nearly on his knees, but now he was -pressing up again. He snatched at the hand about his neck and tore it -away. Again they were surging about the room. His hand was upon the -door. Morelli’s hands were about his and tried to drag it away, but he -clung. For an age they seemed to hang there, panting, heaving, -clutching. - -Then he had turned it. The door flew open and his foot lunged out behind -him. He kicked with all his force, but he touched nothing. There was -nothing there. - -He looked back. The door was open. There was a grey light over the room. -Something was muttering, making a noise like a dog over a bone. He could -hear the ticking of the clock through the open door; it struck nine. -There was perfect stillness; no one was near him. - -Then silently, trembling in every limb, he crept down the stairs. In a -moment he was in the street. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - - NIGHT OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH—MARADICK AND - MRS. LESTER - -But the gods had not yet done with his night. - -As the sharp night air met him he realised that his clothes were torn -apart and that his chest was bare. He pulled his shirt about him again, -stupidly made movements with his hand as though he would brush back the -hair from his eyes, and then found that it was blood that was trickling -from a wound in his forehead. - -That seemed to touch something in him, so that he suddenly leaned -against the wall and, with his head in his arm, began to cry. There was -no reason really why he should cry; in fact, he didn’t want to cry—it -was like a woman to cry. He repeated it stupidly to himself, “like a -woman, like a woman. . . .” - -Then he began slowly to fling himself together, as it were; to pick up -the bits and to feel that he, Maradick, still existed as a personal -identity. He pulled his clothes about him and looked at the dark house. -It was absolutely silent; there were no lights anywhere. What had -happened? Was Morelli looking at him now from some dark corner, watching -him from behind some black window? - -And then, as his head grew cooler under the influence of the night air, -another thought came to him. What was the little parlour-maid doing? -What would happen to her, shut up all night in that house alone with -that . . .? Ought he to go back? He could see her cowering, down in the -basement somewhere, having heard probably the noise of the crashing -lamp, terrified, waiting for Morelli to find her. Yes, he ought to go -back. Then he knew that nothing, nothing in the world—no duty and no -claim, no person, no power—could drive him back into that house again. -He looked back on it afterwards as one of the most shameful things in -his life, that he had not gone back to see what had happened to the -girl; but he could not go, nothing would make him. It was not anything -physical that he might have to face. If it had been ordinary normal -odds—a “scrap,” as he would call it—then he would have faced it -without hesitation. But there was something about that struggle upstairs -that made him sick; it was something unreal, unclean, indecent. It had -been abnormal, and all that there had been in it had not been the actual -struggle, the blows and wounds, but something about it that must be -undefined, unnamed: the “air,” the “atmosphere” of the thing, the sudden -throwing down of the decent curtain that veils this world from others. - -But he couldn’t analyse it like that now. He only felt horribly sick at -the thought of it, and his one urgent idea was to get away, far, far -away, from the house and all that it contained. - -The night was very dark; no one would see him. He must get back to the -hotel and slip up to his room and try and make himself decent. He turned -slowly up the hill. - -Then, as his thoughts became clearer, he was conscious of a kind of -exultation at its being over. So much more than the actual struggle -seemed to be over; it swept away all the hazy moral fog that he had been -in during the last weeks. In casting off Morelli, in flinging him from -him physically as well as morally, he seemed to have flung away all that -belonged to him—the wildness, the hot blood, the unrest that had come -to him! He wondered whether after all Morelli had not had a great deal -to do with it. There were more things in it all than he could ever hope -to understand. - -And then, on top of it all, came an overwhelming sensation of weariness. -He went tottering up the hill with his eyes almost closed. Tired! He had -never felt so tired in his life before. He was already indifferent to -everything that had happened. If only he might just lie down for a -minute and close his eyes; if only he hadn’t got this horrible hill to -climb! It would be easier to lie down there in the hedge somewhere and -go to sleep. He considered the advisability of doing so. He really did -not care what happened to him. And then the thought came to him that -Morelli was coming up the hill after him; Morelli was waiting probably -until he _did_ fall asleep, and then he would be upon him. Those fingers -would steal about his body again, there would be that biting pain. He -struggled along. No, he must not stop. - -At last he was in the hotel garden. He could hear voices and laughter -from behind closed doors, but there seemed to be no one in the hall. He -stumbled up the stairs to his room and met no one on the way. His bath -seemed to him the most wonderful thing that he had ever had. It was -steaming hot, and he lay absolutely motionless with his eyes closed -letting his brain very slowly settle itself. It was like a coloured -puzzle that had been shaken to pieces and scattered; now, of their own -initiative, all the little squares and corners seemed to come together -again. He was able to think sanely and soberly once more, and, above -all, that terrible sensation of having about him something unreal was -leaving him. He began to smile now at the things that he had imagined -about Morelli. The man had been angry at his helping Janet to run -away—that was natural enough; he was, of course, hot-tempered—that was -the foreign blood in him. Thank God, the world wasn’t an odd place -really. One fancied things, of course, when one was run down or excited, -but those silly ideas didn’t last long if a man was sensible. - -He found that the damage wasn’t very serious. There were bruises, of -course, and nasty scratches, but it didn’t amount to very much. As he -climbed out of the bath, and stretched his limbs and felt the muscles of -his arms, he was conscious of an enormous relief. It was all over; he -was right again once more. And then suddenly in a flash he remembered -Mrs. Lester. - -Well, that was over, of course. But to-night was Thursday. He had -promised to see her. He must have one last talk, just to tell her that -there must be nothing more of the kind. As he slowly dressed, delighting -in the cool of clean linen, he tried to imagine what he would say; but -he was tired, so dreadfully tired! He couldn’t think; he really couldn’t -see her to-night. Besides, it was most absolutely over, all of it. He -had gone through it all in the church that afternoon. He belonged to his -wife now, altogether; he was going to show her what he could be now that -he understood everything so much better; and she was going to try too, -she had promised him in that funny way the other night. - -But he was so tired; he couldn’t think connectedly. They all got mixed -up, Morelli and Mrs. Lester, Tony and his wife. He stood, trying with -trembling fingers to fasten his collar. The damned stud! how it twisted -about! When he had got its silly head one way and was slipping the -collar over it, then suddenly it slipped round the other way and left -his fingers aching. - -Oh! he supposed he must see her. After all, it was better to have it out -now and settle it, settle it once and for ever. These women—beastly -nuisance. Damn the stud! - -He had considered the question of telling the family and had decided to -leave it until the morning. He was much too tired to face them all now -with their questions and anger and expostulation. Oh! he’d had enough of -that, poor man! - -Besides, there wouldn’t be any anxiety until the morning. Tony was so -often late, and although Sir Richard would probably fume and scold at -his cutting dinner again, still, he’d done it so often. No, Lady Gale -was really the question. If she worried, if she were going to spend an -anxious night thinking about it, then he ought to go and tell her at -once. But she probably had a pretty good idea about the way things had -gone. She would not be any more anxious now than she had been during all -these last weeks, and he really felt, just now, physically incapable of -telling her. No, he wouldn’t see any of them yet. He would go up to the -room of the minstrels and think what he was to do. He always seemed to -be able to think better up there. - -But Mrs. Lester! What was he to do about her? He felt now simply -antagonism. He hated her, the very thought of her! What was he doing -with that kind of thing? Why couldn’t he have left her alone? - -A kind of fury seized him at the thought of her! He shook his fist at -the ceiling and scowled at the looking-glass; then he went wearily to -the room. But it was dark, and he was frightened now by the dark. He -stood on the threshold scarcely daring to enter. Then with trembling -fingers he felt for the matches and lit the two candles. But even then -the light that they cast was so uncertain, they left so many corners -dark, and then there were such strange grey lights under the gallery -that he wasn’t at all happy. Lord! what a state his nerves were in! - -He was afraid lest he should go to sleep, and then anything might -happen. He faced the grey square of the window with shrinking eyes; it -was through there that the green lizards . . . - -He would have liked to have crossed the room to prevent the window from -rattling if he’d had the courage, but the sound of his steps on the -floor frightened him. He remembered his early enthusiasm about the room. -Well, that was a long, long time ago. Not long in hours, he knew, but in -experience! It was another lifetime! - -It was the tower that he wanted. He could see it now, in the -market-place, so strong and quiet and grey! That was the kind of thing -for him to have in his mind: rest and strength. Drowsing away in his -chair—the candles flinging lions and tigers on the wall, the old brown -of the gallery sparkling and shining under the uneven light—the tower -seemed to come to him through all the black intervening space of night. -It grew and grew, until it stood beyond the window, great grey and white -stone, towering to the sky, filling the world; that and the sea alone in -all creation. - -He was nearly asleep, his head forward on his chest, his arms hanging -loosely over the sides of the chair, when he heard the door creak. - -He started up in sudden alarm. The candles did not fling their circle of -light as far as the door—_that_ was in darkness, a black square darker -than the rest of the world; and then as his eyes stared at it he saw -that there was a figure outlined against it, a grey, shadowy figure. - -In a whisper he stammered, “Who is that?” - -Then she came forward into the circle of the candles—Mrs. Lester! Mrs. -Lester in her blue silk dress cut very low, Mrs. Lester with diamonds in -her hair and a very bright red in her cheeks, Mrs. Lester looking at him -timidly, almost terrified, bending a little forward to stare at him. - -“Ah! it’s you!” He could hear her breath of relief. “I didn’t know, I -thought it might be!” She stood staring at him, a little smile hovering -on her lips, uncertainly, as though it were not sure whether it ought to -be there. - -“Ah! it’s you!” - -He stood up and faced her, leaning heavily with one hand on the chair. - -He wanted to tell her to go away; that he was tired and wasn’t really up -to talking—the morning would be better. But he couldn’t speak. He could -do nothing but stand there and stare at her stupidly. - -Then at last, in a voice that did not seem his own at all, he said, -“Won’t you sit down?” She laughed, leaning forward a little with both -hands on the green baize table, looking at him. - -“You don’t mind, do you? If you do, I’ll go at once. But it’s our last -evening. We may not see much of each other again, and I’d like you to -understand me.” Then she sat down in a chair by the table, her dress -rustling like a sea about her. The candle light fell on it and her, and -behind her the room was dark. - -But Maradick sat with his head hidden by his hand. He did not want to -look at her, he did not want to speak to her. Already the fascination of -her presence was beginning to steal over him again. It had been easy -enough whilst she had been away to say that he did not care. But now the -scent, violets, that she used came very delicately across the floor to -him. He seemed to catch the blue of her dress with the corner of his eye -even though he was not looking at her. She filled the room; the vision -that he had had of the tower slipped back into the night, giving place -to the new one. He tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Why could -she not have left him alone? He didn’t want any more struggles. He -simply wasn’t up to it, he was so horribly tired. Anything was better -than a struggle. - -He spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes. “Wasn’t it—isn’t -it—rather risky to come here—like this, now?” After all, how absurd it -was! What heaps of plays he had seen with their third act just like -this. It was all shadowy, fantastic—the woman, the place. He wanted to -sleep. - -She laughed. “Risky? Why, no. Fred’s in London. Nobody else is likely to -bother. But Jim, what’s the matter? What’s happened? Why are you -suddenly like this? Don’t you think it’s a little unkind on our last -evening, the last chance that we shall get of talking? I don’t want to -be a nuisance or a worry——” She paused with a pathetic little catch in -her voice, and she let her hand fall sharply on to the silk of her -dress. - -He tried to pull himself together, to realise the place and the woman -and the whole situation. After all, it was his fault that she was there, -and he couldn’t behave like a cad after arranging to meet her; and she -had been awfully nice during these weeks. - -“No, please.” He raised his eyes at last and looked at her. “I’m tired, -beastly tired; or I was until you came. Don’t think me rude, but I’ve -had an awfully exhausting day, really awfully exhausting. But of course -I want to talk.” - -She was looking so charmingly pretty. Her colour, her beautiful -shoulders, the way that her dress rose and fell with her breathing—a -little hurriedly, but so evenly, like the rise and fall of some very -gentle music. - -He smiled at her and she smiled back. “There, I knew that you wouldn’t -be cross, really; and it is our last time, isn’t it? And I have got a -whole lot of things that I want to say to you.” - -“Yes,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair again, but he did not -take his eyes off her face. - -“Well, you know, for a long time I wondered whether I would come or not; -I couldn’t make up my mind. You see, I’d seen nothing of you at all -during these last days, nothing at all. Perhaps it was just as well. -Anyhow, you had other things to do; and that is, I suppose, the -difference between us. With women, sentiment, romance, call it what you -like, is everything. It is life; but with you men it is only a little -bit, one amongst a lot of other things. Oh! I know. I found that out -long ago without waiting for anyone to tell me. But now, perhaps, you’ve -brought it home to me in a way that I hadn’t realised before.” - -He was going to interrupt her, but she stopped him. - -“No, don’t think that I’m complaining about it. It’s perfectly natural. -I know—other men are like that. It’s only that I had thought that you -were a little different, not quite like the rest; that you had seen it -as something precious, valuable. . . .” - -And so he had, of course he had. Why, it had made all the difference in -his life. It was all very well his thinking, as he had that afternoon, -that it was Tony or the place or Punch, one odd thing or another that -had made him think like that, but, as a matter of fact, it was Mrs. -Lester, and no one else. She had shown him all of it. - -“No, you mustn’t think that of me,” he said; “I have taken it very -seriously indeed.” He wanted to say more, but his head was so heavy that -he couldn’t think, and he stopped. - -Meanwhile she was wondering at her own position. She had come to him -that evening in a state of pique. All day she had determined that she -would not go. That was to be the end of an amusing little episode. And -after all, he was only a great stupid hulk of a thing. He could crush -her in his arms, but then so could any coalheaver. And she had got such -a nice letter from Fred, the dear, that morning. He had missed her even -during the day that he had been away. Oh yes! she wouldn’t see any more -of Mr. Maradick! - -But she would like to have just a word alone with him. She expected to -see him at teatime. But no; Sir Richard and Rupert had seen him at the -station and he had said that he was following them back. But no; well, -then, at dinner. Neither Tony nor he were at dinner. - -Oh well! he couldn’t care very much about her if he could stay away -during the whole of their last day together! She was well out of it all. -She read Fred’s letter a great many times and kissed it. Then directly -after dinner—they were _so_ dull downstairs, everyone seemed to have -the acutest depression and kept on wondering where Tony was—she went to -her room and started writing a long, long letter to her “little pet of a -Fredikins”; at least it was going to be a long, long letter, and then -somehow it would not go on. - -Mr. Maradick was a beast. If he thought that he could just play fast and -loose with women like that, do just what he liked with them, he was -mightily mistaken. She flung down her pen. The room was stifling! She -went to her window and opened it; she leaned out. Ah! how cool and -refreshing the night air was. There was somebody in the distance playing -something. It sounded like a flute or a pipe. How nice and romantic! She -closed the window. After all, where was he? He must be somewhere all -this time. She must speak to him just once before she went away. She -must, even though it were only to tell him . . . Then she remembered -that dusty, empty room upstairs. He had told her that he often went up -there. - -And so she came. That was the whole history of it. She hadn’t, when she -came into the room, the very least idea of anything that she was going -to do or say. Only that it was romantic, and that she had an -extraordinarily urgent desire to be crushed once more in those very -strong arms. - -“I have taken it very seriously indeed.” He wondered, as he said it to -her, what it was, exactly, that he had taken seriously. The “it” was -very much more than simply Mrs. Lester; he saw that very clearly. She -was only the expression of a kind of mood that he had been in during -these last weeks, a kind of genuine atmosphere that she stood for, just -as some quite simple and commonplace thing—a chair, a picture, a vase -of flowers—sometimes stands for a great experience or emotion. And -then—his head was clearer now; that led him to see further still. - -He suddenly grasped that she wasn’t really for him a woman at all, that, -indeed, she never had been. He hadn’t thought of her as the woman, the -personal character and identity that he wanted, but simply as a sort of -emotional climax to the experiences that he had been having; any other -woman, he now suddenly saw, would have done just as well. And then, the -crisis being over, the emotional situation being changed, the woman -would remain; that would be the hell of it! - -And that led him—all this in the swift interval before she answered -him—to wonder whether she, too, had been wanting him also, not as a -man, not as James Maradick, but simply as a cap to fit the mood that she -was in: any man would fit as well. If that were the case with her as -well as with him what a future they were spared by his suddenly seeing -as clearly as he did. If that were not so, then the whole thing bristled -with difficulties; but that was what he must set himself to find out, -now, at once. - -Then, in her next speech, he saw two things quite clearly—that she was -determined, come what might, to have her way about to-night at any rate, -and to go to any lengths to obtain it. She might not have been -determined when she came into the room, but she was determined now. - -She leant forward in her chair towards him, her cheeks were a little -redder, her breath was coming a little faster. - -“Jim, I know you meant it seriously. I know you mean it seriously now. -But there isn’t much time; and after all, there isn’t much to say. We’ve -arranged it all before. We were to have this night, weren’t we, and -then, afterwards, we’d arrange to go abroad or something. Here we are, -two modern people, you and I, looking at the thing squarely. All our -lives we’ve lived stupidly, dully, comfortably. There’s never been -anything in the very least to disturb us. And now suddenly this romance -has come. Are we, just because of stupid laws that stupid people made -hundreds of years ago, to miss the chance of our lives? Jim!” - -She put one hand across towards him and touched his knee. - -But he, looking her steadily in the face, spoke without moving. - -“Wait,” he said. “Stop. I want to ask you a question. Do you love -me—really, I mean? So that you would go with me to-morrow to Timbuctoo, -anywhere?” - -For an instant she lowered her eyes, then she said vehemently, eagerly, -“Of course, of course I do. You know—Jim, how can you ask? Haven’t I -shown it by coming here?” - -But that was exactly what she hadn’t done. Her coming there showed the -opposite, if anything; and indeed, at once, in a way that she had -answered him, he had seen the truth. She might think, at that moment, -quite honestly that she loved him, but really what she wanted was not -the man at all, but the expression, the emotion, call it what you will. - -And he saw, too, exactly what the after-results would be. They would -both of them in the morning postpone immediate action. They would wait a -few weeks. She would return to her husband; for a little, perhaps, they -would write. And then gradually they would forget. She would begin to -look on it as an incident, a “romantic hour”; she would probably sigh -with relief at the thought of all the ennui and boredom that she had -avoided by not running away with him. He, too, would begin to regard it -lightly, would put it down to that queer place, to anything and -everything, even perhaps to Morelli; and then—well, it’s no use in -crying over spilt milk, and there’s no harm done after all—and so on, -until at last it would be forgotten altogether. And so “the -unforgiveable sin” would have been committed, “the unforgiveable sin,” -not because they had broken social laws and conventions, but because -they had acted without love—the unforgiveable sin of lust of the flesh -for the sake of the flesh alone. - -After her answer to his question she paused for a moment, and he said -nothing; then she went on again: “Of course, you know I care, with all -my heart and soul.” She said the last three words with a little gasp, -and both her hands pressed tightly together. She had moved her chair -closer to his, and now both her hands were on his knee and her face was -raised to his. - -“Then you would go away with me to-morrow anywhere?” - -“Yes, of course,” she answered, now without any hesitation. - -“You know that you would lose your good name, your life at home, your -friends, most of them? Everything that has made life worth living to -you?” - -“Yes—I love you.” - -“And then there is your husband. He has been very good to you. He has -never given you the least cause of complaint. He’s been awfully decent -to you.” - -“Oh! he doesn’t care. It’s you, Jim; I love you heart and soul.” - -But he knew through it all that she didn’t: the very repetition of the -phrase showed that. She was trying, he knew, to persuade herself that -she did because of the immediate pleasure that it would bring her. She -wasn’t consciously insincere, but he shrank back in his chair from her -touch, because he was not sure what he would do if he let her remain -there. - -He put her hands aside firmly. “No, you mustn’t. Look here, I’ve -something to tell you. I know you’ll think me an awful cad, but I must -be straight with you. I’ve found out something. I’ve been thinking all -these days, and, you know, I don’t love you as I thought I did. Not in -the fine way that I imagined; I don’t even love you as I love my wife. -It is only sensual, all of it. It’s your body that I want, not you. That -sounds horrible, doesn’t it? I know, I’m ashamed, but it’s true.” - -His voice sank into a whisper. He expected her to turn on him with -scorn, loathing, hatred. Perhaps she would even make a scene. Well, that -was better, at any rate, than going on with it. He might just save his -soul and hers in time. But he did not dare to look at her. He was -ashamed to raise his eyes. And then, to his amazement, he felt her hand -on his knee again. Her face was very close to his and she was speaking -very softly. - -“Well—perhaps—dear, that other kind of love will come. That’s really -only one part of it. That other love cannot come at once.” - -He turned his eyes to her. She was looking at him, smiling. - -“But you don’t understand, you can’t?” - -“Yes, I understand.” - -Then something savage in him began to stir. He caught her hands in his -fiercely, roughly. - -“No, you can’t. I tell you I don’t love you at all. Not as a decent man -loves a decent woman. A few weeks ago I thought that I had found my -soul. I saw things differently; it was a new world, and I thought that -you had shown it me. But it was not really you at all. It isn’t I that -you care for, it’s your husband, and we are both being led by the -devil—here—now!” - -“Ah!” she said, drawing back a little. “I thought you were braver than -that. You do care for all the old conventional things after all, ‘the -sanctity of the marriage tie,’ and all the rest of it. I thought that we -had settled all that.” - -“No,” he answered her. “It isn’t the conventions that I care for, but -it’s our souls, yours and mine. If we loved each other it would be a -different thing; but I’ve found out there’s something more than -thrilling at another person’s touch—that isn’t enough. I don’t love -you; we must end it.” - -“No!” She had knelt down by his chair and had suddenly taken both his -hands in hers, and was kissing them again and again. “No, Jim, we must -have to-night. Never mind about the rest. I want you—now. Take me.” - -Her arms were about him. Her head was on his chest. Her fascination -began to steal about him again. His blood began to riot. After all, what -were all these casuistries, this talk about the soul? Anyone could talk, -it was living that mattered. He began to press her hands; his head was -swimming. - -Then suddenly a curious thing happened. The room seemed to disappear. -Mrs. Maradick was sitting on the edge of her bed looking at him. He -could see the pathetic bend of her head as she looked at him. He felt -once again, as he had felt in Morelli’s room, as though there were -devils about him. - -He was tired again, dog-tired; in a moment he was going to yield. Both -women were with him again. Beyond the window was the night, the dark -hedges, the white road, the tower, grey and cold with the shadow lying -at its feet and moving with the moon as the waves move on the shore. - -For a moment the fire seized him. He felt nothing but her body—the -pressure, the warmth of it. His fingers grated a little on the silk of -her dress. - -There was perfect silence, and he thought that he could hear, beyond the -beating of their hearts, the sounds of the night—the rustle of the -trees, the monotonous drip of water, the mysterious distant playing of -the flute that he had heard before. His hands were crushing her. In -another moment he would have bent and covered her face, her body, with -kisses; then, like the coming of a breeze after a parching stillness, -the time was past. - -He got up and gently put her hands away. He walked across the room and -looked out at the stars, the moon, the light on the misty trees. - -He had won his victory. - -His voice was quite quiet when he spoke to her. - -“You had better, we had both better go to bed. It must never happen, to -either of us, because it isn’t good enough. I’m not the sort of man, -you’re not the sort of woman, that that does for; you know that you -don’t really love me.” - -She had risen too, and now stood by the door, her head hanging a little, -her hands limply by her side. Then she gave a hard little laugh. - -“I’ve rather given myself away,” she said harshly. “Only, don’t you -think it would have been kinder, honester, to have said this a week -ago?” - -“I don’t try to excuse myself,” he said quietly. “I’ve been pretty -rotten, but that’s no reason——” He stopped abruptly. - -She clenched her hands, and then suddenly flung up her head and looked -at him across the room furiously. - -“Good night, Mr. Maradick,” she said, and was gone. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - - MARADICK TELLS THE FAMILY, HAS BREAKFAST WITH HIS - WIFE, AND SAYS GOOD-BYE TO SOME FRIENDS - -But he did not sleep. - -Perhaps it was because his fatigue lay upon him like a heavy burden, so -that to close his eyes was as though he allowed a great weight to fall -upon him and crush him. His fatigue hung above him like a dark ominous -cloud; it seemed indeed so ominous that he was afraid of it. At the -moment when sleep seemed to come to him he would pull himself back with -a jerk, he was afraid of his dreams. - -Towards about four o’clock in the morning he fell into confused slumber. -Shapes, people—Tony, Morelli, Mrs. Lester, his wife, Epsom, London—it -was all vague, misty, and, in some incoherent way, terrifying. He wanted -to wake, he tried to force himself to wake, but his eyes refused to -open, they seemed to be glued together. The main impression that he got -was of saying farewell to some one, or rather to a great many people. It -was as though he were going away to a distant land, somewhere from which -he felt that he would never return. But when he approached these figures -to say good-bye they would disappear or melt into some one else. - -About half-past six he awoke and lay tranquilly watching the light fill -the windows and creep slowly, mysteriously, across the floor. His dreams -had left him, but in spite of his weariness when he had gone to bed and -the poor sleep that he had had he was not tired. He had a sensation of -relief, of having completed something and, which was of more importance, -of having got rid of it. A definite period in his life seemed to be -ended, marked off. He had something of the feeling that Christian had -when his pack left him. All the emotions, the struggles, the confusions -of the last weeks were over, finished. He didn’t regret them; he -welcomed them because of the things that they had taught him, but he did -not want them back again. It was almost like coming through an illness. - -He knew that it was going to be a difficult day. There were all sorts of -explanations, all kinds of “settling up.” But he regarded it all very -peacefully. It did not really matter; the questions had all been -answered, the difficulties all resolved. - -At half-past seven he got up quietly, had his bath and dressed. When he -came back into the bedroom he found that his wife was still asleep. He -watched her, with her head resting on her hand and her hair lying in a -dark cloud on the pillow. As he stood above her a great feeling of -tenderness swept over him. That was quite new; he had never thought of -her tenderly before. Emmy Maradick wasn’t the sort of person that you -did think of tenderly. Probably no one had ever thought of her in that -way before. - -But now—things had all changed so in these last weeks. There were two -Emmy Maradicks. That was his great discovery, just of course as there -were two James Maradicks. - -He hadn’t any illusion about it. He didn’t in the least expect that the -old Emmy Maradick would suddenly disappear and never come out again. -That, of course, was absurd, things didn’t happen so quickly. But now -that he knew that the other one, the recent mysterious one that he had -seen the shadow of ever so faintly, was there, everything would be -different. And it would grow, it would grow, just as this new soul of -his own was going to grow. - -Whilst he looked at her she awoke, looked at him for a moment without -realisation, and then gave a little cry: “Oh! Is it late?” - -“No, dear, just eight. I’ll be back for breakfast at quarter to nine.” - -In her eyes was again that wondering pathetic little question. As an -answer he bent down and kissed her tenderly. He had not kissed her like -that for hundreds of years. As he bent down to her her hands suddenly -closed furiously about him. For a moment she held him, then she let him -go. As he left the room his heart was beating tumultuously. - -And so he went downstairs to face the music, as he told himself. - -He knocked on the Gales’ sitting-room door and some one said “Come in.” -He drew a deep breath of relief when he saw that Lady Gale was in there -alone. - -“Ah! that’s good!” - -She was sitting by the window with her head towards him. She seemed to -him—it was partly the grey silk dress that she wore and partly her -wonderful crown of white hair—unsubstantial, as though she might fade -away out of the window at any moment. - -He had even a feeling that he ought to clutch at her, hold her, to -prevent her from disappearing. Then he saw the dark lines under her eyes -and her lack of colour; she was looking terribly tired. - -“Ah, I am ashamed; I ought to have told you last night.” - -She gave him her hand and smiled. - -“No, it’s all right; it’s probably better as it is. I won’t deny that I -was anxious, of course, that was natural. But I was hoping that you -would come in now, before my husband comes in. I nearly sent a note up -to you to ask you to come down.” - -Her charming kindness to him moved him strangely. Oh! she was a -wonderful person. - -“Dear Lady,” he said, “that’s like you. Not to be furious with me, I -mean. But of course that’s what I’m here for now, to face things. I -expect it and I deserve it; I was left for that.” - -“Left?” she said, looking at him. He saw that her hand moved ever so -quickly across her lap and then back again. - -“Yes. Of course Tony’s gone. He was married yesterday afternoon at two -o’clock at the little church out on the hill. The girl’s name is Janet -Morelli. She is nineteen. They are now in Paris; but he gave me this -letter for you.” - -He handed her the letter that Tony had given to him on the way up to the -station. - -She did not say anything to him, but took the letter quickly and tore it -open. She read it twice and then handed it to him and waited for him to -read it. It ran:— - - Dearest and most wonderful of Mothers, - - By the time that you get this I shall be in Paris and Janet will - be my wife. Janet Morelli is her name, and you will simply love - her when you see her. Do you remember telling me once that - whatever happened I was to marry the right person? Well, - suddenly I saw her one night like Juliet looking out of a - window, and there was never any question again; isn’t it - wonderful? But, of course, you know if I had told you the - governor would have had to know, and then there would simply - have been the dickens of a rumpus and I’d have got kicked out or - something, and no one would have been a bit the better and it - would have been most awfully difficult for you. And so I kept it - dark and told Maradick to. Of course the governor will be sick - at first, but as you didn’t know anything about it he can’t say - anything to you, and that’s all that matters. Because, of - course, Maradick can look after himself, and doesn’t, as a - matter of fact, ever mind in the least what anyone says to him. - We’ll go to Paris directly afterwards, and then come back and - live in Chelsea, I expect. I’m going to write like anything; but - in any case, you know, it won’t matter, because I’ve got that - four hundred a year and we can manage easily on that. The - governor will soon get over it, and I know that he’ll simply - love Janet really. Nobody could help it. - - And oh! mother dear, I’m so happy. I didn’t know one could be so - happy; and that’s what you wanted, didn’t you? And I love you - all the more because of it, you and Janet. Send me just a line - to the Hôtel Lincoln, Rue de Montagne, Paris, to say that you - forgive me. Janet sends her love. Please send her yours. - - Ever your loving son, - Tony. - - PS.—Maradick has been simply ripping. He’s the most splendid - man that ever lived. I simply don’t know what we’d have done - without him. - -There was silence for a minute or two. Then she said softly, “Dear old -Tony. Tell me about the girl.” - -“She’s splendid. There’s no question at all about her being the right -thing. I’ve seen a lot of her, and there’s really no question at all. -She’s seen nothing of the world and has lived down here all her life. -She’s simply devoted to Tony.” - -“And her people?” - -“There is only her father. He’s a queer man. She’s well away from him. I -don’t think he cares a bit about her, really. They’re a good old family, -I believe. Italians originally, of course. The father has a good deal of -the foreigner in him, but the girl’s absolutely English.” - -There was another pause, and then she looked up and took his hand. - -“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve done absolutely the right thing. There -was nothing else but to carry it through with a boy of Tony’s -temperament. I’m glad, gladder than I can tell you. But of course my -husband will take it rather unpleasantly at first. He had ideas about -Tony’s marrying, and he would have done anything he could to have -prevented its happening like this. But now that it has happened, now -that there’s nothing to be done but to accept it, I think it will soon -be all right. But perhaps you had better tell him now at once, and get -it over. He will be here in a minute.” - -At that instant they came in—Sir Richard, Rupert, Alice Du Cane, and -Mrs. Lester. - -It was obvious at once that Sir Richard was angry. Rupert was amused and -a little bored. Alice was excited, and Mrs. Lester tired and white under -the eyes. - -“What’s this?” said Sir Richard, coming forward. “They tell me that Tony -hasn’t been in all night. That he’s gone or something.” - -Then he caught sight of Maradick. - -“Ha! Maradick—Morning! Do you happen to know where the boy is?” - -Maradick thought that he could discern through the old man’s anger a -very real anxiety, but it was a difficult moment. - -Lady Gale spoke. “Mr. Maradick has just been telling me——” she began. - -“Perhaps Alice and I——” said Mrs. Lester, and moved back to the door. -Then Maradick took hold of things. - -“No, please don’t go. There’s nothing that anyone needn’t know, nothing. -I have just been telling Lady Gale, Sir Richard, that your son was -married yesterday at two o’clock at the little church outside the town, -to a Miss Janet Morelli. They are now in Paris.” - -There was silence. No one spoke or moved. The situation hung entirely -between Sir Richard and Maradick. Lady Gale’s eyes were all for her -husband; the way that he took it would make a difference to the rest of -their married lives. - -Sir Richard breathed heavily. His face went suddenly very white. Then in -a low voice he said— - -“Married? Yesterday?” He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, trying to -keep down the ungovernable passion that in a moment would overwhelm him. -For a moment he swallowed it. Holding himself very straight he looked -Maradick in the face. - -“And why has my dutiful son left the burden of this message to you?” - -“Because I have, from the beginning, been concerned in the affair. I -have known about it from the first. I was witness of their marriage -yesterday, and I saw them off at the station.” - -Sir Richard began to breathe heavily. The colour came back in a flood to -his cheeks. His eyes were red. He stepped forward with his fist -uplifted, but Rupert put a hand on his arm and his fist fell to his -side. He could not speak coherently. - -“You—you—you”; and then “You dared? What the devil have you to do with -my boy? With us? With our affairs? What the devil is it to do with you? -You—you—damn you, sir—my boy—married to anybody, and because a——” - -Rupert again put his hand on his father’s arm and his words lingered in -mid-air. - -Then he turned to his wife. - -“You—did you know about this—did you know that this was going on?” - -Then Maradick saw how wise she had been in her decision to keep the -whole affair away from her. It was a turning-point. - -If she had been privy to it, Maradick saw, Sir Richard would never -forgive her. It would have remained always as a hopeless, impassable -barrier between them. It would have hit at the man’s tenderest, softest -place, his conceit. He might forgive her anything but that. - -And so it was a tremendous clearing of the air when she raised her eyes -to her husband’s and said, without hesitation, “No, Richard. Of course -not. I knew nothing until just now when Mr. Maradick told me.” - -Sir Richard turned back from her to Maradick. - -“And so, sir, you see fit, do you, sir, to interfere in matters in which -you have no concern. You come between son and father, do you? You——” - -But again he stopped. Maradick said nothing. There was nothing at all to -say. It was obvious that the actual affair, Tony’s elopement, had not, -as yet, penetrated to Sir Richard’s brain. The only thing that he could -grasp at present was that some one—anyone—had dared to step in and -meddle with the Gales. Some one had had the dastardly impertinence to -think that he was on a level with the Gales, some one had dared to put -his plebeian and rude fingers into a Gale pie. Such a thing had never -happened before. - -Words couldn’t deal with it. - -He looked as though in another moment he would have a fit. He was -trembling, quivering in every limb. Then, in a voice that could scarcely -be heard, he said, “My God, I’ll have the law of you for this.” - -He turned round and, without looking at anyone, left the room. - -There was silence. - -Rupert said “My word!” and whistled. No one else said anything. - -And, in this interval of silence, Maradick almost, to his own rather -curious surprise, entirely outside the whole affair, was amused rather -than bothered by the way they all took it, although “they,” as a matter -of strict accuracy, almost immediately resolved itself down to Mrs. -Lester. Lady Gale had shown him, long ago, her point of view; Sir -Richard and Rupert could have only, with their limited conventions, one -possible opinion; Alice Du Cane would probably be glad for Tony’s sake -and so be indirectly grateful; but Mrs. Lester! why, it would be, he saw -in a flash, the most splendid bolstering up of the way that she was -already beginning to look on last night’s affair. He could see her, in a -day or two, making his interference with the “Gale pie” on all fours -with his own brutal attack on her immaculate virtues. It would be all of -a piece in a short time, with the perverted imagination that she would -set to play on their own “little” situation. It would be a kind of -rose-coloured veil that she might fling over the whole proceeding. “The -man who can behave in that kind of way to the Gales is just the kind of -man who would, so horribly and brutally, insult a defenceless woman.” - -He saw in her eyes already the beginning of the picture. In a few days -the painting would be complete. But this was all as a side issue. His -business, as far as these people were concerned, was over. - -Without looking at anyone, he too left the room. - -It had been difficult, but after he had had Lady Gale’s assurance the -rest didn’t matter. Of course the old man was bound to take it like -that, but he would probably soon see it differently. And at any rate, as -far as he, Maradick, was concerned, that—Sir Richard’s attitude to him -personally—didn’t matter in the very least. - -But all that affair seemed, indeed, now of secondary importance. The -first and only vital matter now was his relations with his wife. -Everything must turn to that. Her clasp of his hand had touched him -infinitely, profoundly. For the first time in their married lives she -wanted him. Sir Richard, Mrs. Lester, even Tony, seemed small, -insignificant in comparison with that. - -But he must tell her everything—he saw that. All about Mrs. Lester, -everything—otherwise they would never start clear. - -She was just finishing her dressing when he came into her room. She -turned quickly from her dressing-table towards him. - -“I’m just ready,” she said. - -“Wait a minute,” he answered her. “Before we go in to the girls there’s -something, several things, that I want to say.” - -His great clumsy body moved across the floor, and he sat down hastily in -a chair by the dressing-table. - -She watched him anxiously with her sharp little eyes. “Yes,” she said, -“only hurry up. I’m hungry.” - -“Well, there are two things really,” he answered slowly. “Things you’ve -got to know.” - -She noticed one point, that he didn’t apologise in advance as he would -have done three weeks ago. There were no apologies now, only a stolid -determination to get through with it. - -“First, it’s about young Tony Gale. I’ve just been telling his family. -He married a girl yesterday and ran off to Paris with her. You can bet -the family are pleased.” - -Mrs. Maradick was excited. “Not really! Really eloped? That Gale boy! -How splendid! A real elopement! Of course one could see that something -was up. His being out so much, and so on; I knew. But just fancy! Really -doing it! Won’t old Sir Richard——!” - -Her eyes were sparkling. The romance of it had obviously touched her, it -was very nearly as though one had eloped oneself, knowing the boy and -everything! - -Then he added, “I had to tell them. You see, I’ve known about it all the -time, been in it, so to speak. Helped them to arrange it and so on, and -Sir Richard had a word or two to say to me just now about it.” - -“So _that’s_ what you’ve been doing all this time. _That’s_ your -secret!” She was just as pleased as she could be. “That’s what’s changed -you. Of course! One might have guessed!” - -But behind her excitement and pleasure he detected also, he thought, a -note of disappointment that puzzled him. What had she thought that he -had been doing? - -“I have just been telling them—the Gales. Sir Richard was considerably -annoyed.” - -“Of course—hateful old man—of course he’d mind; hurt his pride.” Mrs. -Maradick had clasped her hands round her knees and was swinging a little -foot. “But you stood up to them. I wish I’d seen you.” - -But he hurried on. That was, after all, quite unimportant compared with -the main thing that he had to say to her. He wondered how she would take -it. The new idea that he had of her, the new way that he saw her, was -beginning to be so precious to him, that he couldn’t bear to think that -he might, after all, suddenly lose it. He could see her, after his -telling her, return to the old, sharp, biting satire. There would be the -old wrangles, the old furious quarrels; for a moment at the thought of -it he hesitated. Perhaps, after all, it were better not to tell her. The -episode was ended. There would never be a recrudescence of it, and there -was no reason why she should know. But something hurried him on; he must -tell her, it was the decent thing to do. - -“But there’s another thing that I must tell you, that I ought to tell -you. I don’t know even that I’m ashamed of it. I believe that I would go -through it all again if I could learn as much. But it’s all over, -absolutely over. I’ve fancied for the last fortnight that I was in love -with Mrs. Lester. I’ve kissed her and she’s kissed me. You needn’t be -afraid. That’s all that happened, and I’ll never kiss her again. But -there it is!” - -He flung it at her for her to take it or leave it. He hadn’t the -remotest idea what she would say or do. Judging by his past knowledge of -her, he expected her to storm. But it was a test of the new Mrs. -Maradick as to whether, indeed, it had been all his imagination about -there being any new Mrs. Maradick at all. - -There was silence. He didn’t look at her; and then, suddenly, to his -utter amazement she broke into peals of laughter. He couldn’t believe -his ears. Laughing! Well, women were simply incomprehensible! He stared -at her. - -“Why, my dear!” she said at last, “of course I’ve seen it all the time. -Of course I have, or nearly all the time. You don’t suppose that I go -about with my eyes shut, do you? Because I don’t, I can tell you. Of -course I hated it at the time. I was jealous, jealous as anything. First -time I’ve been jealous of you since we were married; I hated that Mrs. -Lester anyhow. Cat! But it was an eye-opener, I can tell you. But -there’ve been lots of things happening since we’ve been here, and that’s -only one of them. And I’m jolly glad. I like women to like you. I’ve -liked the people down here making up to you, and then you’ve been -different too.” - -Then she crossed over to his chair and suddenly put her arm around his -neck. Her voice lowered. “I’ve fallen in love with you while we’ve been -down here, for the first time since we’ve been married. I don’t know -why, quite. It started with your being so beastly and keeping it up. You -always used to give way before whenever I said anything to you, but -you’ve kept your end up like anything since you’ve been here. And then -it was the people liking you better than they liked me. And then it was -Mrs. Lester, my being jealous of her. And it was even more than those -things—something in the air. I don’t know, but I’m seeing things -differently. I’ve been a poor sort of wife most of the time, I expect; I -didn’t see it before, but I’m going to be different. I could kiss your -Mrs. Lester, although I do hate her.” - -Then when he kissed her she thought how big he was. She hadn’t sat with -her arms round him and his great muscles round her since the honeymoon, -and even then she had been thinking about her trousseau. - -And breakfast was quite an extraordinary meal. The girls were amazed. -They had never seen their father in this kind of mood before. They had -always rather cautiously disliked him, as far as they’d had any feeling -for him at all, but their attitude had in the main been negative. But -now, here he was joking, telling funny stories, and mother laughing. -Cutting the tops off their eggs too, and paying them quite a lot of -attention. - -He found the meal delightful, too, although he realised that there was -still a good deal of the old Mrs. Maradick left. Her voice was as shrill -as ever; she was just as cross with Annie for spreading her butter with -an eye to self-indulgence rather than economy. She was still as crude -and vulgar in her opinion of things and people. - -But he didn’t see it any longer in the same way. The knowledge that -there was really the other Mrs. Maradick there all the time waiting for -him to develop, encourage her, made the things that had grated on him at -one time so harshly now a matter of very small moment. He was even -tender about them. It was a good thing that they’d both got their -faults, a very fortunate thing. - -“Now, Annie, there you go, slopping your tea into your saucer like that, -and now it’ll drop all over your dress. Why _can’t_ you be more -careful?” - -“Yes, but mother, it was so full.” - -“I say,” this from Maradick, “what do you think of our all having this -afternoon down on the beach or somewhere? Tea and things; just -ourselves. After all, it’s our last day, and it’s quite fine and warm. -No more rain.” - -Everyone thought it splendid. Annie, under this glorious new state of -things, even found time and courage to show her father her last French -exercise with only three mistakes. The scene was domestic for the next -half-hour. - -Then he left them. He wanted to go and make his farewell to the place; -this would be the last opportunity that he would have. - -He didn’t expect to see the Gales again. After all, there was nothing -more for him to say. They had Tony’s address. It only remained for Sir -Richard to get over it as quickly as he could. Lady Gale would probably -manage that. He would like to have spoken to her once more, but really -it was as well that he shouldn’t. He would write to her. - -He discovered before he left the house that another part of the affair -was over altogether. As he reached the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Lester -crossed the hall, and, for a moment, they faced each other. She looked -through him, past him, as though she had never seen him before. Her eyes -were hard as steel and as cold. They passed each other silently. - -He was not surprised; he had thought that that was the way that she -would probably take it. Probably with the morning had come fierce -resentment at his attitude and fiery shame at her own. How she could! -That would be her immediate thought, and then, very soon after that, it -would be that she hadn’t at all. He had led her on. And then in a week’s -time it would probably be virtuous resistance against the persuasions of -an odious sensualist. Of course she would never forgive him. - -He passed out into the air. - -As he went down the hill to the town it struck him that the strange -emotional atmosphere that had been about them during these weeks seemed -to have gone with the going of Tony. It might be only coincidence, of -course, but undoubtedly the boy’s presence had had something to do with -it all. And then his imagination carried him still further. It was -fantastic, of course, but his struggle with Morelli seemed to have put -an end to the sort of influence that the man had been having. Because he -had had an influence undoubtedly. And now to-day Morelli didn’t seem to -go for anything at all. - -And then it might be, too, that they had all at last got used to the -place; it was no longer a fresh thing, but something that they had taken -into their brains, their blood. Anyhow, that theory of Lester’s about -places and people in conjunction having such influence, such power, was -interesting. But, evolve what theories he might, of one thing he was -certain. There had been a struggle, a tremendous straggle. They had all -been concerned in it a little, but it had been his immediate affair. - -He turned down the high road towards the town. The day was a “china” -day; everything was of the faintest, palest colours, delicate with the -delicacy of thin silk, of gossamer lace washed by the rain, as it were, -until it was all a symphony of grey and white and a very tender blue. It -was a day of hard outlines. The white bulging clouds that lay against -the sky were clouds of porcelain; the dark black row of trees that -bordered the road stood out from the background as though they had been -carved in iron; the ridge of back-lying hills ran like the edge of a -sheet of grey paper against the blue; the sea itself seemed to fling -marble waves upon a marble shore. - -He thought, as he paused before he passed into the town, that he had -never seen the sea as it was to-day. Although it was so still and seemed -to make no sound at all, every kind of light, like colours caught -struggling in a net, seemed to be in it. Mother of pearl was the nearest -approach to the beauty of it, but that was very far away. There was gold -and pink and grey, and the faintest creamy yellow, and the most delicate -greens, and sometimes even a dark edge of black; but it never could be -said that this or that colour were there, because it changed as soon as -one looked at it and melted into something else; and far away beyond the -curving beach the black rocks plunged into the blue, and seemed to plant -their feet there and then to raise them a little as the sea retreated. - -He passed through the market-place and saluted the tower for the last -time. There were very few people about and he could make his adieux in -privacy. He would never forget it, its grey and white stone, its -immovable strength and superiority to all the rest of its surroundings. -He fancied that it smiled farewell to him as he stood there. It seemed -to say: “You can forget me if you like; but don’t forget what I’ve -taught you—that there’s a spirit and a courage and a meaning in us all -if you’ll look for it. Good-bye; try and be more sensible and see a -little farther than most of your silly fellow-creatures.” Oh yes! there -was contempt in it too, as it stood there with its white shoulders -raised so proudly against the sky. - -He tenderly passed his hand over some of the rough grey stones in a -lingering farewell. Probably he’d been worth something to the tower in -an obscure sort of way. He believed enough in its real existence to -think it not fantastic that it should recognise his appreciation of it -and be glad. - -His next farewell was to Punch. - -He climbed the little man’s dark stairs with some misgiving. He ought to -have been in there more just lately, especially after the poor man -losing his dog. He owed a great deal to Punch; some people might have -found his continual philosophising tiresome, but to Maradick its -sincerity and the very wide and unusual experience behind it gave the -words a value and authority. - -He found Punch sitting on his bed trying to teach the new dog some of -the things that it had to learn. He jumped up when he saw Maradick, and -his face was all smiles. - -“Why, I’m that glad to see you,” he said, “I’d been hopin’ you’d come in -before you were off altogether. Yes, this is the new dog. It ain’t much -of a beast, only a mongrel, but I didn’t want too fine a dog after Toby; -it looks like comparison, in a way, and I’m thinkin’ it might ’urt ’im, -wherever ’e is, if ’e knew that there was this new one takin’ ’is place -altogether.” - -The new one certainly wasn’t very much of a beast, but it seemed to have -an enormous affection for its master and a quite pathetic eagerness to -learn. - -“But come and sit down, sir. Never mind them shirts, I’ll chuck ’em on -the floor. No, my boy, we’ve had enough teachin’ for the moment. ’E’s -got an astonishin’ appetite for learnin’, that dog, but only a limited -intelligence.” - -Maradick could see that Punch didn’t want to say any more about Toby, so -he asked no questions, but he could see that he felt the loss terribly. - -“Well, Garrick,” he said, “I’ve come to say good-bye. We all go back -to-morrow, and, on the whole, I don’t know that I’m sorry. Things have -happened here a bit too fast for my liking, and I’m glad to get out of -it with my life, so to speak.” - -Punch, looked at him a moment, and then he said: “What’s happened about -young Gale, sir? There are all sorts of stories afloat this morning.” - -Maradick told him everything. - -“Well, that’s all for the best. I’m damned glad of it. That girl’s well -away, and they’ll make the prettiest married couple for many a mile. -They’ll be happy enough. And now, you see for yourself that I wasn’t so -far out about Morelli after all.” - -Maradick thought for a moment and then he said: “But look here, Garrick, -if Morelli’s what you say, if, after all, there’s something supernatural -about him, he must have known that those two were going to run away; -well, if he knew and minded so much, why didn’t he stop them?” - -“I’m not saying that he did know,” said Punch slowly, “and I’m not -saying that he wanted to stop them. Morelli’s not a man, nor anything -real at all. ’E’s just a kind of vessel through which emotions pass, if -you understand me. The reason, in a way, that ’e expresses Nature is -because nothing stays with him. ’E’s cruel, ’e’s loving, ’e’s sad, ’e’s -happy, just like Nature, because the wind blows, or the rivers run, or -the rains fall. ’E’s got influence over everything human because ’e -isn’t ’uman ’imself. ’E isn’t a person at all, ’e’s just an influence, a -current of atmosphere in a man’s form. - -“There are things, believe me, sir, all about this world that take shape -one day like this and another day like that, but they have no soul, no -personal identity, that is, because they have no beginning or end, no -destiny or conclusion, any more than the winds or the sea. And you look -out for yourself when that’s near you—it’s mighty dangerous.” - -Maradick said nothing. Punch went on— - -“You can’t see these things in cities, or in places where you’re for -ever doing things. You’ve got to have your mind like an empty room and -your eyes must be blind and your ears must be closed, and then, slowly, -you’ll begin to hear and see.” - -Maradick shook his head. “No, I don’t understand,” he said. “And when I -get back to my regular work again I shall begin to think it’s all -bunkum. But I do know that I’ve been near something that I’ve never -touched before. There’s something in the place that’s changed us all for -a moment. We’ll all go back and be all the same again; but things can’t -ever be quite the same again for me, thank God.” - -Punch knocked out his pipe against the heel of his boot. - -“Man,” he said suddenly, “if you’d just come with me and walk the lanes -and the hills I’d show you things. You’d begin to understand.” He -gripped Maradick’s arm. “Come with me,” he said, “leave all your stupid -life; let me show you the real things. It’s not worth dying with your -eyes shut.” - -For a moment something in Maradick responded. For a wild instant he -thought that he would say yes. Then he shook his head. - -“No, David, my friend,” he answered. “That’s not my life. There’s my -wife, and there are others. That’s my line. But it will all be different -now. I shan’t forget.” - -Punch smiled. “Well, perhaps you’re right. You’ve got your duty. But -just remember that it isn’t only children we men and women are -begetting. We’re creating all the time. Every time that you laugh at a -thought, every time that you’re glad, every time that you’re seeing -beauty and saying so, every time that you think it’s better to be decent -than not, better to be merry than sad, you’re creating. You’re -increasing the happy population of the world. Young Gale was that, and -now you’ve found it too. That’s religion; it’s obvious enough. Plenty of -other folks have said the same, but precious few have done it.” - -Then, as they said good-bye, he said— - -“And remember that I’m there if you want me. I’ll always come. I’m -always ready. All winter I’m in London. You’ll find me in the corner by -the National Gallery, almost opposite the Garrick Theatre, with my show, -most nights; I’m your friend always.” - -And Maradick knew as he went down the dark stairs that that would not be -the last that he would see of him. - -He climbed, for the last time, up the hill that ran above the sea. Its -hard white line ran below him to the town, and above him across the moor -through the little green wood that fringed the hill. For a moment his -figure, black and tiny, was outlined against the sky. There was a wind -up here and it swept around his feet. - -Far below him the sea lay like a blue stone, hard and sharply chiselled. -Behind him the white road curved like a ribbon above him, and around him -was the delicate bending hollow of the sky. - -For a moment he stood there, a tiny doll of a man. - -The wind whistled past him laughing. Three white clouds sailed -majestically above his head. The hard black body of the wood watched him -tolerantly. - -He passed again down the white road. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - - SIX LETTERS - - Mrs. Maradick to Miss Crowdet. - - The Elms, Epsom. - _October 17._ - - My dearest Louie, - - I’ve been meaning to write all this week, but so many things - have accumulated since we’ve been away that there’s simply not - been a minute to write a decent letter. No, Treliss wasn’t very - nice this time. You know, dear, the delightful people that were - there last year? Well, there were none of them this year at all - except that Mrs. Lawrence, who really got on my nerves to such - an extent! - - There were some people called Gale we saw something of—Lady and - Sir Richard Gale. I must say I thought them rather bad form, but - Jim liked them; and then their boy eloped with a girl from the - town, which made it rather thrilling, especially as Sir Richard - was simply furious with Jim because he thought that he’d had - something to do with it. And you can’t imagine how improved dear - old Jim is with it all, really quite another man, and so amusing - when he likes; and people quite ran after him there, you - wouldn’t have believed it. There was a horrid woman, a Mrs. - Lester, who would have gone to any lengths, I really believe, - only, of course, Jim wasn’t having any. I always said that he - could be awfully amusing if he liked and really nice, and he’s - been going out quite a lot since we’ve been back and everybody’s - noticed the difference. - - And what do you think? We may be leaving Epsom! I know it’ll be - simply hateful leaving you, dear, but it’ll only be London, you - know, and you can come up whenever you like and stay just as - long as you please, and we’ll be awfully glad. But Epsom is a - little slow, and what Jim says is quite true—why not be either - town or country? It’s what I’ve always said, you know, and - perhaps we’ll have a little cottage somewhere as well. - - By the way, dear, as you are in town I wish you’d just look in - at Harrod’s and see about those patterns. Two and elevenpence is - much too much, and if the ones at two and sixpence aren’t good - enough you might ask for another sort! - - Do come and see us soon. I might come up for a matinée some day - soon. Write and let me know. - - Your loving - Emmy. - To Anthony Gale, Esq., - 20 Tryon Square, - Chelsea, S.W. - - My dear Boy, - - I was very glad to get your letter this morning. You’ve been - amazingly quick about settling in, but then I expect that - Janet’s an excellent manager. I’ll be delighted to come to - dinner next Wednesday night, and shall look forward enormously - to seeing you both and the kind of home that you have. I can’t - tell you what a relief it is to me to hear that you are both so - happy. Of course I knew that you would be and always, I hope, - will be, but the responsibility on my part was rather great and - I wanted to hear that it was all right. I’m so glad that your - mother likes Janet so much. I knew that they would get on, and I - hope that very soon your father will come as well and make - everything all right in that direction. We’re all quite settled - down here again now; well, not quite. Treliss has left its mark - on both of us, and we’re even thinking—don’t jump out of your - chair with excitement—of coming up to London to live. A little - wider life will suit both of us better now, I think. Nothing is - settled yet, but I’m going to look about for a house. - - Treliss did rather a lot for all of us, didn’t it? It all seems - a little incredible, really; but you’ve got Janet to show you - that it’s real enough, and I’ve got, well, quite a lot of - things, so that it can’t have been all a dream. - - Well until Wednesday. Then I’ll hear all the news. - - My affection to Janet. - - Your friend, - James Maradick. - To James Maradick, - The Elms, Epsom. - 20 Tryon Square, - Chelsea, S.W. - _October 25, 1909_. - - My dear Maradick, - - Hurray! I’m so glad that you can come on Wednesday, but I’m just - wild with joy that you are really coming to live in London. - Hurray again! Only you must, you positively must come to live in - Chelsea. It’s the only possible place. Everybody who is worth - knowing lives here, including a nice intelligent young couple - called Anthony and Janet Gale. The house—our house—is simply - ripping. All white and distempered by your humble servant; and - Janet’s been simply wonderful. There’s nothing she can’t do, and - everybody all over the place loves her. We haven’t had a word - from her father, so I don’t suppose that he’s going to take any - more trouble in that direction, but I heard from Garrick the - other day—you remember Punch—and he says that he saw him not - long ago sitting on the shore and piping to the waves with a - happy smile on his face. Isn’t he rum? - - The Minns is here and enjoying herself like anything. She’s - bought a new bonnet and looks no end—my eye! And what do you - think? Who should turn up this morning but the governor! Looking - awfully cross at first, but he couldn’t stand against Janet; and - he went away as pleased as anything, and says we must have a - better sideboard in the dining-room, and he’s going to give us - one. Isn’t that ripping? The writing’s getting on. I met a - fellow at tea the other day, Randall, he’s editor of the _New - Monthly_; he was a bit slick up, but quite decent, and now he’s - taken one of my things, and I’ve had quite a lot of reviewing. - - Well, good-bye, old chap. You know that Janet and I would rather - have you here than anyone else in the world, except the mater, - of course. We owe you everything. Buck up and come here to live. - Love from Janet. - - Your affect. - Tony. - To Lady Gale, - 12 Park Lane, W. - Rossholm, - Nr. Dartford, Kent, - _October 25_. - - My Dear, - - This is only a hurried little scrawl to say that Fred and I are - going to be up in town for a night next week and should awfully - like to see you if it’s possible. Fred’s dining that night with - some silly old writer, so if I might just come in and have a - crumb with you I’d be awfully glad. Fred and I have both decided - that we didn’t like Treliss a bit this year and we’re never - going there again. If it hadn’t been for you I simply don’t know - what we’d have done. There’s something about the place. - - Fred felt it too, only he thought it was indigestion. And then - the people! I know you rather liked those Maradick people. But I - thought the man perfectly awful. Of course one had to be polite, - but, my dear, I really don’t think he’s very nice, not quite the - sort of man—oh well! you know! Not that I’d say anything - against him for the world, but there’s really no knowing how far - one can go with a man of that kind. But of course I scarcely saw - anything of them. - - How is Tony? I hear that they’ve settled in Chelsea. Is Sir - Richard reconciled? You must tell me everything when we meet. - Fred—he is such a pet just now—sends regards. - - Ever - Your loving - Milly. - To James Maradick, Esq., - The Elms, Epsom. - 12 Park Lane, W. - _October 21_. - - Dear Mr. Maradick, - - I’ve been wanting to write to you for some days, but so many - things crowd about one in London, and even now I’ve only got a - moment. But I thought that you would like to know that both my - husband and myself have been to see Tony in Chelsea and that we - think Janet perfectly charming. My husband was conquered by her - at once; one simply cannot help loving her. She is no fool - either. She is managing that house splendidly, and has got a - good deal more common-sense than Tony has. - - Of course now you’ll say that we ought to have shown her to Sir - Richard at once if he’s got to like her so much. But that isn’t - so. I’m quite sure that he would never have allowed the marriage - if there’d been a chance of it’s being prevented. But now he’s - making the best of it, and it’s easy enough when it’s Janet. - - I think he feels still sore at your having “interfered,” as he - calls it, but that will soon wear off and then you must come and - see us. Alice Du Cane is staying with us. She has been so much - improved lately, much more human; she’s really a charming girl. - - And meanwhile, how can I thank you enough for all that you have - I done? I feel as though I owed you everything. It won’t bear - talking or writing about, but I am more grateful than I can ever - say. - - But keep an eye on Tony. He is devoted to you. He is still very - young, and you can do such a lot for him. - - Please remember me to your wife. - - I am, - Yours very sincerely, - Lucy Gale. - To James Maradick, Esq., - The Elms, Epsom. - On the road to Ashbourne, - Derbyshire. - - 11 a.m. - - I’m sitting under a hedge with this bit of paper on my knee; - dirty you’ll be thinking it, but I find that waiting for paper - means no letter at all, and so it’s got to be written when the - moment’s there. I’m tramping north—amongst the lakes I’m making - for. It’s fine weather and a hard white road, and the show’s - been going strong these last days. There’s a purple line of - hills behind me, and a sky that’ll take a lot of poet’s talking - to glorify it, and a little pond at the turn of the road that’s - bluer than blue-bells. - - The new dog’s none so stupid as I thought him; not that he’s - Toby, but he’s got a sense of humour on him that’s more than a - basketful of intelligence. Last night I was in a fine inn with a - merry company. I wish that you could have heard the talking, but - you’ll have been dining with your napkin on your knee and a soft - carpet at your feet. There was a fine fellow last night that had - seen the devil last week walking on the high ridge that goes - towards Raddlestone. - - Maybe it was Morelli; like enough. He’s often round that way. - I’m thinking of you often, and I’ll be back in London, November. - I’d like to have you out here, with stars instead of chimney - pots and a red light where the sun’s setting. - - I’ll write again from the North. - - Yours very faithfully, - David Garrick. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - - THE PLACE - -It is twilight. The cove is sinking with its colours into the evening -mists. The sea is creeping very gently over the sand, that shines a -little with the wet marks that the retreating tide has left. - -The rocks, the hills, the town, rise behind the grey mysterious floor -that stretches without limit into infinite distance in black walls -sharply outlined against the night blue of the sky. - -There is only one star. Some sheep are crying in a fold. - -A cold wind passes like a thief over the sand. The sea creeps back -relentlessly, ominously . . . eternally. - - the end - - - - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - - -Spelling errors have been corrected but all British spellings have been -retained. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Maradick at Forty, by Hugh Walpole - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARADICK AT FORTY *** - -***** This file should be named 60326-0.txt or 60326-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/3/2/60326/ - -Produced by David T. 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